Page 77 of A Game of Love and Betrayal

Unless the rebels were in the habit of recruiting young elves with bright red hair and luminescent smiles, this wasn’t one of them. The girl looked like she was in her late teens, not yet Mature, and she extended a long black garment bag in Brynleigh’s direction. In her other hand, she held a smaller gift bag. “I’ve brought your gown, Miss de la Point.”

Traditionally, in the Choosing, a woman’s parents picked out her gown for the Masked Ball. Since Brynleigh’s family was dead, she assumed her Maker had filled the role for her.

Thanking the elf, Brynleigh took both bags and let the door slip shut behind her. She returned to the bed and began unpacking her Maker’s gift.

When Brynleigh saw the dress, she let out a low whistle of appreciation. This was, without a doubt, the finest gown Brynleigh had ever worn. This was the kind of dress most women admired from afar, and very few had the chance to wear.

It was stunning, perfect for a proposal, and…

Her family wasn’t here tonight.

A tear lined the bottom of Brynleigh’s eye. Her sister would have loved this dress. Sarai had always been interested in clothes and sewing in particular. A few months before the storm, Sarai had been accepted to the Western School of Design and Fashion to study fashion history. She would have attended in the fall.

Even without Sarai’s sense of style, Brynleigh recognized a masterpiece when she saw one. Changing out of her leggings and t-shirt, she drew the gown over her head. Several well-placed zippers allowed her to get the garment on without help.

It fit her like a glove.

Once the zippers were closed, Brynleigh made her way to the floor-length mirror in the bathroom. After all, what was the point of wearing a beautiful gown if one didn’t spend at least a few minutes admiring it? And this dress was meant to be admired.

It screamed vampire.

The scarlet garment was perfectly tailored to her body. It matched the theme of the Choosing beautifully. The ruby fabric shimmered and sparkled, making Brynleigh feel like she was wearing a jewel. The neckline was a low V that dipped almost to her navel. Long, slim sleeves ran to her wrists, and the dress pooled at her feet. A slit ran dangerously high up her leg, cutting off mid-thigh. She turned around and looked over her shoulder.

The back scooped low, barely covering her bottom. Perfect for wings. There was no doubt in Brynleigh’s mind that her Maker had selected this dress for that very reason.

In the second bag was a pair of ruby heels, a crimson rose for her hair, a mask, and a piece of paper. Leaning against the dresser, Brynleigh carefully unfolded the note. Her Maker’s handwriting looped across the page, and a splotch of ink on the top confirmed that Jelisette had used a quilled fountain pen to write the missive.

My youngest progeny,

May the goddess of the moon and the god of blood bless your Choice tonight. I know you will Choose correctly.

Remember what you’ve been taught.

- Jelisette

Brynleigh read the note twice before sighing and dropping the paper on the bed. A wave of disappointment washed over her, which was rather unexpected.

After six years, she thought Jelisette would have something a little more sentimental. Though her Maker wasn’t exactly kind, Jelisette had filled a motherly role for Brynleigh over the past few years. This note lacked all sense of kindness though. There were only cold, regimented words meant to remind Brynleigh of her purpose.

If Brynleigh’s parents were still alive, they would have words of wisdom for her. They would probably be excited for her—she was getting engaged, after all.

But her parents were dead. Sarai was dead. And Brynleigh? She was a vampire, and now, she was alone. Tonight, she would get engaged, but just like all the feelings she was ignoring, it was a lie. An act. A series of falsehoods.

Brynleigh’s heart burned as dark fury ran through her veins. Maybe Jelisette knew exactly what she was doing when she penned that note. There was no room for emotions. No room for sentimentality. No room for anything at all except cold-blooded revenge.

Brynleigh was playing to win, and no one would deter her from her goal.

Not even the man who smelled like thunderstorms and bergamot.

The rules started playing through her head as she put in her earrings.

Rule number one: you cannot trust anyone.

Rule number two: doubly blessed vampires do not hide behind jewels or makeup. They let their gifts speak for themselves.

Her ears glistened, and she bent, sliding her feet into heels.

Rule number three: vampires are weapons. They must always look their best, ready to use their every gods-given gift to their deadly advantage.

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