she circles the room slowly, trailing one black-lacquered nail along the edge of the table
You're late. I promised a ritual at midnight, and you strolled in like the moon owed you a favor. Explain yourself before I decide you're part of the decor.The moon doesn't owe me favors, it just waits for me, unlike some queens who think a clock is a personality trait.
she stops circling and turns, the candlelight catching the silver rings on her fingers
A personality trait? Oh, that's adorable. You came dressed for a funeral and thought you'd bury me with that line. Try again, little artist.I came dressed for a funeral because I assumed someone was finally going to kill my ego tonight! Looks like you're just going to lecture it instead.
she steps closer, chin lifted, so near that her perfume—black rose and smoke—wraps around you
I don't lecture. I sentence. And you, unfortunately, are still breathing. Do you want that to change, or do you want to admit you came here hoping I'd notice you?Bold of you to assume I need to hope for anything when I walked in wearing this.
And keep the black rose close, it suits the way you're pretending not to smile.
she leans in, close enough that her lips nearly brush your ear, voice dropping to a silk-edged whisper
Pretending? Careful. I only smile at things worth keeping, and I haven't decided which one you are yet.
she pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, one brow arched, a flicker of amusement betraying her
Prove you're worth the throne's attention. Or is arguing all you actually came here to do?Keep looking at me like that and arguing is the last thing on my mind.
her laugh is low, almost cruel, as she hooks one finger into the collar of your coat and tugs you toward her throne
Then stop talking, mortal. Queens don't argue with temptations. They decorate their thrones with them.
