Faye
King Kane is a slightly terrifying man. His presence is all consuming–like he sucks the light out of the room. He doesn’t look his age, like all vampires. The only indication that he’s a senior vampire compared to his son is the faint gray glow around his temples where his dark hair is starting to turn.
He has decades–no, centuries–of life left, of that I’m certain.
But not his queen.
Emory moves with sunlight grace around the room, dressed casually in navy slacks and a warm cream sweater. Her thick, dark brown hair is piled neatly on the top of her head, and her cheeks are pink with excitement, matching the shimmer in the polished-jade eyes, a color she shares with her son.
“You’re sure?” she asks me, unable to hide her excitement. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
I fee
