Damon
Ella’s chambers smelled like crushed petals and triumph.
It was too warm inside, the air heavy with the cloying sweetness of whatever perfume she had doused the room in.
Curtains of pale silk filtered the afternoon light, softening the gilded edges of her furniture until everything looked almost serene. It was an illusion.
Elena sat near the window on a cushioned bench, her posture straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes flicked up when I entered, then away again.
She looked uncomfortable here, like a lamb trapped beside a wolf. Her acting the part of demure noble only made me angrier.
Ella, on the other hand, looked like she owned the room, and me along with it.
“Your Majesty,” she purred, rising gracefully from her seat by the hearth. The mother-of-pearl com
