Ember is a succubus, consuming in every sense.
My theory is proven when I specifically ignore Ember for an entire month, yet her scent remains in my nostrils, the vision of her in my mind’s eye. Her peppery musk dances along the back of my tongue, ruining my taste for anyone else.
Savannah Merricourt is labeled as my intended, and I should accept it, as I do everything, because my father’s too powerful and I’ve been locked in the basement too many times.
Outwardly, I can do what he wants while actively forging my own pathway to independence, but that simply can’t work when imprisoned for weeks on end.
And so, like I stated to Ember, we’re at an impasse.
Will it leave room for a truce? Never.