Two star crossed lovers.
Nations divided by blood and power.
A war to end all others.
She is heir to the brutal Darkling kingdom and daughter to the most vicious king ever known, Vlad the impaler.
He's the Demon prince ru...
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She stares at me, unblinking. The night sky flecked patterns on her dress are nothing short of magnificent. And it is a feet on its own not to gawk at her splendor. Gorgeous, immortal and cold splendor.
But she hasn't even felt my magic, my other-worldliness, despite my proximity to her. The shock on her face tells me she hasn't even completely grasped the fact that I stand before her.
I arch a brow over the top of my mask. "Dance with me."
Her eyes widen even more, something I didn't think possible. She does not look like she secretly hopes to kill someone that steps out of line. She does not look like she hopes for much of anything.
She looks broken.
A knife of pity stabs into my side at the look in her eyes. I had tried to soften my words that night a month and a half ago when she had nearly ruined everything by catching my lot and I spying. But she fled, and I chased her. And I watched that light in her eyes dwindle to nothing.
And a part of me, a compact, dark lump of meanness buried deep in my chest, had been relieved. Let her feel weak, I thought then. Let her see herself like a failure. Let her sense my haunting presence, even inside her palace walls.
But seeing her now, though, engulfs me in a rush I don't yet dare entertain.
She blinks, eyes slowly focusing on me.
"Dance with me." I say again, giving her a smile both shy and mischievous. "As if we are not who we are..."
A woman in a leopard spotted gown reaches out to steal a dance. But my eyes surge towards her, merciless and bored, and the leopard saunters away. After I make sure there's a considerable distant between us and the other party goers, my eyes fly back to the royal.
The princess lingers a moment longer, earning us a few more looks from the spectators. I notice the youngest of the princes give a warning look in my direction, his attention drifting from the young lady in his arms to us, and then back. He's dull. No menacing glower or intimidating glance. Yet, I'm not even sure that is the right word to describe him... Dullness just surrounds him. And no matter how much he seems to peer at me from his safe little seat between the court goers, it isn't me he looks at. It's the female in my arms.
His kin.
It makes me angry to think such a wounded looking ilk could show feelings of caring. The prince doesn't even seem to know who is in their midst. No one does. And it becomes a throbbing reminder that one day, the leash that holds me back, holds my kingdom back... will mark an end to the monsters of beautiful faces.
