Page 8 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

BLACK CANDLES ARE lit at uneven heights overhead, some hanging from the ceiling, others from sconces on the wall. The lighting is darker than Myla would prefer for a celebration, but considering the nature of the party, she supposes it is fitting. Long tables have been brought in and line both sides of the long throne room. Courtiers and visiting lords and ladies sit, mingling uneasily. An air of pretense fills the room as her subjects seem to act on cue, unsure of their moves but knowing they must comply. Black furs have been thrown across both thrones as padding and warmth, for the evening has grown cold.

“Her Majesty, The Dowager Queen!”

Someone forgot to tell the master of ceremonies that I am not going by that anymore . . . Myla is announced but a scoff quickly follows, and she can see, already reclined in his throne, is Vesperian. He is dressed in black leather. His forearms exposed where his tunic is rolled, revealing crimson red tattoos in the shapes of bodies, covering the majority of his arms.

“I think dowager is a title we should retire. Do you not agree, my Queen?”

I suppose Vesperian will do it.

Myla tips her chin upward, walking slowly toward him, certain the look on his face is one of sinful lust at her soft, exposed skin, which no doubt glints in the candlelight.

But it is not his gaze that thrills her.

Bryar’s is the look she must pretend once more not to see. How beautifully he wears his jealousy and admiration.

“What should I be called then?” Myla asks coyly as she ascends the steps to her throne, allowing one last flicker of a glance in Bryar’s direction before settling on Vesperian’s lap.

“Something that includes Shayd, do you not agree?” he replies, a large hand squeezing the thickest part of her thigh in greeting.

Myla pauses, running familiar hands through his hair. “For that to hold any weight, I would have to be your wife first.”

The thin line of a smile passes over his face, and he hands her his glass of wine to share. “Three days should be enough time to plan a wedding, do you not agree?” He leans forward, offering her a chalice and urging her to drink. Reluctantly, she does. “And until then, perhaps we can sample what is to come.” He presses cold fingers to her collarbone, allowing them to explore the dips and curves of her body, pacing the ridges of her breasts before resting on her belly where the fabric unites. His eyes turn upward to meet hers. “There is one issue though.” His voice is louder now and Myla tenses, already unnerved by his touch.

An overwhelming intoxication suddenly fills her senses. Moments before, he was disgusting to her. Now, as she studies his features, she is drawn to the depth of his eyes, the ridge of his upper lip and the way the light across his scars is both ferocious and attractive. His breath is spiced, and the cologne he wears must be an aphrodisiac. She catches her breath and against her will finds herself pressing against him with enthusiasm, eager to please.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asks, her impulses not to be denied as her hands caress his chest in spite of her brain begging her not to. She presses soft lips to his ear. “Tell me, my lord, what issue do you speak of.”

He grins. “I like how you respond to me.” Then he stands, pushing her from his lap, and gestures to a young woman sitting at one of the tables. Myla recognizes her as the teenage daughter of one of her Council members. “The issue is that traitorous bitch.”

Myla flinches at the language, as do many around her. “Whatever has she done?” she asks, feeling a reaction within her, not his magic, but hers. Anger simmering beneath the surface and threatening to bite like the snapping jaws of wolves.

“She was speaking to a friend before the celebration began, speaking on her concerns regarding my presence.” His words are calculated as his hands raise at his side, a blackness forming in the skin of his palms. “Come, child. Step forward.”

Myla’s throat swells and turns dry as cotton, watching as the girl stands. She seems small and far too young to be here in the first place. “Vesperian,” she coos, placing a hand on the rigid shoulder in front of her. “The words of a mere girl are no threat to us. Send her away for the night and let us be done with the nuisance.”

The Blood Stealer turns to her, the irises of his eyes framed with crimson now and the small wraith forming between his hands growing violent and wriggling in his control. “I do not suffer insubordinates to go unpunished beneath my rule.”

Myla forces a relaxed smile, allowing the light at her own palms to form. “Neither do I. I must be the one to punish her.” Eyes full of terror, the girl before her trembles, her fingers laced together in a fervent plea. “Please, Your Grace . . . I—I was merely frightened. Surely you see we all are.”

Lord Reacher, her father, and the Treasurer on Myla’s Council has rushed to her side, his body partially shielding the girl’s. “Do not harm her, I beg of you. She meant no disrespect.”

Although her heart begs her to show mercy, Myla retires the thought, aware of how Vesperian watches her with anticipation. This is a test. The dead bodies on the wall were not enough. He has to see her in action. With a breath of a prayer, begging the Spirit Mother to give her precision, Myla allows her magic to trickle, first to her palms, then her fingertips, and finally, through her pores, until all the light in the throne room has been summoned to her body alone. Flecks of golden light seeping and collecting like a tether in her hands, blinding all around her. The use of magic costs her dearly already, and Myla can feel the magic relinquishing its hold on her womb, a problem she will have to rectify later in the evening.

For now, she calls upon the Gods to bring their trembling wrath upon her court.

Better their wrath than Vesperian’s.

“I was clear,” Myla speaks, her voice a booming echo of what it usually is, no longer sweet and assertive but distorted and angry, the light within her coiling and ready to snap. She has used her power to kill before but never has she tested its precision. She does not wish to kill the girl, only scare her, and make a spectacle of the situation. “You may accept my word as law, or you will die. I implore each of you to consider the very real consequences of defying me!” Myla hopes they interpret the duality of her message. If anyone strays, it will not be her who kills them; it will be the Fae God beside her.

Her guests grasp their ears, some seeming to try and tear them from their heads, the rasp of her voice stabbing deep into their brains and evoking screams of agony. Others abandon all care for their hearing, covering their eyes from the angry light. With a flick of her wrist, her light furls around the ankles of the girl, suspending her upside down in the air. A chilling scream pours from the girl’s lips as she catapults fifty feet upwards, and pleas for mercy mixed with apologies are frantically sobbed.

Everything inside Myla wants to turn her magic on the Blood Stealer, but this is a game of waiting and biding her time. In order to defeat him, she must catch him completely unaware. Instead, she channels her energy into controlling the thread of burning light so as to not knock the girl senseless on the stone pillars. “Should anyone find it necessary to speak against me again, know that death will be the consequence, not humiliation.” Myla lowers her to a few feet above the ground before releasing her. She falls into a defeated slump, her parents rushing to help her up. As Myla’s light fades, it is replaced by a sinister darkness growing larger between Vesperian’s hands.

“Myla, my Ruthless Queen,” he says with a laugh. “That was spectacular. I have heard you called The Queen Who Bleeds Stars . . . but to see it, that is something else.” He toys with the wraith between his hands as though it is a pet needing attention. “I can see your goodness will be difficult to supplant.”

There is no time to think or even intercept. It is faster than a blink or a sharp breath, shooting across the room like an arrow. The black wraith cuts through the girl’s cheek, met with a river of red leaking from her face. Vesperian is consumed inside the darkness of the wraith, one moment standing beside Myla and the next, reappearing alongside the shrieking girl. Her father lets out a cry, a protest, begging for his daughter’s life. Vesperian, void of feeling, seizes her by the throat, his hand sliding against the blood already spilling down the neckline of her dress.

“Why would I kill her,” he asks, “when controlling her is far more entertaining?” He leans in, his tongue gliding across her cheek, lapping drops of blood from her face. The blackness around him grows, coiling and pulsating as the girl’s minor magic feeds his main source. A look of disassociation washes over her, an absence of thought or feeling replacing what was moments ago, a young woman full of life and fight and opinions.

She is a shell.

She is his shell.

And she never saw it coming.

Horror devours the crowd, silence claiming all but her parents, who weep. Lord Reacher lets out a beastly scream, raising a hand above his head ready to attack. It is a futile effort. The conjured wraith pivots from the Blood Stealer’s being and lops his head off with one lethal slice.

Myla flinches and her chest constricts, everything inside her screaming at what a mistake she has made. Not one night into her plan, and he is already claiming lives and wills.

“Margot, Matteo.” The dark Fae God gestures to his wolves. “Eat.” To Myla’s horror, the command is obeyed, and the large wolves descend on the fresh kill. The sound of ripping flesh and famished wolves is sickening. The urge to scream is snuffed when he turns around, searching for her approval. Something inside her suddenly worships him, a congenial expression forms, and she finds herself leaning against him, wiping traces of blood from his chin. “Your power is exhilarating ,” she says breathlessly, hoping to pass off her distress as being awestruck. “Let the servants clean this mess, I am famished.”

Signs of conflict and casualty are erased by servants who clearly wish they were elsewhere. The remainder of the guests fill their plates, not because they appear hungry or happy to, but for fear of finding themselves on Myla’s wall. Myla reclines in her throne, a laissez-faire cover for the waning of her energy. The proximity to Vesperian is draining her in spite of the tonic poured in her wine and a few subtle recharges with Elsa. Nothing could prepare Myla for the way she now feels sitting next to him. Both fatigued and helpless, yet happy to be so. She finds herself doing and saying things that feel a betrayal to herself, to Elsa, to her entire court, and especially to Bryar.

Between feasting and drinking and exchanging scandalous promises with Vesperian, the night drifts on in a drunken haze. When Myla comes to, in a moment of sanity, she finds herself draped across Vesperian’s lap, his lips to her throat and his hands exploring up her legs all while her guests and subjects sit watching. Attempted conversation and music from the bards seem dulled beneath the heavy blanket of intoxication poisoning the room at Vesperian’s hands.

Myla wants to stand, to remove his hands, to walk out. Her body is frozen in place and a strange longing inside her defies her logic. At their feet, between Margot and Matteo, like a cowering dog waiting for orders from her new master, is Lord and Lady Reacher’s daughter. Her eyes seem empty as glass, nothing laying beyond them but a possessed soul in a helpless trance.

Those also under the Blood Stealer’s control seem to be responding to the drunken and lustful energy. Myla realizes his control is not always a conscious instruction. Anyone tied to him by blood oath is like the root systems to a tree, connected to all the others, communicating, and responding as one. If he feels drunk, so do they, and if he feels rage, they also feel rage. And as Myla is rapidly discovering, his arousal seems to be theirs as well. Men and women both under his control make indecent advances on those around them, matching his pace and even his gestures until the room spins out of control in a landscape of scandal and nakedness.

Myla inclines her head, hoping to see a friendly face, yet the blur around her grows until Vesperian is the only person she can see. The sensation strikes fear to her core, fear she might respond the wrong way and be another victim to his wrath, but also fear for responding the way he wants and being his victim in an entirely different way. His voice is the only voice she can hear, though she swears her friends try and speak to her. She can not hear them, only him. She feels isolated from those she trusts now, and no matter where she turns, all she can see, feel, and hear, is him.

How can something so enticing feel so terrible once inside it?

Get it together . Myla wills herself to stay focused on the risks and rewards of this endeavor. With trembling hands, she cups his chin, pulling him in for a warm kiss, the alcohol on his tongue potent. He is drunk. This is her opportunity to excuse herself without raising suspicion. “I fear I do not know up from down,” she giggles, letting her fingertips gently explore his handsome features. “You must excuse me; I need sleep if I am to properly entertain you tomorrow.”

He growls protests into her neck, hungry fingers digging into her hips, but his words are slurred and as he slumps further into the throne, she considers herself excused.

Myla stands, wobbling beneath the effort. Voices and music alike swirl around her resembling a tempest, threatening to throw her off course. The stairs seem a daunting task, let alone the walk to her chamber, so she is grateful when Elsa finds her side, a firm hand bracing beneath her elbow and guiding her through the haze of movement. Vaguely, Myla is aware of Bryar taking up his position behind her, following protectively.

Proximity to him is unusually warm. He ripples with rage.

Within minutes, as they slowly put distance between, she and the Blood Stealer, Elsa’s magic seeps into her veins, and Myla feels a lurch in her stomach. The letdown of his control is not unlike recovering from too much drink. Upon entering her chamber, Myla trips over her own skirts and falls to the ground, vomiting onto the ornate tiles.

Elsa gasps and Fern rushes over, wiping the corner of Myla’s mouth with her apron. “My Lady,” she coos sympathetically. “Let us get you out of this dress.”

“Wait—” Myla holds up a hand to stay her ladies and presses shaking hands to her belly. The first attempt to redirect her magic comes to a disappointing, sputtering halt, as does the second. A third and final attempt is warm and calming as that sacred space halts its weaving of life. Breathlessly, Myla peers up from where she crouches and manages a weak smile. Though only Elsa understands what has occurred.

The two ladies help her into a thin shift. Fern stands before her door, though it is barred, and Elsa instructs her to intercept anyone trying to enter.

Elsa sits behind her in the large bed, running a comb through her dark hair and whispering comforting remarks. “You are performing beautifully,” she begins. “The doubt and fear you see around you . . . it is temporary. You have to keep focused on the end goal.”

Myla nods slowly, nothing in control beyond her breathing. Her thoughts come in waves of confusion with nothing clear enough to form a cohesive stream of consciousness. “Elsa, I did not realize it was going to feel like this.”

“You could not have known.”

“No, but . . . I think Bryar knew.”

“He has an irritating way of always being right—do not tell him I said so,” Elsa interjects. “It does not mean you were wrong. You can both be right in this case.”

Fern peeks around the corner. “Speaking of Captain Monroe,” she says sheepishly. “He is talking outside the door, asking for me to let him in.” She looks at Myla, concerned by the ashen queen before her. “Do I . . . uh . .. let him in?”

Elsa stands, moving past Fern. “I will handle it.”

“I can not let you in right now; she needs space.”

Myla can not hear his words, but his tone is distressed. She wants nothing more than to let him in, to feel safe beside him, but with the Blood Stealer down the hall, it is too risky.

“I will give it to her.” After the door closes and latches, Elsa reappears around the corner. She runs an exhausted hand over her face before speaking. “He says he is by the door tonight, and I am to give this to you.” She slips a piece of paper into Myla’s hand, which she carefully unfolds.

“You have survived worse. You will survive this, and we will too.” —B

A hint of comfort glows and Myla folds the parchment and slips it inside the shaft of her pillow. “I guess he loves me still,” she says with a slight smile.

A look of confusion washes over Fern’s face, and her mouse-like nose scrunches in question. “The captain? Love? Still— what?”

Myla and Elsa share a brief laugh before Elsa speaks up. “You are in it now, kid. If the secret gets out, we will know it is you.”

Fern grins slightly. “Oh, I knew he came in here from time to time. I just thought it was . . . at Your Grace’s discretion, you know? I did not realize it was love.”

Elsa bellows, clasping her hands in a gleeful clap. “Fern, what do you know of such things?”

Fern simply sighs and sits down on the chest at the foot of Myla’s bed. “Firsthand? Nothing . . . and I should like to keep it that way, given how miserable it seems to make a person.” She grumbles the last sentence before continuing, “Can I do anything more for you, Your Grace?”

“No, thank you Fern,” Myla responds with the sincerest smile she can muster.

“I will retire then, Your Grace.”

Myla shakes her head, reaching for Fern’s hand. “It is not safe. You will stay here with Elsa and me. If I could bring every lady in the palace into my room to protect her, I would. Keeping you and Elsa safe will have to do.” With her free hand, she grasps Elsa’s and looks between the two. “Thank you both for your help. I could not manage without you.”

As Myla falls asleep, she reflects on Bryar’s message. How can he love her after watching her mold like putty at the whim of the Blood Stealer? A warmth fills her middle, stirring like a summoning. Though Myla wants to believe it is brought on by thoughts of Bryar and their earlier encounter, she is afraid it is the call of the Blood Stealer. As of right now, she can not be sure of the authenticity of any feelings.

And that is the most terrifying realization she could possibly come to.

The three girls drift to sleep on the comfortable plumes of Myla’s bed. Despite the uncertainty hanging thick in the air, Myla finds peace in sleep. So, when she is awoken to a knock on the door and Elsa shaking her awake, nothing short of disoriented can describe her being, as Vesperian’s voice coos from the other side of her door.

“She is my fiancé; I will see her.”

Myla’s skin prickles and she flies out of bed, sending a prayer to the Gods that Bryar watches his tongue.

“She is asleep.” Bryar’s retort is barely audible, though the defiant inflection is unmistakable.

“Shit,” Myla hisses, allowing Fern to pull a dressing gown over her for modesty before she flings the door open, attempting to erase all signs of annoyance from her face.

“Lord Sha— Vesperian . . .” She greets him with a slight smile, ignoring the reddening of Bryar’s axe as his hand sears the metal.

“You have a most dedicated bodyguard,” he hums, his piercing eyes dissecting Bryar with suspicion. “You might consider giving him different instructions when it comes to me.”

Myla tenses as her words say the exact opposite of what she feels and wants. “It is alright, Captain Monroe, allow Lord Vesperian to pass.”

Bryar steps aside dutifully, though the glower he burns into Vesperian’s back as he passes is murderous, sending a brief thrill through Myla. Vesperian is about to close the door when he sees Elsa and Fern in company. He smirks, gesturing to the door. “You are both dismissed. I should like a private moment with my fiancé.” Myla glances briefly at the watchful wolves trailing behind Vesperian. They are unnerving and she wishes she could think of a reason for them to not be allowed in her chambers.

Both girls exchange anxious glances, briefly looking to Myla for final instructions. With a nod of encouragement, sure to keep a pleasant smile on her face, she glances at Elsa.

“Return in ten minutes. I would like to dress for the day.”

The latch falls in place with a loud clink as the door shuts behind her ladies, and Myla feels more vulnerable than ever. Vesperian stands with his back to her, watching the flames in her hearth lap at one another. He is already dressed and his hair combed neatly, though the stubble along his jawline shows this morning. He wears a loose black tunic tucked into form-fitting trousers. The sleeves are rolled, exposing tattooed, sculpted forearms.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks, turning now to face her with a sinister look etched in his dark features. Dangerously handsome or not, standing alone with him is a terrifying and unwelcome way to wake up, and truly highlights the ‘dangerous’ element in the equation. Questions and concerns in equal proportion pulse through Myla’s mind while the unexpected proximity to him is an assault on her already tapering energy source. The wave of overwhelming senses is an immediate onslaught, forcing her to sit. She is careful to do so slowly so as not to reveal her fatigue.

“It is an unexpected pleasure,” she says methodically, ensuring that every syllable can be mistaken as an invitation. It is vital he sees her as unfazed. Her fear is his feast, so she will starve him. “What, or whom, do I have to thank for your presence so early?”

Vesperian sits on the chaise beside her, a hand toying with the material draped over her knees. “I believe negotiations and a marriage contract must be drawn up today. I wanted to pay you the respect of discussing it all privately before we sit before both Councils.”

His statement is threatening. Discussing things privately removes the logic and input of her Council members. Not that she needs it for this scheme, but in any regular situation, this interaction would be unheard of. One more show of defiance in the Blood Stealer’s score book. “What a splendid idea,” she responds, taking his hand in her own. “I am eager to plan our reign together.”

His smile is fleeting and lacks genuine depth. This is where his agenda comes into play. This is where her ruse succeeds or fails. Sweat forms behind her knees, and she must consciously choose to keep her legs still beneath the mounting nerves.

His next words are alarming. “I believe it is essential to our cause that in addition to a wedding ceremony, there must also be a coronation for myself.”

Myla shivers and the pulse in her neck rises as he watches her response intently. “I was thinking the same thing,” she agrees beautifully, caressing his fingers between hers in a manner that could be mistaken as loving. “If our people are to unite, so must we. If our people are to respect us both, we must be seen as the rightful monarchs, together. Most importantly, we must bring the rule of this realm beneath one banner.”

His expression screams lust for power, the tilt of his chin, the way his dark hair falls into his eyes as he smolders, pleased at his success. Everything about him, from the scars to the fragrance, the silk of his voice, even the very air tremors around him, it is all masterful deceit. A more trusting woman might be fooled by his refined looks and even tone. “Dominion of the entire realm, I approve . . . half of your Council will move to my palace, while a half of mine will relocate here. A king regent will be established on my behalf there as well, so my agendas may be enforced while I live here with you.”

If Myla accepts all of his conditions without proposing any of her own, it will raise suspicion, so she interjects, “I believe a queen regent must also be established within your palace. I must be seen to have power and representation in the Seam as well.”

Myla envisions the Seam. She has never been, but the illustrations in her textbooks were enough to send chills through her. A barren wasteland engulfed in a choking haze and guarded by unnaturally large wolves. Much like the ones he now commands here.

Vesperian nods. “I acquiesce . . . though, there is the matter of your large army, as well as whose banners we will unite under. There must be but one royal seal and one army, lest our unity be questioned.”

“These are all cosmetic changes you propose,” Myla answers sweetly. “I can not say I care one way or the other. What of my army, though?”

His eyes fixate on hers and darkness manifests physically, exuding from his very pores until the room feels like an abyss closing in on Myla. His power manipulates her energy, suddenly draining any will to resist or argue further propositions, she feels inclined to agree to whatever he may suggest.

“It is customary for my soldiers to swear blood oaths to me,” he says in a hypnotic voice. Myla knows very well what he proposes. The blood oaths her subjects swear to her are quite different from his. She does not consume their blood, feed off their power, or control their actions and impulses.

Which is precisely what he wishes to do to her army of thousands upon thousands of troops.

“The day after our wedding, I will begin accepting blood oaths. Your army is substantial, and I believe it will take many weeks to carry out. It is exhausting business. Those who have yet to give their blood oaths will be detained until it is their turn so we have no deserters.”

Accepting blood oaths. He means stealing them. Myla stands slowly, moving toward a decanter of wine and pouring it with a trembling hand which she prays he does not see. She offers him a glass and swallows hers swiftly before responding. “Of course. That is most logical. I should expect the same gesture from your soldiers, however. They will kneel before me and swear fealty.”

Vesperian nods, his eyes lowering to her exposed collarbone. “Anything for you, my Queen.”

Myla suspects negotiations have ended when his hand brushes a trace of wine from her bottom lip with his thumb, which he proceeds to lick reverently. His gaze does not waver from hers. Instead, in spite of the silence, his unwillingness to avert his eyes feels like noise, sirens screaming in her head to move. Her legs twitch in an effort to walk away but the motion does not follow. At an almost inhuman rate, he stands, jerking her close to him, the hand not currently grasping a wineglass slips slowly down her back until it slides dangerously low, groping her from behind.

“My Lord.” Myla forces a giggle though a rage building in her lungs begs to scream profanities at him. “It is important I maintain my virtue until we are wed.”

He slowly digs his fingers into her flesh, silencing her protest with a kiss which nearly draws blood between his teeth. His breath is hot as he speaks in slow demands. “My Ruthless Queen has virtue?” His hand trails from her back to her front, teasing the ribbon at her neckline which holds the slip in place. “You told me yourself; you have thought of me in your bed. There is no place for thinking now, let us do. ”

Vesperian drops the wineglass, and it shatters before the hearth. Myla feels the spray of wine on her feet and legs but has no time to assess the damage to her slip. Both of his hands now firmly grope her, pulling her against him. His teeth dig into her neck gently, nipping as though to coax her and his lips travel in icy kisses up her neck.

The very place Bryar kissed her two nights ago.

Sucking in a breath, Myla places both hands on his chest, urging herself to be steady. “I have imagined what we could be countless times.” Her response is breathless and she ignores the tingling sensation crawling up her thighs entirely against her will.

Another game the demon before her plays.

“But there is a tension here,” she whispers, allowing her lips to brush against his, hoping to tease him enough with words to satiate his desires. “I should like to let it grow so I may enjoy you to the fullest . . . as my husband.” The words taste rotten in her mouth, a betrayal to her very core, yet ones that seem effective as his hand retreats slightly, allowing her dress to remain in place.

“Darling.” His voice is like the edge of a sword, sharp and threatening, but there is a hint of coy appreciation there. “I have never purchased a horse without riding it first. A wife seems to be no different, by my calculations.”

Shock ripples through her body, threatening to spill out her fingertips, inciting a battle she is not ready for. Of all the times she has been treated as a man’s pawn for profit, Myla has never been compared in value to a horse.

Trial run or not, he needs me alive.

She calls his bluff. With a slow, calming breath, Myla presses her lips in slow kisses along his jaw. Finally meeting at his mouth in a tense battle, their lips move against each other’s. In a calculated risk, knowing he is a lover of danger and conflict, Myla grasps at his throat while the other clutches his shoulder. She presses her body flush against his while her lips murmur against his ear. “I am no horse, my lord,” she answers. His response is exhilarating. He tenses and his throat bobs— is that fear? She continues, urging every fiber of her to prove convincing. “I will have you know, I ride, Vesperian. I am not ridden . You shall wait to have me, and when you have me, you shall forget every other woman you have ever held. Do you understand me?”

His large hand, cold as iron closes around the wrist grappling at his throat and jerking himself free. A flash of anger is replaced with curiosity and eagerness. He licks his lips and takes a step back, smiling as though he has just won a battle, and she is his vanquished trophy.

“I understand you perfectly. Do not be fooled though, my Ruthless Queen. Two nights from now, I will not be the only one forgetting all others.”

Seconds later, before Myla can respond to his promise—or a threat, as it feels—Elsa returns. She brings Fern with her, carrying a steaming basin of water for a bath. Myla looks once more at Vesperian, allowing her eyes to travel up and down his body before she extends a hand for him to kiss.

“I look forward to your demonstration of many things,” she says, watching with implied pleasure as he kisses her hand not once, but twice. “Including the power of forgetting.”

The door closes behind him and his wolves, taking with them the air of confusion, a sensation of wanting and not wanting all at once. Myla ignores the prying eyes of her ladies, not wishing to expose a single detail should sharing her encounter cause her resolve to waver. That is a response she simply does not have time for. Feeling will have to wait until she has managed to somehow overthrow the monster himself.

Kill the devil. Care later.