To call Michelle’s family dysfunctional would have been an understatement. She had been robbed of a proper childhood and instead endured years of mental harassment, emotional manipulation, and physical abuse.

Although therapy helped to plant her feet in relative normalcy, she swore she would never have children, but fate had other plans. She married a man too much like her father which would have been her undoing but when she became pregnant, he vanished and she praised his cowardice.

Being a single parent on a minimum wage salary was no mean feat but after giving birth to Lola, Michelle had the opportunity to experience the carefree play denied to her in her youth. If she had a single regret, it was that her daughter was growing up much too quickly which meant her current playtime was running out.

When Lola left for college with her childhood sweetheart, Michelle occupied herself as best she could, ignoring all the empty spaces in her home and began the process of counting the days until the arrival of grandchildren and the subsequent future playdays.

Marcous held a single red rose in his hand. It was his duty to bestow the flower to the one who would share his throne. Before him stood eighteen suitors from neighboring lands, all royalty to a greater or lesser degree. The women varied in stature, weight, and coloring but were equally beautiful, except for one. Sanaia.

She was old, not just older than the rest of her rivals but old enough to have been his wet nurse. Her skin was not unlike parchment and her silver-streaked hair was an upswept hive held in place by a weave of ribbons. She was draped in a fabric of unknown origin, which caught the light from unseen sources, that tapered at the waist before cascading in layers to the floor over her full hips.

Unprompted, Sanaia said, “I can tell by your gaze that I am not what you dreamed of when envisioning a suitable mate.” Her husky voice rumbled like a storm and reverberating through his bones.

“It was not my intent to offend,” Marcous said, staring into Sanaia’s eyes which were so dark a shade of brown that they appeared to be black.

“I take no offense, Good Prince, at least not by your expression.”

“Your meaning eludes me.”

“The umbrage you detect is not meant for you,” she said, stepping from the gaggle of frustrated princesses. “But for he who sired you for the throne you hope to inhabit was stolen from me when my husband was unjustly slain.”

Marcous, his face twisted in insult and outrage, began to object but Sanaia flicked her hand, silencing him.

“You are young, life has been kind to you, but you will learn about sacrifice and I shall be your tutor,” she said. “I will be your queen, whether you consent or not, and should you take another as your bride, your reign will be fraught with peril. But I am not unreasonable, so I will give you time to decide. When you know what you want, send word by raven.”

“I am not some sneak thief preying on the defenseless from the shadows! I confront warriors and should I be defeated, my life is forfeit…but if I win—when I win—their fiery blood is my reward!”

India had her fair share of relationships, most of which were serious and lasted for a good long while and ended amicably, but there was only one true love in her life, one she cherished above all others and considered, whose bonds she considered eternal.

So, when she received the invitation to her high school reunion and learned her fantasy paramour Keith would be there, India went on a crash diet, bought the most stunning dress within her price range, and paid to have a professional makeover. She was determined to make Keith take notice and if the gods were on her side, rekindle the long ago spark that made her toes curl.

And her efforts were not in vain. Keith was floored by how beautiful she was after all these years. She, on the other hand, was more than a little disappointed that he had lost the epicene features of his youth. Gone were the long eyelashes, doe eyes, full lips and shoulder-length golden curls she secretly envied and loved so dearly.

When Polly returned from her interstellar expedition, she and her husband made up for lost sex and in a half-drowsy afterglow moment of pillow talk, she let slip the secret of the universe and lamented the loss of Bob, for now, she was required to kill him.

She is furious with me again for some perceived slight. This has been happening quite a bit lately. Because her temper has no gauge, she insults me, a barrage of verbal barbs that tear at my emotions and I should be fighting back, but I refuse. My response to her slurs sit stale on the back of my tongue, threatening to choke me. I could end this with one phrase but between victory and love, I choose love.