Vampyre | Book I of Bloodlines

HOUSE OF HORRORS

Viola

For days, I've been pondering how I ended up here—not just the logistics but the deeper reason for my presence in this house.

One thing my mother used to say, which my father echoed after her passing, always stuck with me: "There are no accidents. You are exactly where you're supposed to be at any given moment."

So, according to the beliefs of both my parents, I'm meant to be right here, in this place, married to this man, if one could even call him that.

Sitting in the garden, I take a deep breath and survey my surroundings. The house itself is beautiful and grand, and the gardens and grounds are immaculate and teeming with wildlife. It's a home any woman would dream of living in, though that dream would quickly turn into a nightmare once they learned about the abuse being William's wife entailed.

Fortunately, I feel absolutely nothing anymore. I was broken before arriving here, and everything William does to me pales in comparison. In fact, a part of me wants him to destroy me from within so that I might feel something other than this emptiness. A piece of me is missing, and every passing day widens that void a little more.

I don't love William—he cannot break my heart or disappoint my expectations. I expect nothing from him, yet I can't comprehend his motivations. I've been trying to figure him out, but I can't claim to know much about him beyond a few facts and whatever he's chosen to reveal, if any of them were even "facts."

Shakespeare famously wrote that the world is a stage, and we are all merely players—my husband must be a seasoned performer in this game. Little does he know, I've spent my entire life concealing my true self, playing the role of the perfect daughter on a public stage. My life, it seems, was a rehearsal just for this moment. Now, I can play this game.

Continuing my walk, I stumble upon a flower bed lined with hundreds of Lily of the Valley. They're early bloomers, and the flowers have already faded, leaving behind little red berries. This particular plant was one of my favorites as a child, and my mother taught me everything about the plants in our garden. The scent is rich and beautiful, but I'll never forget when my mother warned me about its toxicity: "Just two leaves are enough to poison a small animal or child. It's best not to ingest it."

I was five years old at the time—I take a moment to consider the ratio needed to poison a man William's size. With his muscle mass, I'd say he's about nine five-year-old children, so eighteen leaves should be enough to make him seriously ill—at least twenty to kill him.

I shake my head to dispel my intrusive thoughts and let out a sigh as I continue walking. I shouldn't entertain such thoughts—I've never been one to harm another living being. I'm not even sure if I'm capable of it, but then again, I've never been pushed to confront these thoughts until now.

In ancient Rome, poison was frequently wielded as a weapon. Many of the books I've read highlighted plants like belladonna, yew extracts, hemlock, hellebore, and opium. I never cared for tales involving poison—it felt like a deceitful and dishonorable method of defeating an adversary, often associated with women—a double insult. But how else is a woman to defend herself against someone like William, a formidable force and likely a skilled fighter? When he took me for the first time, his large hand enveloped my entire neck as he bent me over and forced himself upon me. I felt his strength. I knew the moment he touched me that I couldn't resist him. I always anticipated this would happen after we married, but not like this. His eyes were cold, filled only with a primal desire to consume my flesh.

This is my life now.

As the day winds down, I find myself heading to the library. This is the one place where I feel somewhat safe. Surrounded by the stories of heroes and legends, I find distraction within these pages, hoping for inspiration other than contemplating poisoning my Lord husband.