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I sigh and offer her the body I convey within my vines, black death roses sprouting, but Betha lifts her hand. "Vines are welcome but not the rose.
Pretties may awake, only Doom she knows
Doom they speak on Death's hallowed ground
Awaiting the night of the Queen's fallen crown. Fallen crown. Fallen crown..."
Silent, I chew on my inner cheek and help Betha with her task. My heart thuds slower and duller with every corpse. They do not bear the runes of the slaughtered refters on the pomegranate isle. No, these slaughtered girls...the work is cruel, slow, and vindictive from the premeditated makeup and costumes adorning them to their mouths stuffed full of seeds.
What did she mean by fallen crown? I touch a trembling finger to the jewels resting on my head. "Betha," I finally address her after an hour or so passes of us thinning the corpse collection. "Am I the Mallyach-Ender?"
Betha charges through the air, carrying the scent of corpus roses, of blood, and breast milk, and deep water. "While an Ender you may be,
Your blood spells doom, we will never see
Unless you flee the Underworld, my Queen, Tenth Bride
The Night of Masks when Kryach is most spirit-blind..."
Yes, the night where the veil between the spirit world is thinnest, where the Void is strongest. Bone warriors throughout Nathyan Ghyeal will be dispatched to protect the Citadel and the tombs of the royals. And Kryach will be the busiest working to stop armies of spirits from fleeing the River Cryth who long to dance with the people and drag them to the depths.
On my first night here, I considered how I could help Franzy escape. Not myself. Perhaps now isourchance. If I am the Mallyach-Ender, I cannot allow the lower gods to steal me into the Void or permit this Doom to be fulfilled.
And there's only one person I may trust.
“What doyou think of my mask for tonight, my Queen?” I tease Isla.
She clamps her teeth on a shriek when I thrust her hips against the wall of the shaded alcove, shackle one wrist above her head, and sink my teeth into her radiant flesh. Hunger too piqued as I’ve starved myself between feedings which she damn well knows. And enjoys, given her willful smirk whenever she catches me drinking more Sythe wine than usual.
“I thought it quite fitting. In memoriam of our wedding night,” I goad her, drag my tongue against her flesh.
Isla hisses. “I’ll forgive your mask, my King...only because mine is far superior. But unlike you. I won’t spoil my tricks for this night.”
I chuckle. Ever since our true honeymoon night, much has changed between us. Isla still accepts my attention, downright demands it. But she is colder. More aloof. Pleasure her sole focus. She was as regal of a Queen of the Underworld on the night of our grand revelation when I wore my crown but no mask. It was the first time she played the role. As if her crown was a costume piece.
Over the past couple months, I’ve tested her, tugging on her boundary line to determine if she snaps it back. Sometimes, she does. Most times, she loosens it. But not penetration. How my bride loves the mastery of touch.
“Corpus King,” she whispers during my feeding. I cant my head to discover her watery eyes, her florid cheeks. She licks her lips, parts them. I expect her to hiss and demand me to let her go. All it would take is her raising her voice for my family to hear in the adjoining hall.
I’ve urged her into this position—the same as our wedding night: against the wall. But when she cocks her head without her crown shifting, Isla opens her mouth and slams her teeth shut in a direct snap. A taunt.
I grin. My bride loves her games! I stem her pain with more Ith venom but not much because she loves the pain. Her eyes roll to the backs of her head, lost in our wedding night’s memory. She overlaps it with this one, to reclaim the emotions. Unlike then, her fingers do not clench.
Yes, my bride. You are safe. You are here. And I love you, my dark rose.I speak nothing. She knows.
I sink deeper to consume another sample, grieved when I discover blood has trickled onto her gown. “My apologies, My Lady Queen,” I whisper, tracing the low gauzy neckline.
Isla’s lavish breasts expand from her breath with every passing second. Nipples aroused and enthused with rouge to prod her gown, crimson to mirror her buds.
I lick another trickle of blood from her fresh shoulder and chest wounds, avoiding the urge to tear at the blotted fabric.
“Your apology is not accepted.”
I glimpse upward to smirk at her. “So, you wish to play, my Queen? What apology will be enough?”
Isla presses the back of her head to the wall, licks her lips, and groans lightly, thrusting her bust and hips forward. “Actions speak louder than words, Corpus King.”
“Then, allow me to show you how ardently apologetic I am...”
