THE BOUQUET THAT BIT BACK
THE BOUQUET THAT BIT BACK
Sera Vale had arranged flowers for monsters before she ever met one.
That was the lie she told herself as she carried the blood-red bouquet into the ballroom of Nocturne House, where every chandelier was made from antlers and every guest had signed a waiver promising not to eat the talent.
The invitation called it Monster Match: one televised night, twelve immortal bachelors, one human florist, and a prize large enough to keep Sera’s mother in care for another year. The producers called it romance. Sera called it rent.
“Smile like you’re not calculating your exit,” whispered her best friend, Jo, through an earpiece.
“I’m calculating three exits.”
“Make the fourth one a kiss.”
Sera stepped onto the red carpet. The cameras drank her in. Beyond the velvet ropes, the contestants waited in a row of tailored black suits and impossible beauty: a moon-wolf with silver at his throat, a fallen angel with a broken halo, a sea king wearing pearls like teeth.
Then she saw Lucien Graves.
He stood apart from the others, one hand resting on the back of an empty chair. He looked human until the light found his eyes. Then the pupils opened too wide, swallowing the blue of his irises.
The host laughed. “Lucien is our mysterious one. He has declined to reveal his species.”
“Maybe he’s boring,” Sera said.
Lucien’s mouth curved. “Maybe I’m hungry.”
The cameras leaned closer.
Sera should have looked away. Instead she walked to him and held out the bouquet. “Roses?” he asked.
“Night orchids. Roses are predictable.”
“I dislike predictable women.”
“I dislike men who mistake appetite for personality.”
Something hot moved behind his expression. Not anger. Interest.
The host announced the first challenge: each contestant had to choose a flower and tell the human what it meant. Lucien selected the darkest bloom in Sera’s arrangement, a black orchid with a crimson throat.
“Obsession,” he said.
“Wrong.”
“Then correct me.”
“Survival.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You’re good at both.”
A laugh rose from the audience. Sera felt the compliment like a hand sliding under silk.
She leaned closer. “You’re not allowed to flirt with the talent before the first commercial.”
“Who said I was flirting?”
“Your pulse.”
The lie died between them. Lucien had no pulse.
Before Sera could step back, the bouquet shuddered in her hands. Every flower opened at once. A thin line of red light crawled across her palm, forming a symbol like a crown with a missing tooth.
The studio lights went out.
Somewhere in the dark, something ancient inhaled.
Lucien caught Sera by the waist—not trapping her, holding her steady—and asked, “May I touch you?”
The question was so gentle it frightened her more than his teeth would have.
“Yes.”
His hand tightened. The mark on her palm flared.
Every monster in the ballroom dropped to one knee.
The host’s voice cracked over the emergency speakers. “That’s impossible.”
Lucien looked at the symbol, then at Sera, and all the hunger vanished from his face.
“You’re not the contestant,” he whispered. “You’re the heir.”
A door behind the stage slammed open.
The cameras came back on by themselves, broadcasting a message in white letters across every screen:
THE BLOOD MOON HAS CHOSEN ITS QUEEN.
Then the audience began to scream.
