The Poisoner (The Poisoner #1)

by I.V. Ophelia

A poisoner’s job was never finished, as a poison could always be better. More refined, purified, deadlier—until you made something new and started the process again. That was why every recipient was a subject, each corpse leaving more flirtatious hints as to how the poison could be improved for the next sinner.

It is not a choice to be stupid, though I gave my best efforts to be sympathetic.

Personal pleasures were like drying flowers, best kept away from the light to preserve their vibrance.

I wish I could say that I made that man suffer—that I put his hands in jars and severed the tongue from his mouth. Instead, I did something far worse. I did nothing.

There was no need to change out of funeral attire, as men die every day—a cause for celebration.

Believe me when I say this woman gave me butterflies in my stomach. Though that might just be internal bleeding. Either way, she had charmed me.

Perhaps I should stop jesting with her about being a specter, or she might decide to become one to escape me. “I will not forgive you if you die without my permission,” I whispered. While it was supposed to be a joke, it was also truthful.

“You are the fool if you think I could belong to anyone.” I unraveled myself from his arms, but he pulled me back in. He dipped me low with a tight grasp. “You say that, but there will come a time when I ask you, and you will say yes.” He pulled me up to where our noses touched. “That is quite a fantasy you have.” I raised a brow. “Unlikely, I fear.” He chuckled and cupped my cheek softly, lovingly, even. “We will burn that bridge when we get to it, my shadow.”

Someday she would learn that no matter what she did, she could not save every fawn, and she could not smite the wolf for eating. Whether she liked it or not, it was the other side of the natural order that she held so dear.