Vivian
The private gardens of the East Wing were breathtakingly beautiful, yet undeniably suffocating.
I pulled my knitted shawl tighter around my shoulders. The crisp morning air was biting at my cheeks.
The stone paths were swept completely clean of fallen leaves, and the massive, ancient oak trees were surrounded by iron fences.
Damien had promised I was safe here, and I believed him. I could see the men stationed across the tree line, their eyes constantly scanning the border.
Safe. That was the word Damien used just like I used to use it.
But this didn't feel like safety. It felt like being kept in a velvet box on a very high shelf. Every time a leaf rustled too loudly, my heart leaped into my throat. Every time one of Damien’s guards shifted his posture, I braced for impact.
