Artemisia
My mother had told me so many things to prepare me for my mark.
She told me about how wonderful it was as my father finally marked her, and she became officially his.
She told me how happy she was, and how it had stung a bit but that the butterflies erupting in her stomach covered every pain she would feel.
I was prepared.
I was looking forward to it.
Or so I thought.
Because as Logan’s fangs sank into my flesh, all I did was feel pain.
Excruciating pain.
And being marked while screaming my lungs out in pain and fear certainly wasn’t on my bucket list.
I feel like he is injecting venom through his canines, poisoning me slowly as the burning substance wanders down my shoulder and right to my heart, making it still in my chest.
I remember my mother telling me
