Page 7 of His Last Will

In the moments before your consciousness breaks, you are assaulted with flashes of memories. The feeling of success is brief as a culmination of life’s regrets assaults you. During the final seconds, you yearn to do it all over again as a new fear begins to suffocate you—irrelevance. You try to bargain with the reaper to be remembered, but death slams the door behind you.

I already know what my greatest regret will be.

Him.

Brodie.

Red drips from my fingertips onto the ground beneath me. The color saturates the skin of my hands, the liquid crusting under my fingernails. Blood stains your skin like it stains your soul. Leaving an indissoluble and everlasting mark.

Unresponsive on the ground, the bullet still stuck inside him, gasping for air…

I blink in rapid succession as I clear the violent image from my mind. Bloodstains haunt me the most. The deep red coloring my vision, even when it’s not really there.

The white lace of my dress is rough against my palms as I smooth out my hemline. I wait for the dark red residue to streak across the dress, defacing it. Signifying it, and me, as ruined. My secrets visible and no longer hidden beneath the intricate meshwork of the fabric.

But in the mirror, all I see is white. A white so pure that it feels almost blinding.

The bodice is far too tight, and the corset digs into my skin, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that is just how my body functions now, with an endless feeling of suffocation. I wonder if I will ever take a full breath again.

Pain is something everyone experiences. It ebbs and flows within your life, not always there, but a presence that lurks in the back of your mind, waiting to be called forward. It crashes into you without warning and wreaks havoc before returning to the shadows, waiting to resurface.

This sort of pain, however… the pain of death tries to steal each new breath to make it your last. It may take a while, but eventually, death always succeeds.

Soft music reaches my ears from the open window, the notes soothing and gentle despite my inner turmoil. I take a deep breath and try to calm my anxiety before it becomes another full-blown attack. Anxiety has become my constant companion since he was ripped away from me. I am convinced my anxiety feeds off my suffering.

His family and most of the high-ranking members of The Order wait outside for us to make an entrance. I can’t show them how close I am to falling apart, breaking into a million unconnected pieces. If only to try following him into another life.

I am fine. Fine.

I can get through this.

Walking over to the open window, I concentrate on the notes that flow through the air as I let the crisp breeze nip at the sheen of sweat forming on my temple. This is better, if only a little. It’s not cold or dark, and there is no blood in sight.

The crowd appears before me from the discreet window on the side of the house. I prepare myself for the sympathetic looks, cordial greetings, and fake welcomes. Snide comments will be made behind my back, of that I am sure. Almost everyone in attendance still questions how I became betrothed to the heir of the Araneae legacy, the future leader of The Order.

I turn from the window before anyone can see me.

With one final look, I regard my appearance in the mirror. My brown hair falls well past my shoulders, almost hitting the top of my lower back, covering most of my back tattoo. The single line of web and dangling spider hidden beneath my curls. Lace sleeves cover my arms, the fitted bodice dips low on my back, and the floor-length skirt adds a bit of elegance to the piece. A few ringlets frame my perfectly made-up face. The soft pink blush and simple eyeshadow meant to highlight my blue eyes. A natural look, something subtle.

Perfect for an engagement party.

Something to be displayed. To be looked at but not touched.

The soon-to-be Mrs. Araneae. Just not with the one I thought.

The mirror shows a vision in white. But all I see is red.

I am doing this for him. This is what he wanted.

How could he want this?

As I make my way to the veranda, I unclench my teeth and loosen my shoulders, but echoes of what once was follow me through the gilded hallway. Laughter, chases, stolen kisses. Whispers of a happiness so fleeting, I begin to wonder if it even happened at all.

“Only you would fall in love with such a silly holiday.”

“Valentine’s Day celebrates love, old and new. It’s a reminder that happily ever after exists, and given that I am yours, I deserve some fucking love on this day.”

Brodie releases a long sigh before he gives in, kissing the top of my head. “Arianna, love does not begin to describe my obsession with you. You will be my queen someday.”