Damien Nevermore, The Vampire King
The return trip was a silent affair. Regret hung heavy in the air, a thick fog muffling any attempts at conversation. I dismounted the horse first, leading her by the reins as I guided her back to a slower trot. Isabella remained perched awkwardly on the mare's back, her body stiff with a tension that mirrored the awkward silence between us.
Hindsight, as they say, is a cruel mistress. This grand escape on horseback, this attempt to offer her a taste of freedom, had backfired spectacularly. The jolt of the gallop, the press of my body against hers – it had all been a colossal mistake.
Isabella. The image of her face, flushed and panicked, flashed in my mind. Shame burned in my throat, acrid and bitter. Even after assuring her the baby was fine, the
