They loved me the only way they knew how, by keeping me safe. Even now, my chest aches thinking of them waking to find my room empty, just that letter on my pillow. But I can’t continue to suffocate under their care, no matter how well-intentioned.
After so many feedings and killings, and having it called survival like it’s my right, when it is carving me apart piece by bloody piece. After feeding on that man who bragged about killing his wife, I felt nothing. Not even a flicker of remorse or regret. And that terrifies me more than anything else ever has. Even more than when my terrible power was made to manifest.
I had to leave before that emptiness swallows me whole, before I stop caring entirely.
Others enjoy the Realm of Roses for the simpler living, but it already feels like the electric current of this new world is running through my veins. My heart quickly pumps and skips as I take it all in, adjusting the backpack over my shoulder.
A shakiness thrums through me, as the backs of my eyes prickle with the threat of tears. I’m not sure if I’m more overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught or by the sense of freedom that has me on the verge of screaming or falling to my knees. It’s all too much.
And it’s witchtitting wonderful.
This is what it is to be alive.
I hadn’t even realized how numb I’d been until now, how curated and silent my life had been. As if I’d been living in a museum exhibit.
Back in the Rosari court, the women always smiled at me as though I were a statue—pretty, priceless, and entirely irrelevantto the real world. Their compliments were syrupy, their conversations rehearsed. They’d praise my gowns and mimic my hair, then keep talking, shutting me out of their world.
I still remember the acute pain of trying to share in a joke about kissing tutors.
“How come the boys get all the handsome tutors?” one of the girls had complained. “Ours were either ancient or mean.”
“Mine had three teeth and smelled like boiled cabbage,” another had laughed.
I saw an opening and took it, sidling up to the girls. “You’re lucky. Mine was so sour I would’ve rather kissed a stable horse,withtongue.”
They both blinked at me in surprise. When they recovered, their tones turned polite and formal. “Oh, we are so very sorry to hear it, Your Highness. You are truly the most beautiful of all of us and should only be surrounded by beauty.”
I had no idea what my looks had to do with it. I was only trying to make them laugh.
They offered too-bright smiles, curtsied, and made excuses to retreat from my company.
Whether it was because of my looks, my status, or both, everyone watched me. No one eversawme.
My life as a royal was too boringly perfect to have anything real to say, so no one expected me to try. When I laughed too loudly or asked questions I wasn’t supposed to, people got that frozen smile—like I’d stepped off-script.
I was so tired of being just a symbol.
I used to watch other girls whisper and shriek and storm off and cry and make up with their beaus or each other, then do it all over again. I hated how much I wanted to be in it. That messy chaos of girlhood. I wanted to be someone you had a pillow fight with during a sleepover and shared secrets with, not someone you bowed to.
Not that I could ever share my secret with anyone.
Still, a girl could dream.
The people of Boston slow their gait as they walk by and try to study me.
Even covered in a cloak, I know my pink hair sets me apart. Or maybe it’s the cloak itself, and the dress beneath it, with its laced bodice and heavy skirts. Perfectly ordinary back home. But here, it makes people stare.
Well, that, and the way every detail of me, down to my bone structure and nail beds, is shaped to be a sexual lure.
My physical form is that of a predator designed to draw in prey for survival.
My stomach twists with a sick feeling of self-disgust.
I ignore the gleam of interest sparking in the eye of nearly every passerby.
Some things don’t change.
But I am.
