Bound to the Beasts (Royalverse #2)

Prologue

brIAR

The damn thing stared at me for years.

Porcelain and painted, with ruby lips and the barest brush of blush, her ashen face blended to cream and roses.

Her dress was every bit as perfect. Fitted black lace. Layers of silk and crinoline. Delicate ballet slippers tied around her ankles.

I hated her.

And not just because my father called me and my sister his “little dolls.”

That’s what we were, though. Handcrafted from the finest materials, built to be objects of beauty.

Emphasis on objects.

Regardless of our unfortunate similarities, every day, the porcelain doll gazed and I glared. Loathing her for mocking my existence and constantly reminding me what I was.

Until one stormy night in particular, when lightning flashed white enough to blind and thunder rolled so deep no one heard the screams.

Not even me.

I woke up to an empty bedroom. And I knew.

Violet.

Someone had taken my sister. But they’d left that stupid doll on her bed.

Still watching. Witnessing the sale of my only sibling with a serene expression on her pristine features.

She’d seen it all. And the bitch was still smiling.

So maybe we weren’t the same, after all, I think, staring at my reflection. Maybe she was better than me.

The mirror stationed at the corner of the bridal suite is a stately antique. Slightly warped glass, sepia tinged. It puts some color back into my complexion and casts an amber pall over my crimson pout.

I blink at it, trailing my green eyes over the ebony lace fitted precisely to my meager curves. Ironically, this gown might be the single loveliest thing I’ve ever worn. Long and form-fitting, with a lace train suited for royalty, a dark crystal belt, and a thick veil of dusky tulle.

I brush my fingertips along the intricate scallops trimming the blusher. It covers everything above the sweetheart neckline molded over my chest, obscuring the jut of my collarbones and the way the bodice tapers into elegant lace sleeves.

A black wedding gown.

Either the man I’m about to marry revels in the fact that our wedding ceremony is also a funeral for my dreams… or he has a seriously twisted sense of humor.

I’m not sure which would be worse.

But I do know that the girl in the mirror looks way too much like that damn doll.

A knock at the door sounds seconds after my elbow hits the glass. I stare into the shattered surface one final time, my image fracturing as I spin for the door.

Here comes the bride.