A Bouquet of Blood and Roses

Chapter II

"Say what!?" Fleur's cry shattered the quiet like a bell rung too loud in a sacred hall.

Both Aella and Evangeline rushed to hush her, their hands raised as wary eyes turned from other students gathered in the dormitory's garden, idling away their weekend hours beneath the twilight air.

"You're telling me," Fleur pressed on, her silver-blue eyes glittering with delight, "that the school's most elusive heartthrob — Kyojin, the cold flame every girl burns for — was the one sending you all those letters? The gifts? The words dripping with devotion?"

Her grin was so wide it threatened to split her face into pure glee, while Aella, caught between amusement and unease, only laughed softly, cheeks faintly warmed.

"Even I could hardly believe it," Aella admitted. "But he was serious when he confessed. I thought the initials — A.K. — belonged to someone else. I never once suspected him. It seemed too uncanny, too far from what his character allowed. There are so many others who carry the same initials. Why him?"

Fleur's hands clasped over her chest, her body swooning with the intoxication of imagined romance. But Evangeline — ever the sentinel — did not smile. Her crimson gaze narrowed, not with jealousy, but with something colder: caution.

"Be careful, Aella," she said, her voice low, steel wrapped in velvet. "Kyojin isn't merely admired — he's worshiped. Every girl here wants him, and if they knew he'd chosen you, they'd tear each other apart just to have the chance to take your place. In their eyes, you are already marked. A target painted on your back. You've always wanted to live quietly, but with him? Quiet will no longer follow you."

Her words, sharp as iron, sank deep. Aella bowed her head slightly, the weight of them pressing against her thoughts.

"Oh, please," Fleur cut in, rolling her eyes, "you two speak as if wolves don't protect their mates. Loyal unto death, they are. And Kyojin — if he's truly the wolf—will guard her from every claw and fang. If rivals approach, he won't leave Aella to fend for herself. He will end it. Himself."

Both Aella and Evangeline blinked at her metaphor, but Fleur — undaunted — pressed on, her smile both bright and strangely solemn.

"His letters already told the truth," she continued. "He's not the kind to tolerate anyone staining his beloved's name. It would be an insult — a violation — against his devotion. And if there is one thing a true partner deserves, it is respect. Never forget, without women, humanity itself would not endure."

Silence hung for a heartbeat. Then Aella, remembering each gift, each carefully penned confession tucked away in her bedside drawer, spoke softly:

"She's right, Eva. You read his words yourself. He's waited for me since our first year — patiently, quietly. Now we are close to graduation, and still he perseveres. To deny him now, after so much devotion... it would feel cruel. Heartless."

Evangeline sighed, leaning back against the wooden bench. For a long moment, her red eyes searched Aella's face, looking for some fracture of hesitation, some tremor of fear. But when she found none, her lips curved faintly, reluctantly.

"Fine," she said at last. "If both of you believe it so strongly, I won't argue further. Perhaps he's earned the right not to be doubted."

Laughter broke the heaviness, Fleur leaping to her feet, fists raised in victorious joy. "Woo! Four eyes for the win!" she shouted, her voice bouncing like bells across the yard.

Aella's cheeks flushed, but she laughed with her friends all the same. The evening softened, shadows growing long as Evangeline fell into thought — pondering the tomorrow that awaited.

But Fleur was already tugging them both by the wrist, her grin mischievous, her pace unrelenting. "If this is to be your first date," she declared, dragging Aella toward her dormitory, "then you will not walk into it as you are. You'll be radiant, a vision, a star too bright to be ignored. And I happen to know the best hands to sculpt perfection."

The dorm door swung open, and with one last glance exchanged between Aella and Evangeline — one full of helpless humor and reluctant surrender — the door closed upon them, swallowing their laughter into the shadows of the night.

Aella stepped out anew, steam from her bath still clinging to her skin like morning mist. Fleur, a comet of silver and laughter, seized both her and Evangeline by the wrist and dragged them out into the night, through the sleeping academy and into the city's humming belly. They passed neon and glass until Fleur halted before a boutique that sang of quiet luxury — a salon nested inside, its windows warm with the steady traffic of regulars.

"Uh... Fleur? What is this?" Aella breathed, the shop's lights reflecting in her wide eyes as if a constellation had been folded into the glass.

Fleur's grin was conspiratorial. "I know four artists who can carve a goddess from a girl. Beauty asks for coin and pain, but trust me — this will be worth it." She called them forth like summoning priests; four women who moved with practiced grace, appraising Aella as though she were a statue to be polished.

Eva squeezed her hand once — an anchor — and then Fleur shoved them in. The makeover was a small crucible: heat of blowdryers, the precise whisper of brushes, the hush of fabric as gowns fell around her. When Aella finally lifted her eyes to the mirror, the girl who stared back was someone the world might mistake for myth. Makeup that amplified what was already hers, never hiding — only revealing. A red dress threaded with gold hugged her like devotion; her nails, lacquered red, were the punctuation of her transformation.

Outside, Fleur and Evangeline waited, and when the salon doors opened, both fell silent, mouths parting at the sight of her. Fleur's hands went for her phone at once—a small, joyous betrayal.

"How do I look?" Aella asked, voice trembling between nerves and thrill.

"Like someone not meant for this world," Fleur declared, snapping a photo. "He'll be undone."

Their laughter was cut by the call that was too timely to be mere luck. Evangeline's screen blinked; her smirk carried mischief as she read. "Looks like your boyfriend's on time."

A roar folded into the night: an exotic engine purring at the curb. The Lykan gleamed—predator and sculpture in chrome — and from it stepped Akuhei Kyojin, black-clad and composed, as if he had been carved from midnight itself. His gaze fell upon Aella and the rest of the world fell away; every light reflected only in the curve of her silhouette.

"A Lykan?" Aella murmured, awash with wonder as he opened the passenger door and guided her in with impossible gentleness.

"My favorite beast for the road," he said, voice low, amusement folded into hunger. "Buckle up, sweet lamb."

They fled the city's glitter, tracing the route she had only half-known. Aella's curiosity trembled into question. "Doesn't this road lead to the — ?"

"Shadow Manor," Kyojin finished, his mouth a slow smile. "One of the Chrisleys' private houses. You have the honor of visiting its grounds tonight, sweet lamb."

When the Lykan halted, Dina was there — silent, exact — opening the door for Aella. Kyojin produced a blindfold with the flourish of a ritualist. "Don't worry. I will not harm you. I hate surprises ruined." His fingers were warm as they wrapped the cloth across her eyes, and in that dark she trusted him; in darkness her other senses woke, the night smelling of jasmine and cut grass.

He led her to the sky garden. When the cloth fell away, the city spilled before her like a pool of stars — lights trembling on the horizon, a distant hum like an orchestra tuning. Kyojin drew out a chair as if he had rehearsed the motion for years, setting her like an offering.

"I... I'm speechless," she whispered, the weight of the night pressing beautiful and impossible upon her chest.

He watched her like a man cataloguing treasure. Dina glided forward with silver platters; warm food crowned the moment, while a violin's bow sighed out a melancholy, lilting melody that made the air tender.

"You look ravishing," he said simply, and the words were both balm and flame. He took her hand — gentle, possessive — his thumb tracing the soft plane of her skin as though memorizing its topography.

Then, as if revealing a vow written in an older tongue, he leaned closer. "Kitten," he began, "should this thing between us fail — should it fray or fall — know this: I will always be a shoulder. I will be an ear. I will be a chest. I will be home. I will give you whatever the world contains. I will love you until you cannot ask for more."

His voice was not merely promise but binding — an oath braided with hunger and devotion. The night held its breath.

Aella's answer came small and true, pushed from somewhere deep where fear and hope met.

"I. . . I love you too, Kyojin."

The words hung between them like a small, bright shard. Around them, the city continued to breathe, but in that garden the world narrowed to two hearts — one fierce, one yielding — and the music stitched them into the dark.