Every Rose Has A Thorn [Book 3] (On Hold)

      One week. Seven days. Most bride-to-be’s, at this point, most likely, feel a whole jungle full of emotions. They could range from happy, to nervous, to ecstatic. Me? I was downright dreadful. I lean forward, pressing my palms into the white, marble sink counter. Taking a deep breath, I look up. I meet my reflections eyes, and right away, my mind flashes backward. I recall what happened two nights ago, the discussion I’d had with Eranthos. He’d interrupted my “hunt”, and looked very pissed off. Turns out, he had some complications with somebody.

          I tilt my head slightly as I think over his words, again. They were strange in a way.

          He’d been speaking with a female in hushed tones:

          It doesn’t matter–

          Yes, it does!

          I’ll get around to it, when I do.

          In the mirror, my expression looks thoroughly annoyed. Growling, I turn and leave the bathroom, pulling my hair over my shoulder.

          “Yes,” I mumble sternly to myself, “you will get around to it, right now.”

          I leave my room, heading straight for Eranthos’s. If he’s not there, I’ll hunt him down, literally. Without hesitation, I knock quickly against his wooden door, and step back, waiting. Not a second has passed when he pulls it open, looking distraught. When he sees me, his expression immediately softens, and his violet eyes cloud with affection. His white-blond hair is disheveled, and his clothes are slightly rumpled.

          “Rough night?” I guess, raising my right brow. He sighs, shaking his head. Then, as if thinking better of it, widens the door, gesturing for me to come inside. Pausing for a moment, I carefully step into his room, trying to make it not obvious that I’m looking around. I’d never been in here before, and I don’t know what I was expecting.

          A leather-bound coffin for a vampire?

          Posters of full moons for a werewolf-in-training?

          I nonchalantly glance at Eranthos, once more wondering exactly what he is. He radiates power, and pure confidence. I don’t blame him–whatever he withholds, he certainly has the looks for. He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to tame it when he catches me looking at him. I press my lips together, holding back a laugh at his failed attempts. He gives up, growls, and crosses the room.

          “I can’t be perfect,” he reminds me, lightly placing his hands on my shoulders. The laughter immediately dies, and I look up.

          “Who is?” I challenge, smirking. This will be a good question for him to answer. Half of me expects him to say no one, the other half to say Iris, or another God.

          His answer catches me off guard. “You.”

          “Seriously,” I say, laughing to lighten the mood. There’s no humor on his face, though.

          “Fine,” he says, shrugging. “Don’t believe me.” His hands fall from my shoulders, and he turns away. I’m just about to reach out and see if he’s okay, when he turns back, so sudden it startles me.

          “And?” I say, unable to get my voice above a whisper. His gaze is so intense, so determined.

          “I don’t know why, or how, you don’t see it.” He holds out his hands in confusion, and looks pained as if he’s trying to explain something he can’t.

          “See what?”