Page 118 of Devoured

Over the past week, Cora has become more enraged than ever before. The rest of her ambassadors left slowly at first—until she could no longer contain her rapidly growing fury at the abandonment and began to take it out on them—and ever since, Cora’s descent has been fast, sharp, and relentless. She refuses to leave me unattended, though she doesn’t ask me to use my powers again, dragging me all around the castle while she tortures her werewolves quicker than she can bite new ones.

I glance down to find a splatter of blood on the hem of her linen pants, then up to find a trickle of scarlet on her cheek.

One of her werewolves laced her corset wrong. Another bickered over chores. The last tripped—that was it. A wrong stumble in the corridor before we came outside, and Cora whipped her. Publicly. To the brink of death.

So I have no choice but to smile and point to a black ribbon of fabric, embroidered with golden dahlias and my initials. My future initials: Vanessa Serafina Severi.

VSS

“That one,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal and light and loyal. Hoping I can somehow appease this monster while we wait to hear back from the courts who have forsaken her. Portia and Evie are in secret correspondence with them. Calix is keeping a watchful eye on Cora and Sin. And I—I have become Cora’s distraction. “It’s so… pretty.”

Cora’s eyes crease as if she might grin, but her lips remain snarled in a frown. As if she might strangle us with the tulle instead of wed us with it. “And you, Sinclair?”

Sin rocks back on his loafers, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He glances between the fabric, my face, and the blood on his mother’s cheek. Then he smirks. “While black is very apt for funerals—and that is the vibe around here lately—I think we should probably choose something more traditional.”

Unlike the rest of the castle, Sin has chosen a different route for survival these past few days. Each conversation he has with Cora has become more bitter. Each of his remarks balances on a knife’s tip. As if he wants to provoke her. As if he wants to prove to himself just how horrid she really is. But no matter what he says or does, she doesn’t torture him. She hardly even acknowledges his existence beyond moments like these, when she needs him to perform the act of being her son.

Cora tears the fabric from her arms, clenching it in tight fists. “Don’t be obtuse. Black is a family color. It is the Severi color.”

“My point exactly,” he says dryly. “But if you’re so certain… do what you’d like. You always do.”

“Fine.” The word cuts deep. Cora tosses the samples for our future handfasting over the seawall, where they sail onto pink waters before floating toward the horizon.

I keep my gaze fixed on them rather than letting it drift toward the wooden shack behind Cora. Toward memories of Calix and his hands and his lips. They can’t exist now. Not while I’m planning my wedding to his cousin.

The werewolves don’t call it a wedding, of course; it is a mating ritual with ancient vows and a blood exchange to permanently bind our souls until death literally do us part. Cora still makes us pick decor and tableware, however, as though it’s as mortal and mundane as marrying in a church.

“Flowers,” she says next. “What shall we do for flowers?”

“What kind of flowers do you want?” I ask Cora, keeping my eyes carefully lowered. Everything feels so delicate. As if, with one wrong move, all the threads we’ve been knotting—Calix, Evie, Portia, and myself—will immediately come undone. “Roses? Anemones?” I tuck a loose curl behind my ear, naming any flower I can think of. “Dahlias?”

Cora slashes a curt hand. “White chrysanthemums will look better with your gown.”

“What a fabulous choice, Mother,” Sin mutters, nodding as the veins in his neck tick tick tick with the rapid beats of our hearts.

Cora steps closer—close enough to dagger his chest with her claws. “I have allowed you your little tantrums, Sinclair, but I hope you know better than to continue them now. This is the most important moment for our court. We are heralding in a new age—an age of prosperity—and you should consider yourself lucky to be included in that. Both of you. This Mating Rite is the beginning of everything for our family.”

Sin grits his teeth, though he looks as if he wishes he could retaliate. Verbally. Physically. He looks one second away from lunging and ripping her heart out—but he doesn’t.

Because some part of him—undoubtedly that abused part—can’t fully betray Cora.

I keep waiting for it to happen. The moment he decides to abandon her like everyone else. But it hasn’t come yet.

It won’t come.

I am only going to get my hopes up. I am only going to make the inevitable end harder on myself.

I clear my throat and answer for him. “Of course, Cora. We are both so—so excited.”

“Good girl. We’ll order the white chrysanthemums, then.” She turns her sharp black gaze to me. “My Weavers have almost finished your gown. You can expect a fitting two weeks before the rite.”

“Okay,” I say. Then, quickly, I add, “Thank you.”

Sin shakes his head. “Are these Weavers new, Mother?”

“Will that be a problem?”

“If they’re anything like the new healers, then yes.” He frowns. “Perhaps Countess Rikki Sertori would allow her Weavers to create a gown for Vanessa. They’re rather renowned—”