He wanted to kill her now, end her existence, and be done with it, but he couldn't. Not yet.
"Breathe," he ordered, and she did when he stepped away, instantly gasping for fat air until color blushed her pale face.
His hands inched to touch that face, to claw that smooth skin until it was marred with painful pleasure, until those lips whispered his name and every breath was for him. Her eyes—oh those heavenly eyes—he'll enjoy draining the life out of them, until it was filled with horror and darkness no angel could save.
And her chest, those inviting swells heaving in a rise and fall motion, drove him utterly insane. To rip off that fragile dress until she was bare for him. What manner of effrontery a material had over his own palms?
He couldn't deny the beauty of her body as much as he hated to think of it. But she was designed in a way that could either ruin him or her, and he concluded on the latter.
Oh, he will ruin her. But not just yet.
King Vladimir might think he was a fool to believe the Princess he asked for was the one he took on his carriage. He was either very stupid or very foolish to ridicule the ability of his god, and that alone would be the end of him.
He would've stopped the marriage from proceeding and took the fated second princess, but didn't. This one… this one seemed perfect for their destruction.
It was either that he planned to test his ability to recognize a disguise or lengthen enough reasons to end their kind.
For centuries, werewolves waged war upon themselves and corrupted lands not of their own, and now the dominance would be returned to the hands of death and Hell.
He knew well that King Vladmir thought he was playing a careful game by weaving politics and alliances like a master manipulator which in truth, he had long lost. Whoever this girl was—his daughter, judging from the striking resemblance to him—was his perfect pawn, and she didn't even know it yet.
Perhaps she must've thought it best to play the role of "docile angel" to get on his good side and gain his trust. Cloak her schemes in purity, to wear innocence like perfume, and drift her way into him before the scent wore off; a motive the blind could tell, especially when the disguise had been well planned but nothing perfectly covered for a creature like him.
Except for one thing… one thing that seemed real in the poor soul, and craved the feel of it until she was nothing but bones like the others; her innocence.
Earlier on the carriage when he adjusted her slightly in his arms, her body was unnervingly light. Despite the reprieve from the firmly fastened cloak, her breath remained shallow, very quick to capitulate. Unlike normal werewolves he'd seen, her skin was fair and bright, as though she appeared more human than her kind.
That thought evoked a deep sense of irritation and wrath, but he kept calm, investigating later. There was no way King Vladmir had a human daughter, not of any he had come across, one way or the other, and heard of. But one was cursed. He heard of her who had been executed three months ago; the first daughter, Lucrezia Barthory.
The prophecy was clear, even if her father might have twisted it to suit his narrative. She wasn't just any werewolf princess but the one to tip the scales. She would either save her kind… but in his hands, she will destroy them.
One after the other, they would drink their blood and feast on themselves until nothing but bones are left and fed to the hounds.
Winter was slow but never failed to come, and he would make it desirably slow until hunger lures King Vladmir's—Alpha of Secktom Pack—mouth on his boot and lick the soil he walked upon.
And as far as he was concerned, her destruction would serve a far greater purpose. A welcoming death.
She took a closer step back to the wall, sensing the change in his mood, as though it could shield her away from him.
His lips almost tug in a devilish smug. It was the kind he'd seen before, and it amused him. Her fear, her terror, her gasp, her dread… everything irked yet enticed him.
He could remain, do this all day until she never speaks without thinking. Never say words that could ignite him in ways that even her ashes wouldn't be found for the wind to blow away, because he will burn her.
Yes, he will.
That beast in him would teach her to say more of those dirty words until she was left with gasps and screams. The latter was what he couldn't wait to inflict.
Lucrezia could feel her chest burn due to a lack of air in her lungs. Her knees threatened to buckle when she heard him say:
"Sleep, Blue. Dream of what you've promised me. When you wake, we shall see if you still wish to keep it." And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the chamber that suddenly felt too small, too large, too quiet, and too cold.
Lucrezia sank onto the bed, her heart a wild terrified thing in her chest. It was at that moment she realized even after she breathed, she stopped breathing once more, drawing a sufficient amount of fresh air into her lungs.
But the scent of old wood spice still lingered, still reminded her of the consequence of her earlier words. And the promise of Lucifer's half.
What had she done?
***
Dawn was quick to appear, bathing the manor in its wake. But no matter the shine, it couldn't erase the trace of darkness that wrapped the estate like a cloak.
Lucrezia woke up when Edhira and the girls came, preparing her for the morning. She was to join Lord Vaeron in the dining room in an hour so they did well in plucking her alive and dressing her up like a stiff doll.
Her hair was braided to a tight crown, the type worn by Queen Charlotte, sending a wave of unsettlement through her. She had believed that perhaps when she was far away from the land of Veximoor, the memories of her past would fade quickly, but these past two days only seemed to remind her how worse it would get.
But with every braid, every cloth, every crown, and every heel, she was reminded by the demons of their matchmaking.
Lucrezia took a deep breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror with a black oaken frame. The woman in the mirror was not the Lucrezia she had known; she didn't even know who she was before.
Not the Cursed born, or the witch, and definitely not the abomination of their pack. Not the girl who stares down the window from the high tower, watching and observing the villagers, children, and their mothers who didn't dare look up in fear that the witch might kill them.
Day after night, weeks to months, and months to years, she watched, observed, and remained still like a doll. Remained seated, long forgotten by the walls of Veximoor as an outcast.
And twice in a year, Lucrezia was let out to be ridiculed and reminded of the curse that runs through her veins, but that wasn't who stared back. That wasn't the woman in the mirror.
This was Lady Olenna Dreadwyn—though the credit was her step-sister's—her hair wound and woven in a tight crown, pinned with silver hairpins.
However, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise, what stared back was a pretense of normalcy and title, belonging to a person she created herself to be. An appearance she was forced to carry in the weight of her weakness. Those ocean blue eyes she could barely even recognize.
Her gown was a sheath of pale ivory that caught the morning light like the inside of a seashell. Lace trembled along her throat, veiling the line of her shoulders, while the bodice, stiffened and shaped by some ancient hand of fashion, bound her heart tight.
The gown's skirts flowed down, and around her slippered feet. Gold embroidery traced the hem—curling vines, and lilies, symbols of purity and of danger both.
The dress… It was beautiful.
Lucrezia recalled last night's incident, and her face flushed in embarrassment but dread substituted that emotion when the bell tolled somewhere below.
She drew a deep breath, tasting the scent of rose oil and lavender in the room, but a faint smell of that old wood spice. Lucrezia wondered if it was just her or her sense of smell playing heavy tricks, but every corner of this room carried his scent.
Her heart thudded once and twice before she gathered her skirt and walked toward the door, half-ready, half-dreadful to meet the creature of Lucifer's bone.
Every fiber of her being shuddered when she stepped into the corridor that led down the hall. Back then, the silence from the manor was empty, void in space and liveliness, but now, it seemed more suffocating with some strange propensity reaching from the depths and aloft of the manor.
And at that point, Lucrezia doubted it was just magic and her thoughts were a chaos on their own.
Finally, her heels softly echoed as she reached the room but she lingered at the threshold, more than tensed to walk in.
Her pulse throbbed wildly, sending a surge of chillness down her spine. It was vigorous, stimulating enough to run her blood cold, because that part of her, wilder and vigilant than the others, told her something was definitely wrong somewhere.