'ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ.'
Only one month has passed in Daliah Viper's life trying to reintegrate at court and follow the uneasy trails her eyes have caught.
One month filled with blood, tribulations, and l...
-an opinion on the nature, character, or quality of something
-the act of placing a value on the nature, character, or quality of something
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Breathing next to Samson is like breathing in powdered lead. It poisons my drunken brain. I am dizzy and as brittle as my heat strained hair. The memory of his fingers on my throat makes me want to vomit. I feel him, beside me, inside me, it makes no difference, the contamination always spreads, and he wasn't even the only person in mind tonight. My bloody palms can speak about it. The silvery grey blood is dried over the marks in my skin.
None of us speaks on the way to the mansion, and none of us attempts to look at the other if we don't have to.
Instead, I stare at the blinking light of Archeon and wonder how many minds are asleep out there, red bodies in uneasy rest between labor. I wonder how many of us are out there patrolling the remaining bridges. I wonder how much of the city that doesn't really fall asleep from the sweeping headlights, the neverending noises, how much of it is in reach for a whisper to see. I recall flying over the rooftops, savory wings in smoke and the hidden parapets of the high walls and houses hemming the streets. I felt like a queen. Not that my husband has the capacity to feel anything but above all else.
When I reach the foyer, I am ready to puke over the carpet, head spinning, eyes still dried out.
It's too silent on our side, with the eventual breaking of music and still too loud noises the side of my mother produces.
I am too tired to be angered or even annoyed by her. I reiterate the idea of sending Hadrien or Hector to throw her out. I should do that as fast as I can. Right now, I can't see a straight line, and that is dangerous on its own, especially with Samson still around.
So I just stumble up the stairs. My feet are loud on the floor, followed by a slighter, less heavy footfall. Our shadows flicker over the wall for a moment when a headlight or lantern passes in the distance below the windows, then I can feel my safety line of shielding fangs and fur.
Runt always snaps at people and dogs if she can, and they never liked him. Now, I can hear her snarl, a silvery shadow pressing beside me, stiff and rigid. One Ear follows up. They half perch, ready to jump him. Runt gives one bark when he moves, a warning, and snaps again.
In the half-light, they are deadly, gleaming white teeth and low, rumbling growls. They are so big they seem to reach over my childishly small form, heads high, pressing their ears to their heads.
"You have escorted me," I conclude. "Feel free to leave."
"I'm still staying in the house," he says. "As long as I am here again. Your mutts can't change that."
He makes another step in the circle of our bodies, and Runt leaps a little forward. She is still the fastest, and she could bite his fingers off. Her teeth don't even nip, but the close call is enough to make his form retract.
