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July 11 - July 15, 2025
So I do what I do best. Because lies are pretty little masks we place on our words to tint the truth into something palatable.
“Your face is wearing your opinion.”
“Mates, Orlaith, are a fairy tale. A tragedy painted with the pretty face of a happily ever after, but at its core, it’s still a fucking tragedy. If you believe everything you read, you’ll be disappointed when you finally step into the real world.”
“That’s how you kiss someone you love, Orlaith. Anything less and they aren’t worthy of your heart or the power to break it. Understood?”
There’s a magnetism I don’t understand, like he’s rummaging through the pit of my soul, examining me from the inside out.
Because I deserve gentle. I deserve gentle when this man is so boldly destroying me.
I’m in love with a man who’ll never be mine—who’s unavailable in every way, shape, and form—and I’m certain it’s going to ruin me.
He’s giving me his smile again, but it’s tainted now. That smile belongs to somebody else.
Does he know he sustains me? Gives me everything and nothing all at once?
as if nothing compares to the sips of him he feeds me.
Certainly not when you’re harboring a woman with such ... distinct Bahari attributes in your little rocky tower.”
“What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things.”
“Despite how murderous I am,” he mumbles, and there’s a roundness to his words, like they had to veer their course to get here, “you do look ravishing in that color.”
“And eventually ...” his expression softens, “eventually, those feelings will turn to love. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’ve come from; it’s in our nature to fall in love with the shackle that binds us.”
Deep inside me, something throbs—sharp and painful, as though an internal wound is leaking vital fluids.
His attention drops and I follow his scathing trail to the dark blue and gold cupla now secured around my wrist
“And raise your glasses to the future High Mistress of the South.”
I threw down, and he didn’t even fight.
“You want a fairy tale?” he spits, waving it in my face. “I’m your fucking fairy tale. I’m nailed to your soul, Orlaith, and believe me when I tell you there is no happily ever after. Not for me, and certainly not for you.”
“You’re lying to me.” I absolutely am. And I probably shouldn’t start this relationship relying on my crutch of fibs, but here we are.
These waves remind me of the psychological beatings Rhordyn dishes me, because like these waves, he just doesn’t stop.
Would sooner tear the world apart than let them catch a glimpse of her luster. If that makes me a monster in her eyes, well ... About fucking time.
