Mara's bloodmark makes her a servant of the Royal Court of Vampyrs - until the King accidentally marks her as his mate. Meanwhile, dark unrest stirs among the royal vampyrs, with Mara caught in the crosshairs.
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[first draft; feedback, critique, and comments welcome; please point out any typos]
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In the back of the wardrobe, hidden behind exquisite fabrics, hangs my Sierv uniform. My fingertips pass over the cotton, rough compared to the silk of the neighboring gowns. Pressing my hair to my eye, I consider donning it. After all, to see a Sierv wander the castle will not be unusual. But with its short sleeves, my Mark will be visible to anyone who sees me. And a Sierv with a Vampyr's mark is unusual. Besides, if a fellow Sierv bumped into me, they'd wonder what happened to me, why I hadn't been in the servant quarters or working alongside the others.
A compulsive swallow seizes me. Too much time has passed—I cannot run into the Siervs. By now, certainly they do not consider me a friend. To them, I must be a traitor. They will never want to see me again.
Hand stalled on a tunic, my nerves jumble. What if they see me? What if they recognize me? Perhaps I should remain in my room, wait until tomorrow to venture out. King Atlas will escort me. And in the dining hall, only esteemed Siervs will be present. The friends I had made will not be there.
A sigh slips from my mouth, and I drag my fingers through my hair. A sense of emptiness lodges in my chest. Despite denying Trichov as my jail, this room has transformed into my prison walls. And I am incapable of leaving its bars without King Atlas. How pathetic.
Belef traipses through my thoughts. I miss her. Her immediate acceptance of me, her tender care, her encouragement to do as my heart needs. If she saw me here, trapped by my own insecurities, what would she say? She would tell me it is okay—it will be okay—and should it not be, I have a place to which I can return.
Filling my lungs with air and determination, I strip and don the tunic I had been eyeing. At the vanity, I plait a braid on the left side of my head, careful to keep most of my hair down and over my right eye. I dare a glance at the mirror.
My reflection is almost unrecognizable. My face has turned rosy. The bags beneath my eyes no longer scream in blacks and purples. For the first time, I look healthy. No longer gaunt and malnourished constantly, dressed in silken tunics and seated before a box of jewels, you never would have known I came from Lred.
Except my eyes (and brittle frame) give it away. While brown, they are dull and muted, like the gray of my hometown.
Hand gently trembling, I brush aside the hair from my right eyes. My face contorts in a wince. Russet red blood pools half my eye. It looks like something stabbed it. Permanently bloodshot. Ugly. Disgusting.
My mother's face flashes in my mind: her crinkled nose, her downturned lips, her eyes darting away.
Gulping down the rising bile, my hair falls over my eye once again. I apply increasing pressure until I see stars. The ottoman scraps the floor as I shove away from the mirror and rush to the loveseat. My hands grip the cushion as my lungs work to steady my breaths.
