The Wedding Death
She looked in the mirror. She didn’t want to do this.
Her reflection stared back with the strange glaze that she was used to. The image was surrounded by flares of hurt and anger, crushed in at the edges by sorrow. Did he think she was a tame beast?
She leaned closer to the glass, flexing her jaw, gaze fixed on her canines as they sharpened and then relaxed. He was a snivelling mortal. He’d pay for Christophe’s death.
The wedding dress clung tightly to her skin like a morgue bag. She would burn it when she was through with him, but she had to stay cold for now. If fire and hate turned her stomach she would lose everything to him. Loathing itched beneath her skin.
She would kill him for what he’d done.