The mansion smells of lilies and fear.
Downstairs, an army of florists is turning the ballroom into a white wonderland for the wedding of the century. T
hey weave garlands of jasmine and roses, their hands shaking every time a guard walks by with an assault rifle. The contrast is nauseating. We are preparing for a celebration in the middle of a war zone.
I stand on the gallery landing, looking down at the chaos. My dress—the heavy white armor Stavros claimed me in yesterday—is hidden in the back of my closet, stained with his touch. But the lipstick message is burned into my brain. Red looks better on you.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I jump, my hand flying to my chest.
Damon Petrakis is standing beside me. He’s holding a silver tray with a porcelain cup. He smiles, that easy, brotherly sm
