Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I squeezed my eyes shut. “We’ve prayed to the gods, made the necessary sacrifices—go and say one more prayer, love.”
Her hand touched my back, and then I knew she was gone.
Another sacrifice would be made.
Another strangled prayer sent to the gods.
Because I could be matched to anyone—and I couldn’t stand the idea of eternity without her touch—without her kiss.
I pretended to smile at my family members as I made my way through the large homestead.
Once I was ready, I looked in the mirror—something I always despised because I knew my eyes gave too much away. Anyone could practically learn everything about my soul without ever even asking my name or my thoughts.
My mother said it was a gift.
I thought it more of a curse. Chronically wearing my emotions on my sleeve was so painfully vulnerable for me and uncomfortable for others. Some people refused to make eye contact with me, fearing they would somehow lose their soul to my darkness. Rumors ran rampant that I was a soul eater, which was ridiculous, but when someone came from power, people made up stories to explain why they needed a logical justification for what we had, and sometimes I thought it made the locals feel better.
My forest green hair was tied at the nape of my neck, my black boots polished up to my knees, and my black and red cape was tied around my black jacket on my shoulders.
I half expected a crown to sprout from my head.
I snapped my fingers, causing a blue flame to appear above my palm, the flame flickered in the mirror.
“Matchmaker, Matchmaker, your will be done but just this once…” The flame grew higher. “Make the daughter of Winter and me one.”
The flame burst from my palm, sending little pieces of blue out the window, the prayer said, the message sent. Now all I could do was hope.
Hours later, both mothers stood on either side of the fire while the Matchmaker danced between them, holding her hands toward the moon.
And then I saw her, my moon, my stars, my sky. Her black hair was plaited down her back, and since she was one of the maidens from the Damanta clan—daughter of the Winter Court—she wore a simple white dress, her corset tight, a white hooded cloak covering most of her.
The other clans were also present, and of course, every representative from the High Court, my father included.
Summer, Spring, Autumn, and Winter.
They each stood, their white hair twisted ‘round their heads like crowns, each of them in gold cloaks while soldiers in black armor surrounded them.
One day I would stand there.
I just prayed to the gods it would be with my love by my side.
What was the point of having power if you didn’t have love?
My father would disagree since his match with my mother was with a lesser clan, but the Matchmaker had promised beautiful children beyond his wildest imagination.
My brother and I were proof of that promise. I had been five when one of the townsfolk got on his knees and prayed to me like a god.
And I was seven when I realized I could grant his wish.
The sound of a drum filled the silence.
We would begin now.
The Matchmaker closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were white as she stared into the fire, the flames licking higher and higher until one snaked out and wrapped around my hand, holding me in place.
The mating flame from my wrist pulsed and burned, sensing me, knowing me. It hissed before stretching out toward the maidens, toward her.
I went still.
Then watched in horror as it wrapped around one of the female’s wrists, jerking her forward and causing her hood to fall back.
But it wasn’t my love.
It was worse.
It was her sister, Morana.
I jolted awake at exactly three a.m., sweat pouring off me in waves as I tossed the covers away from my shaky body.
I stripped off the silk pajama pants and stomped over to the window, and when I jerked the curtains open, the roses were once again in bloom.
But of course they were, because no matter how strong the curse, nature must acknowledge the birthright.
And the power.
And what better way to worship the Prince of Spring? Than to bloom during the end of summer?
The roses stretched toward my bedroom window in worship. I could feel their excitement, their love for me.
And I wanted to hate them.
But I couldn’t.
Never.
If anything, I hated myself because they were just as trapped, just as cursed every single time this happened.
I nodded my head down at them and could feel their sigh of relief that I’d noticed.
They didn’t see me slide powerless to the floor as my wrists burned with the same cursed fire from that night.
The gold lines twisted and burned around my wrists like a braided bracelet, one that would one day match the one on my head—except that had never happened, and I was beginning to think it never would.