Artemisia

My mother had told me so many things to prepare me for my mark.

She told me about how wonderful it had been as my father marked her, and she became officially his.

She told me how happy she was, and how it had stung a bit, but that the butterflies erupting in her stomach had covered every ounce of pain she felt.

I was prepared.

I was looking forward to it.

Or so I thought.

Because as Logan’s fangs sank into my flesh, all I did was feel pain.

Excruciating pain.

And being ...