Since the summary is pretty much an attention grabber, I guess I should tell you what is actually in this story. The protagonist is a rather insane vampiress named Lira. You wanna know how to say it, type it into Google Translate and listen to how they pronounce it. This is a romance story, but the actual sex will be in later chapters. So if you came here looking for sex, I would direct you to my other story Define Legal. Anyway, in this story there will be vampires and werewolves. Witches and fae will be mentioned, but won't come up in the plot until the next book.

So yeah, that's pretty much it. Happy reading!

Flowers are such delicate creatures. Vulnerable, and easily manipulated. Perhaps that is why I enjoy their presence. To be able to better the life of another is a great pleasure when your own remains just out of reach of the foreign concept of happiness; an emotion that has so long escaped me I gave up striving for it centuries ago. To watch them prosper, to be able to monitor the steady growth and maturity of the helpless beings does instill a sort of proud feeling in an ancient being such as myself.

But I will not delude myself with such fanciful and fruitless inklings; for I know the true meaning of my infatuation with the flora I sentry: the power. Not the power to give life, but to take it.

Flowers are so easily hurt; so easily destroyed. A drought, infestation, or many a cloudy day can suck the life from them in a far too boring manner for my liking. No, I prefer a more destructive death for my little beauties.

Fire: what a beautifully damning element it is. Quick and hot, it saps the life from any creature it comes into contact with slowly and painfully. If you're lucky you might even hear the dying screams of a rose as its vibrant petals curl outwards until all that's left is a shriveled dark mass that crumbles in the gentlest of winds.

Ah, roses. They are my favorite fuel for the fire. Red, orange, white, yellow—it doesn't matter; I'm not picky. After all, he gave me one of each.

As I tend to my rose bushes I think of him. I think of his charming smiles as I cut the blooming heads just like I removed his nearly millennia ago. I think of all the hours he spent courting me as I toss the mass of vibrant petals into the fire pit. And finally, I think of how he killed me as I set a flame on the decapitated plants just as I set fire to his remains.

After the deed is done I return to my gardens and tend to my lovely flowers. I pretend to care for them as I weed the beds and water each little life its required amount. But we all know the truth behind my actions. I don't care about them; I care about the revenge. It has evaded me even after his death, and my entire existence now revolves around finding some sense of closure. With the death of my flowers I get but a taste.

So every day I stroll about my prison, wasting eternity obsessing over the desire to kill a man who is already dead. The guards often watch me as I tend to the very creatures that bind me to this place, and murmur disapproving words when I burn them, but they have grown used to my ways. They think me insane, and I don't blame them. They're not inside my head after all; they don't know my reasons.

What puzzles me is their disappointment. They never cease to whisper mournful words over the loss of color during my burnings, which happen quite religiously nowadays. Do they enjoy my display of beauty and find themselves desolate in their absence? Or do they wish I would finally pull my wits together and fish myself out of the depths of the insanity I sank into so long ago? If it is the latter, then I pity them. Old habits die hard, and I am as old as they come. But confusion is a better emotion than none, so I tolerate their words without complaint.

The guests, albeit rare, are my only source of amusement. They fawn over my flowers and gush at the beauty they bring to the home I reside in as a ghost of my former self.

One faerie in particular stands out in my mind. As we walked about the property she saw my roses, and being fae was naturally drawn to them. "What beautiful roses you have!" She praised.

I simply smiled and continued walking, but not before saying, "For now."


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