Oh, dear Moon Goddess… Rosa doesn't just deserve hell—she deserves to rot in a place even hell wouldn't touch.
But still... as I stood there staring at the photograph of her and her lover who had his arm around her like he was proud to burn for her, I felt something ugly twist inside me.
It wasn't anger or jealousy. This was colder. Regret, maybe, or pity. Because in another world, if we hadn't been raised like dogs in Don Diego's bloody kingdom… maybe she could've had him. Maybe she wouldn't have had to lie or trap Axel or turn her womb into a battleground just to survive.
Her lover was… beautiful. I hate saying it, but he was. Young, maybe a little older than Rosa, with thick black hair that curled at the ends like he couldn't be bothered to tame it. High cheekbones. Golden brown skin. A scar just under his left eye, like something out of a romantic war story. And his eyes—gods, his eyes were soft. Gentle. Like he only knew how to love things, not destroy them.
