The Immortal Chronicles | | b o o k 2

3. death of a bachelor

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IMMORTAL CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE : cirian wiltshire

. . .

 Of the many expenses Cirian held dear, Renée was one that constantly plagued him as both a mistake, and a gift from the gods. She had hollowed out a pit in his heart where guilt manifested, and every time she looked at him, just as she was doing now, he could only think of the ways he'd wronged her and attempted to dismiss from his mind.

His first mistake was paying her any mind at his Coming of Age ball—oh! but she had looked so lovely there. Being of higher descent, Cirian was often disgusted by mixed races, but Renée was the perfect blend. She had the shock of the brightest orange hair he'd ever seen, and it fell in gentle curls over her rounded breasts, tucked underneath her teal corset bust. Teal was her favorite color, and nearly all of her gowns were that same hue of greenish-blue.

She had eyes that paralyzed him—such magnificent eyes! They were the shape of a Valen princess; narrow, but not slitted, framed by curved black eyelashes and topped with elegantly plucked eyebrows. Skin so pale it touched the snow and froze in time as forever youthful.

His second mistake was dancing with her. He could never remember whether it was her who asked him, or he who asked her—he wouldn't doubt Renée being the instigator; she loved to be ahead of her competitors. He'd asked her for her name, and she had replied—the voice of angels!—"You may call me Renée, sir."

The curl of the 'R'! It danced on his tongue like the grace of her feet across the floor. He couldn't help it. He fell in love. And it wasn't until after he professed his heart to her, and after they exchanged vows, and after the delightful nights just the two of them, that she admitted to herself that she hadn't wanted to marry. She never did. It was pressed on to her like all the other girls of marrying age.

She looked at him then as if it was their first argument—the day she confessed this horrid regret of ever marrying him. He'd yelled and screamed about her deceiving him so, and said unspeakable things that weren't true. She'd did the same—they were both to blame—but now, it was only him.

He only saw the look on her face for a split second before she turned and ran out of the room, her skirts disappearing behind her out the door. He was already shouting after her, tripping on himself as he dove frantically from the bed and fetching his trousers and robe—anything to seem at least a bit presentable after being caught like that. In all honesty, he was so hesitant about sleeping with a palace whore because he knew none of them were as perfect as his wife Renée, who hadn't wanted him in that way for months.

"Sir-?" the whore asked, her voice quaking underneath the sheets.

"Leave!" he shouted at her, "Go!"

He was out the door before he could see if the whore actually listened. He looked both ways, racking his mind for some sort of clue as to where Renée would have run off to—he knew her well enough for that, didn't he? Of course he did—he knew exactly where to look to find her.

She was on the run, though—more than a corridor's length ahead of him. He tugged his robes closer together and cursed wildly as he ran barefoot over the tiles. Thankful that he was still in shape for this, he rounded the corner of the corridor just in time to see massive library door shut closed down the hall.

He shouted after her frantically, skidding as he approached the door and panting as he opened it. His eyes were stinging, and he took a moment to stop just beyond the threshold, pressing the heels of his palms onto his eyes. He hated feeling helpless, and that loneliness was so overwhelming, it was what first prompted him to inquire about the palace whores. Before Renée, he'd had his fair share of them, but now, the act seemed like a last resort.