“Apologies, my heart,” Abelia says, wiping the blood off her cheek. She must look her best in front of you, lest you think her dirty. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

She drags along the head of the man who’d bruised your beautiful face. The one who’d called you vile names for being an elf. Abelia can feel the rage returning as she tosses the head onto the table for the other nobles to gaze upon. Horror is written across their faces. She basks in it.

Good. They should fear her. Who are they to her but lowly nobles with names that barely carried any weight? Their tailored clothes and raised chins were the only things that separated them from dogs. Abelia sees them as they are, though.

Misbehaving beasts must be punished accordingly.

“Let him serve as a reminder,” she snarls. “I would hate to dull my blade on your necks.”

She doesn’t care she’s proving the rumors of her being “mad” to be true. Had they respected you, this wouldn’t be happening. This is their own fault, not hers. As unpredictable as she is, there is one thing that has always remain true: her love for you.

You may be an elf, a commoner at that, but it matters very little to her. No one has made her heart sing the way you have.

“Now,” she says, a great deal calmer with the bloodlust subsided, “shall we continue our meeting?”

She’s aware she only holds this much power because she’s Xior’s—the human king of Odara—cousin. Xior isn’t going to raise a hand to her, not when she’d assisted him in getting the throne. The methods had been less than savory. Abelia hadn’t cared. The former king, her uncle, needed to die, and she’s always loved spilling blood.

She retakes her seat next to you, giving you an honest smile. She’s waiting for you to praise her for killing the man who insulted you.