Blood Beneath the Cypress Knees
Not yet.
Luna
Luna’s private chamber was draped in black silks and dimly lit by candles that flickered with green flames. She stood at the center, her beautiful disguise flawless—pale skin, flowing black hair, lips red as blood.
But beneath it, Adonis could sense the truth...sagging skin, centuries-old boils, the stench of decay masked by her glamour.
“Silas,” she purred, turning to him. “You’ve been quiet.”
Adonis let Silas’s lips curve into a faint smile. “Merely watching, Mother. The rebellion stirs like ants in a dying nest.”
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