Bloodmark

35: Blood Red

[first draft; feedback, critique, and comments welcome; please point out any typos] 

The tailor must have seen the hair clip Atlas had gifted me, because the dress for this ball matches. The lace of the bodice and the tulle of the skirt are the same shade of red. The bead detailing is gold, and the sheer of the long sleeves makes the fabric a near-pink, like the cherry blossoms of the hair accessary.

Crinoline puffs the skirt, giving me ample room to move. But is it cumbersome in size, and I worry that this will be the ball during which I trip before the masses. A Sierv slips red suede heels onto my feet, and I practice walking—some insurance that my feet are indeed capable.

The sweetheart neckline of the gown allows for a gold chain to rest about my neck. As a Sierv gathers my hair into a bun at the back of my head (revealing the fresh crescent moons on my neck), another attaches the hair clip.

My usual team of Siervs paints my face in kohl and rouge, lips a deep red and eyelids brown. They swipe more color onto my cheeks; the effect gives the illusion of prominent cheekbones.

For a moment, I admire my reflection. The woman in the mirror glows, a fit for the Royal Court and her illustrious vampyrs. My fingers dance over the bitemarks on my neck, face warming at the memory.

After breakfast that morning, King Atlas had played with my hair as we sat side-by-side on the loveseat. When I noticed the feral glint in his eyes, my body responded: I shivered and offered to feed him.

Now, the silver crescents stand out on my pale neck. I had forgotten about the ball, and with it in a few moments, embarrassment pumps my heart. To arrive at such a public event with the blatant evidence that I fed the King of Vampyrs causes coldness to rush through my veins.

To calm myself, I recall that Feeders attend the balls, and they sometimes offer their blood in front of the crowd. In the Royal Court of Vampyrs, bitemarks are expected, symbols of status. With a heavy sigh, my shoulders roll back and I tip my chin up.

One of the guards escorts me as usual. Once carpet mutes the clacking of my heels, the guard departs with a bow, and I search the waiting court for Atlas.

He stands in the corner, hair newly shaven. His tailcoat and trousers are gray, which makes the gold of his double-breasted vest and the red of his satin puff-tie stand out. A pink-encrusted pin on his lapel and a pink garnet ring tie our ensembles together. His bejeweled left hand and bare right hand twist together at his waist. His eyebrows furrow in thought.

I touch him, rousing him from his contemplation. As his smile widens, awe dazzling in his gaze, I ask, "Is everything alright?"

He holds me at arms-length to study me. "Trivial now that you're here." He pulls me into him, our bodies molding into each other. My heart crashes, skin vibrating. "You look like a queen, my raven."