Why would something so major in my past life be kept such a secret from me now? As I look upon the hollow eyes of Zion, my lip trembles, eyes beginning to water as I back away from the male who reaches out for me every time he looks to me. Reaching out for who though? The shell of the woman he fell for, the shell of a woman who was to have their child, or just for any comfort he can get from a simple physical tough? "Sybil," Zion begins, voice soft as he tries to help me relax, to perhaps try and explain more of the puzzle.
"It was my life, I deserve to remember more of it, to remember rather than read it," I argue, voice loud as I take the phone from Zion, looking back to my name across the screen. "I have every right to my memories." Pushing past Zion, I head indoors, Fiona's phone in my hands as I do not intend to return it, but rather try and think of who this Keva could be, perhaps someone who could help me remember exactly what I need to.
The dark hallway becomes familiar as I trace my steps back, pushing open the door to the room which held me since I was brought back to life. The light of the phone allows me to see faint outlines of the room, enough for me to find the light switch as the room is nothing but gray. The stone bed is a gray marble, the walls gray brick, the floor just cement, and resembling more of a prison than anything. Fiona wants me to convince Zion to reverse the curse, to fix what should have been the moment I woke up, but at the same time I want to take her out, I want her to not hold all the power of my life as I am back alive, willing to fight for whatever life could await me. To see if this life I have been brought back into offers me anything more than my last life did. It seems like my last life offered what many would think of a Cinderella Story, but one where Cinderella gets shot, dies, and has more of a backstory that what it looks like. Why was I made a rogue by my pack, what did Zion see in me, for nothing in these articles mentions that we were mates.
One tabloid article mentioned the name of a woman, the mate of Zion who left before the palace could adopt her as one of their own. Lillian Rice, a name (once read) holds a certain personality to it, as if elegance and youth. What ever happened to her? Something warns me off, a feeling in my gut that only points towards answers which will haunt me for asking the questions.
Sitting upon the stone slab, it makes me feel like some sacrifice from ancient times, to have my body laid across as a knife pierces through my chest, blood to drip down and stain the floor. The light of the phone illuminates my face, eyes scanning over the next article which shows a picture of me, a beautiful dress upon my small frame, looking completely and utterly head over heels at the man who stands beside me, holding my hand as a ring is placed upon my finger. The night Zion and I got engaged, someone snapping a picture as the press reported on the event, praising the King for picking a female with no title, not his mate, a completely nontraditional bride. These articles are nothing but something I would expect some teenager to read who is obsessed with the lives of others in the public eye. I am not keen on how much the media reported on me, reporting every event that they can, but I know they are missing what occurred within the walls of the palace, for they all do.
Briefly I give up, looking up from the screen as I take in a deep breath, trying to relax myself as I think back to what Fiona told me, of what she could do to me. Would I mind my soul being put back where it came from? I honestly do not know, for I cannot remember the afterlife, but when I think to it, it feels calming and inviting. But life has its ways of making you fight for that survival, wanting to stay alive and see the sunrise in the morning. I want to stay alive, not be sent not just back into the afterlife, but the afterlife her coven is cursed to endure.
Scrolling to the next page of results, I add another adjective to the search bar, watching as new articles pull up with names that give my own name a negative connotation. Taking in a deep breath, I open the link, curious and scared as to what I might find as my picture is pulled up. I sit at a bar, in some sketchy location talking to some woman. The Fiance of King Zion found herself within the walls of a rogue location just last week. While many praise her for being a rogue, someone to bring more equality between rogues and those who belong to a civil pack, many question whether the Alpha King will marry her because of who she is, or what she is identified as. I stop reading. Could Zion have used me as political gain, to push some agenda, to gain more approval within another denomination of the werewolf race as rogues have never been considered of importance.
YOU ARE READING
Sybil (Completed)
Werewolf《《 Sequel to Zion 》》 The dead should say dead, for death hath laid his hands on them for reasons to never question. It took her death to find out the truth. <> Book Three of the Broken Crown Series (Can be read without book 2) "It was not...
