Bianca turned over on the bed as though the silk beneath her could not contain the restlessness in her bones.
Her limbs tangled, her breath came shallow and quick, and her thoughts moved like knives precise, hungry, and unstoppable.
The moon outside painted the room in a cold, indifferent wash of light, but inside her chest a different light had begun hot, dangerous, and greedy.
My son has blue eyes, The thought pulsed through her like a promise and a threat.
Blue the color of storm-tide, of things that did not belong, blue that belonged to legends and lineage, to masters who recognized blood and wanted to own it.
Bianca could feel the contours of that want with a clarity so raw she tasted metal.
What if I use it? The question rose, simple and terrible.
