Muireann.
Thursday, 6th November.
Next day.
Morning.
I’m seated at the terrace, watching as the sun hangs in the sky, beautiful and warm.
I’m dressed in an expensive beige colored cashmere sweater.
My hair styled in deep waves, falling down my back.
And black jeans snug against my hips.
Black boots to match.
I pick my cup of coffee and sip the hot, black liquid inside.
The sweet taste infuses through me, sending me down memory lane of last night and how Tarian made me quake and c*m for him a few more times, deep into the night.
In my room.
On my bed.
I smile as I recall his words at some point.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, Murieann.
Why hasn’t any man boasted of having you all this time?” He asked, his eyes on me as he waited for my answer.
I was beneath him.
Naked.
And I saw the hunger in his eyes for me.
But it wasn’t just hunger for my body that I recognized in his eyes.
It was the depth of his words.
The honesty in them.
He really saw me as beautiful.
And not just my body.
I looked at him deeply and wondered which he wanted the most.
My truth or the truth he wanted to hear.
“Do you want the truth, Tarian, or do you want sugar coated words?” I asked him.
He startled a bit.
Fixed me with this look.
“How bad is the truth?” He asked me.
I maintained my gaze on him, a grin curling my lips.
“Really bad.”
That was all I said.
I didn’t want to recall the things I had done in that moment.
I didn’t want to remember the wailing sounds from those I had taken down to the land of the dead.
So I leaned in and kissed him deeply.
“Let’s sleep, Tarian.
I have a beautiful, fun day planned for us in the morning.”
He looked at me, unconvinced, but he didn’t argue.
And now I’m seated here on the terrace, and the true answer to his question from last night nudges heavy against my tongue.
“No man ever boasted of having me, Tarian, because I killed every last one of them that ever tried boasting of having me.”
A dark chuckle erupts from my lips now as I allow the memory flood me hard.
It was the year 1957.
The height of fashion in Paris, America, and most of the world.
My pearls had finally broken into the fashion world and were highly sought.
We were at Paris for Fashion week, and I sat in triumph as I watched model after model walk the runway with my pearl pieces serving as jewelry and clothing accessories on them that night.
At the end of the night, we all assembled for a dinner party, and that was when I met him.
Perry Dodgers.
Son and only heir to one of the most influential families in the world.
A family that dug minerals from the earth.
Our gazes locked over the rim of our wine glasses.
And he wasted no time, he walked to me.
His eyes never leaving me.
“Congratulations, Ms.
I loved every piece formed from your pearls.” He praised quietly.
Handsome.
His blonde hair cropped in the style most sought by men in that year.
I smiled at him.
“Thank you, Mr Dodgers.
I never knew you would leave the shores of the States all because of fashion?” I teased.
He chuckled.
“Please, call me Perry.
And I do that to support my sister.
She’s a designer.
Designs jewelry pieces.
And she was actually the one who asked me to look out for you.
She bought pearls from your company.” He informed me.
I looked at him, pleased that my name rang even in the Dodgers’ home.
It only meant I was gaining popularity.
“Would you like us to dance?” He asked quietly.
His hand extended.
His tone not forceful.
Not too seductive.
I regarded him silently, then took his extended hand, and together we stepped onto the floor and danced.
Smooth and sweetly.
That was actually the first human I had grown that close to since Lysander.
Soon, Perry and I grew closer.
Started dating.
“Let’s keep us a secret,” I told him.
Not just because I knew that I had King Zafron as my betrothed.
But because I didn’t want anyone knowing who I truly was, especially while I was still searching for every Daorheche firstborn male.
And because I was a private person who was still grieving the wound humans had caused me.
And then, a few weeks after I started dating Perry, I began hearing rumors about me.
Rumors of how I tasted in bed.
Rumors of how I sounded in bed.
There were rumors of Perry going about in his gentlemen’s clubs, telling men of how I had an “unnatural sexual libido.”
I was livid.
I stormed Perry’s home, and I confronted him.
“Why would you say such things about me, Perry?!
Everyone is watching me with scorn.
They’re all labeling me as your whore!” I thundered.
He looked at me, indifferently.
“Come now, Murieann.
You’re not a child.
What other name do you call an unmarried woman that warms a man’s bed?” he said condescendingly.
I stilled at his words.
“How dare you?” I asked him.
He closed the gap between us.
“We aren’t married, Murieann.
And in my books, only a whore would spread her legs that wide for a man.”
I wanted to slap him.
I wanted to hurt him.
But I couldn’t.
I was too crushed with shame to speak.
Because his words had stung.
Instead, I walked out of his house.
When I got home, I cried.
So hard.
So painfully.
For three days.
I lifted my eyes to him.
“What else can I do?
He’s won.” I sobbed.
Zafron lowered himself until he was kneeling before me.
He wielded his hands, and spiraling light glowed from them.
I watched with awe as he brought out a paintbrush and a canvas from the light.
He set them down at my feet.
“What are these?” I asked, shocked.
He grinned darkly.
“Retribution for my Queen to be.” He smiled.
I looked at him, stunned.
“Retribution?” I echoed as I picked the brush up.
“One stroke of that brush on that canvas, and your offender, whoever breaks your heart, whoever makes you cry, dies a brutal death.” He revealed darkly.
I dropped the brush instantly in shock.
As if it had poison.
He picked it up and placed it back in my hands.
“I know you want to hurt Perry right now.”
He raised the canvas and guided my hand on it.
And I watched as Perry’s face slowly appeared on the canvas.
I looked with awe as he guided my hand to form a slash across Perry’s neck.
And as soon as he did it, blood, deep and red, started to flow from the canvas.
I jumped away.
Shocked.
Alarmed.
“What… what’s that… why is the canvas bleeding?” I asked, frightened.
He grinned darkly, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
“That’s Perry dead before your eyes.” He revealed.
I paled in horror.
The next day, news broke on broadcasting channels and tabloids.
“Perry Dodgers died last night at his party in his New York residence.
Witnesses who saw him slump at the party stated that he suddenly started bleeding from his throat.”
After Perry, I never let any other man hurt me.
I never let them boast of ever sleeping with me.
If I ever slept with them,
I killed them afterward.
“You’re throwing yourself at a married man, Ma’am.”
Lar’s voice comes from behind me now, breaking into my thoughts.
Into my memories.
I raise a brow, my coffee still in hand.
But I don’t turn to him.
He comes around until he’s standing in front of me.
“Tarian Sawyer is husband to Viola Cooper.
And she is sister to Damon Cooper.
She’s daughter to Thud and Maggie Cooper, owners of Cooper’s Glade,” Lar says calmly.
But behind his calm, I see the cracks.
Fear.
Alarm.
“Your point?” I say lazily.
His eyes widen in horror.
“My point is that the media would chew you alive when Viola Cooper starts making trash talk at you.
And I don’t think you would want that.
I hear her marriage to Tarian has made her very unstable.” Lar reveals, just as his eyes lift and stare behind me.
I turn slowly and I find Tarian standing there.
Eyes locked on me.
He heard every single word.