Mated To Valentine
Nearly three hundred?
I knew Valentine was old—he carries himself with that kind of ancient, tired composure—but three hundred?
My heart sputters.
Valentine’s voice is low, irritated. “We’ve had this conversation before, Mother.”
Mother.
I peek around the corner, and—oh.
She looks just like him.
Regal. Pale, impossibly smooth skin. A sharp beauty that isn’t delicate but lethal.
She wears deep red, her gown flowing like liquid velvet, and she smells of jasmine. Jasmine and something sharper—blood.