Beds always seem to become uncomfortable when your mind can’t stop at night. The characteristic toss and turns of lying awake plagued the Lion as he slept next to his Valencian. Zenedin was still processing the scenes from his great grandmother’s summoning. How his cousin Donya was living up to their family heritage not just by name but by looks and mystical prowess was remarkable. The magical experience was still plaguing his subconscious, something nagging at him.
Addisyn, the flirtatious Sorceress was trouble, so much so that even Adonya, his ancestor and powerful necromancer, had warned him to steer clear for the sake of his bloodline. That still didn’t make too much sense to the man from Heidel. Addisyn was static, a loud crackle which infected his thoughts when they were together, stopping his mind from functioning. It was like she pulled a mask over his eyes and cupped his ears, he didn’t know how to act or what to say, she was a question mark, as if something was missing. Addisyn was black wolf at night who sparked confusion around the fire, sharp eyes piercing through at whomever she chose to torment. Whether that was her intentions or not, he was unsure. Even so, they continued to meet, even for fleeting moments, memories of nights long past flared fresh in his mind. She was dangerous, her hunger for gaining the use of blood magic should have been warning enough now, but his curiosity for magic was hard to sate.
‘She has to go. I have to stay away.’
Spoken as an order in his head, he couldn’t risk her any longer, not when Tamariss had encompassed his heart without dark secrets and suspicious agendas. She was honesty, connection and a future. She was everything he had wanted. They made each other happy.
The promise of a home together, meeting family and going public, he was now able to show off his Viperess. They were able to live without the bindings of professionalism and company expectations. If they so much as touched her again... A whip could always be turned around.
Whilst claiming his warmer side he was noticing he was succumbing to sin. Jealousy and envy. Time she spent with others was not spent with him. She drew the attention of men just by walking through a tavern. The tap of her heels could silence a room. It wasn’t her where the mistrust lay, it was his gender. Zenedin knew of lust and desire, the need to have someone, the game of claim and egotistical one up manship. He was becoming consumed by the game against his will, and he didn’t know how to stop. Even now as he lay awake, he could feel a rage building, one image after another. A balled fist clenching nails into his palm at so much as the thought of a man reaching for his Valencian.
He stopped. Heart cold as the realisation struck him. Personality withdrawing into silent fear as he cradled himself in his own bed, the woman who loved and cared for him sleeping soundly beside him.
‘I’m becoming who I hate.’