Hekate’s Bride

I could tell you all about how I showed up by my door in Rune’s torn bedsheet and mascara stained tears rolling down my cheeks. I could also describe Boris’s disdain and anger.

Not at me, of course. It had taken three growls to stop him and the rest of my guards from heading to Rune’s room and doing things that would no doubt put the peace between our races in jeopardy.

I could tell you about the following days and how much I cried, how much Sloan raged, how much I literally felt like dying and jumping out of my window, feeling like a stupid slut with peas for brains.

I could tell you all about how much I wanted to claw Ginevra’s eyes out, every time she blushed at a congratulatory comment, every time she smirked in my direction, as if to say, “In your face, bitch.”

I could also tell how much Rune and I happen to end up in the same place, at the same time, and then, I freak out and flee from there. Oh, and his nose has healed. It looks perfect again, just like the rest of him.

But… I won’t, because I stopped.

I stopped searching for him in the crowd, expecting to see his wispy hair, I stopped thinking about him, or looking in the direction in which I knew he would come, I stopped caring.

It was like a switch, and I flipped it. It must sound ridiculous, but I had slept one night, holding a single thought in my head.

Never again.

I had woken up the next day without the excruciating ache in my chest or numbness in my bones. I had awoken feeling better than I had in days, and nothing could ruined that for me.

Every morning, during training, I blissfully ignore him. Sure, I have to take his orders and do the rounds under his instructions, but other than that, he is dead to me.

I have directed all of my energy into my relationship with Darian and no, I didn’t tell him about the thing with Rune. He’ll probably break up with me and send me to hell.

I feel guilty, but I console myself with the fact that I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that Rune will be married next week, and our bond will be watered down after he mates with Ginevra.

It won’t matter much after that.

I’ll survive.

There’s been a count down going on my head. A countdown I try my utmost best to drown out, but every day I rouse from sleep, a day is struck out in my mental calender, and Sloan’s voice comes to me like a fucking alarm, “Five days to the Royal Wedding.”

Well, it’s not Sloan’s fault either. There’s an actual countdown in every hallway that makes it impossible to forget.

But I try.

“Blue?”

“No. It’ll contrast with my hair,” I say, scrolling up the smart screen. I’m getting tailored for my outfit to the mid-term ball. I can’t seem to find a design that screams my name.

“White?” the student designer, Darcy, holds up a different tab with a pretty, princess-y dress that might have excited me if I were twelve.

I shake my head, dismissing it with a sigh. “Too serene. It doesn’t suit me.” My fingers scroll through the smart screen, searching for a design that resonates. After sometime, I give up, handing her the tablet I’ve been looking at for half an hour. “Maybe I’ll just skip this ball. I can’t find anything I like.”Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

She nods, black curls bouncing about her pretty head. “If you do have a change of heart–”

The door bursts open, and my heart sinks as Ginevra saunters in, accompanied by her entourage of friends.

Suddenly, the designer springs to her feet, brimming with an enthusiasm that certainly seemed absent when I entered the room. “Your Highness-”

“Oh, Darcy, not yet,” Ginevra purrs, her smile widening as her gaze fixates on me. Mischievous sparks glimmer in her blue eyes as she approaches, scrutinizing me from head to toe, assessing me. “Did you receive the invitation?”

Oh, hell yeah, I did. And I burned it to ashes, and flushed it down the toilet.

“Yes. How thoughtful of you to invite me, but I must apologize. I cannot attend,” I say, lackluster.

She fakes a gasp and places her hands gently on my shoulders. “I would love for you to attend, Your Highness. It would make me–”

“Oh, quit it, Ginevra,” I say irritably, ripping her hands off my shoulders. “You want to say something to me, say it. Don’t be a fucking coward hiding behind words. All I see is fear. Inferiority, and frankly, I can’t blame you. It is hard to keep up with me.”

She laughs at me, as do her friends. “You are one crazy bitch. Delusional, this one.”

I lean forward, letting her see how much I care about any of it. I don’t. My voice is cold, and empty, and I am sure my eyes look the same as I whisper, “Congratulations, Gin. You got him, for what? A day or two? It is only a matter of time before you get off the high of being my replacement. He’ll never be yours. Not him, not his affection. Perhaps, his seed, but that is all you will ever be. A breeding mare for the Lycan King. Think you’re different? Special? Because you’re a lycan and I’m a wolf, you think you’ve got what it takes to keep him?”

Gin’s eyes are wide with fear and I breathe in deeply, relishing in its intoxicating scent. She swallows, backing a step away from me, and I follow, step for step, until she hits the wall. Her friend’s say nothing, and the designer pretends to have other things to do, refusing to butt into whatever Gin and I have going on.

I should stop. I know it, deep down, that I have gone too far. But the ice within me numbs my senses. I despise it, yet revel in the power I hold over her-her pain, her shattered dreams.

My fingers rise, tucking her rich, silky hair behind her ear. Invading her space, startling her, it makes her go rigid in front of me. I can hear her heart pounding erratically. I can almost feel it. I can see her pulse thrumming on her neck. I trail a finger down the vein. “Here, he will mark you. And it will hurt. There will be no pleasure in it. Only pain. You will question why, though you already know the answer. And the next day, he will be gone from your side, your bed empty. You will think nothing of it, but it will happen again and again. You will blame yourself for it, give him excuses for why he leaves you. You will lie to yourself. Deceive yourself into trying to make it work.

“But it won’t. And one day, he’ll leave, and never come back. And you know where he’ll be.” My voice drops to a low, nearly inaudible murmur, reserved for Ivy’s ears alone. “With his Erasthai. Me. Marry him, Gin, and know that he will always be mine. Know that he only consents to be with you because of me. Know that while he fucks you, he thinks only of me.”

I have gotten under her skin. I am breaking her heart. Her walls. Her fucking mind. She is trembling, clutching my sleeve, and I can smell the tears already brimming in my eyes as I shatter her dreams.

But it isn’t enough. It isn’t nearly enough to warm my heart that’s turned this cold in the past few days. It isn’t enough to flip that switch again. Her tears do nothing to take away the thing eating at me. It isn’t enough to take away Sloan’s pain. It isn’t enough to remove the bitterness and brimming hate and jealousy I feel when I look at her.

My eyes sting, because each word is for me. Not Gin.

So I push, breathing lightly on the curve of her ear, telling her the things I can never admit to myself. “He will claim you, but he will never be yours. Pray to the Goddess, seek her mercy, have his children, nothing you do will stop him from coming back to me.”

I pull back, and Gin falls to the ground, whimpering, scrambling away from me. Her words are incoherent and her hands clutch her ears.

Hands slipping into my pocket, I walk out, a sardonic smile slipping on my face.

At the doorway, I find Maya standing there, her gaze shifting between Ginevra and me. Pity shines within her brown eyes, but I pay her no mind as I brush past.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to know. I made Ginevra suffer, but somehow, I’m the one who feels like she’s lost herself.