The spell was a prayer on his lips, his voice rough as he said, “It will be done, so it shall be.”
Though it could be her worst decision yet, Emmery repeated his words.
He dipped a finger in their melded blood—an unusually bright red.
Destonne drew his finger over her palm and her own hand mirrored, contained by the spell. But instead of a lion—which she anticipated—a rose bloomed across her flesh. A beautiful, elegant thing, like those dark plum-coloured roses she dreamed of. Yet when Destonne removed his finger, thorns sprouted to strangle the flower, wrapping it in a permanent chokehold.
Emmery swallowed as doubt crept into her mind.
But as she evaluated what she would surely soon regret, she clung to that sensation.
That feeling that made everything worth it.
The thing she endlessly sought all these years.
Hope.
