I Could Have Danced All Night

Why would something so major in my past life be kept such a secret from me now? As I look upon the hollow eyes of Zion, my lip trembles, eyes beginning to water as I back away from the male who reaches out for me every time he looks to me. Reaching out for who though? The shell of the woman he fell for, the shell of a woman who was to have their child, or just for any comfort he can get from a simple physical tough? "Sybil," Zion begins, voice soft as he tries to help me relax, to perhaps try and explain more of the puzzle.

"It was my life, I deserve to remember more of it, to remember rather than read it," I argue, voice loud as I take the phone from Zion, looking back to my name across the screen. "I have every right to my memories." Pushing past Zion, I head indoors, Fiona's phone in my hands as I do not intend to return it, but rather try and think of who this Keva could be, perhaps someone who could help me remember exactly what I need to.

The dark hallway becomes familiar as I trace my steps back, pushing open the door to the room which held me since I was brought back to life. The light of the phone allows me to see faint outlines of the room, enough for me to find the light switch as the room is nothing but gray. The stone bed is a gray marble, the walls gray brick, the floor just cement, and resembling more of a prison than anything. Fiona wants me to convince Zion to reverse the curse, to fix what should have been the moment I woke up, but at the same time I want to take her out, I want her to not hold all the power of my life as I am back alive, willing to fight for whatever life could await me. To see if this life I have been brought back into offers me anything more than my last life did. It seems like my last life offered what many would think of a Cinderella Story, but one where Cinderella gets shot, dies, and has more of a backstory that what it looks like. Why was I made a rogue by my pack, what did Zion see in me, for nothing in these articles mentions that we were mates.

One tabloid article mentioned the name of a woman, the mate of Zion who left before the palace could adopt her as one of their own. Lillian Rice, a name (once read) holds a certain personality to it, as if elegance and youth. What ever happened to her? Something warns me off, a feeling in my gut that only points towards answers which will haunt me for asking the questions.

Sitting upon the stone slab, it makes me feel like some sacrifice from ancient times, to have my body laid across as a knife pierces through my chest, blood to drip down and stain the floor. The light of the phone illuminates my face, eyes scanning over the next article which shows a picture of me, a beautiful dress upon my small frame, looking completely and utterly head over heels at the man who stands beside me, holding my hand as a ring is placed upon my finger. The night Zion and I got engaged, someone snapping a picture as the press reported on the event, praising the King for picking a female with no title, not his mate, a completely nontraditional bride. These articles are nothing but something I would expect some teenager to read who is obsessed with the lives of others in the public eye. I am not keen on how much the media reported on me, reporting every event that they can, but I know they are missing what occurred within the walls of the palace, for they all do.

Briefly I give up, looking up from the screen as I take in a deep breath, trying to relax myself as I think back to what Fiona told me, of what she could do to me. Would I mind my soul being put back where it came from? I honestly do not know, for I cannot remember the afterlife, but when I think to it, it feels calming and inviting. But life has its ways of making you fight for that survival, wanting to stay alive and see the sunrise in the morning. I want to stay alive, not be sent not just back into the afterlife, but the afterlife her coven is cursed to endure.

Scrolling to the next page of results, I add another adjective to the search bar, watching as new articles pull up with names that give my own name a negative connotation. Taking in a deep breath, I open the link, curious and scared as to what I might find as my picture is pulled up. I sit at a bar, in some sketchy location talking to some woman. The Fiance of King Zion found herself within the walls of a rogue location just last week. While many praise her for being a rogue, someone to bring more equality between rogues and those who belong to a civil pack, many question whether the Alpha King will marry her because of who she is, or what she is identified as. I stop reading. Could Zion have used me as political gain, to push some agenda, to gain more approval within another denomination of the werewolf race as rogues have never been considered of importance.

But who is this woman whose name I cannot seem to shake off? Keva, a name so rare-sounding I would have expected to find her by now. All I have are fragments of some past life I cannot even accept was my own because of how much I cannot remember it. Rather than search for another article, I get to my feet, locking the phone as I head out the room and take a left. If I am to live here for however long, I may as well know this place.

Before my legs begin to feel week, I have found myself up two flights of stairs which wrap around a cylindrical stairwell, brick walls as tall and narrow windows are covered by thick, purple curtains. The third floor holds a narrow hallway like the first floor, leading down a small ways and towards an opening where a light shines through, The wood creaks underneath me as I walk across the floor, the fabric of my dress itching my back, irritating me as I reach up to scratch the area. Just as I reach the room filled with light, a small glance of a wall covered in books, different animal bones, and a orb within the middle of the room shooting off what looks like lightening, it all intrigues me. The moment I step forward, a strong hand wraps around my own hand I have scratching my back, jerking me back as it turns me around, right into the arms of someone who owes me so many questions.

"Do not wander around a house built for witches," Zion snaps, his hold tight as he holds me close, eyes intensely looking into my own. "I swore to myself that if I ever got you back, no harm would ever come of you." He should know about what Fiona said, but I would rather not go and tell of her plans to Zion when she could be listening and send me back to the world of the dead with a snap of her fingers. "The world owes so much to you."

"Lift the curse on these people," I push forward, trying to see how much convincing he may need if this blunt technique will not work. "You brought me back to life, that was the dead, I know I am a woman who believes in being true to your word." Zion lets my hand go from his tight hold, rather interlocking his fingers with mine as he kisses the back of my hand gently. "Fiona did so much to bring me back, you must pay up your end of the bargain."

With a smile glance, Zion tells me all I need to know. "What she did to get you back to me was not enough."

"I am here, in front of you, breathing, talking, existing, and you say that this is not enough!"

A hand is placed on my chest, right above the swell of the breasts, palm pressed flat as Zion's face holds a soft frown. "Yet your heart does not beat in your chest."

His words feel like daggers. "Is it not enough to just see me again, to hold me, to touch me, to talk to me?" The silence only adds to the pain I feel. Taking his hand, I move it to my lips, brushing my lips across his skin, I know he can feel the warmth of my lips. "Or am I only a shell?"

Dropping his hand, I think back to Fiona, to what her threat included, of what could happen to me. "I am underwater here, Zion, drowning in a sea that has pulled me out of the shallow end, into a depth where the monsters are all around me. I am drowning, unable to breath, trying to adjust, to survive, but every time you push me away by denying that I am actually back, it only allows me to lose sight of something to hold onto."

Zion's hand cups my cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw as I swallow the lump in my throat. My own hand reaches up to hold his, I allow my eyes to shut. As his fingers move higher, they settle right where the bullet hit me, tracing around the location of the fatal wound as I softly open my eyes to see the eyes of Zion water. "I have missed the warmth of your embrace for two years, the warmth of your smile, your laugh, your every little thing you did down to the tiniest detail. The day I proposed to you, I felt like nothing else mattered anymore. I wanted you to be the best part of my morning and nights, and when I was to leave this cold world, for you to be by my side as we would eventually become stars up on the sky. Every moment I felt your skin on mine, I never wanted to let you go, for me to hold onto you forever and never let anything harm you."

He cries, arms wrapping around me as he pulls me into his warmth, strong arms around me as his tears wet my shoulder. "And I failed you, Sybil," he chokes, only holding tighter as my arms envelop him. "I was there, the gun pointed at me, ready to die as Nixon was set on killing me. I believed you were safe, you and our future child, out of the palace. You came into the room, looking so scared and so strong, placing yourself in the line of fire. I told you I would protect you, but Nixon gave no warning, for her pulled that trigger and I watched a strong woman become fragile." He feels guilty, why wouldn't he. "I held you in my arms as you were gone, no pain, no last moments of pain or the fact that a bullet would kill you."

A sob fills the rooms, Zion taking in a shaky breath. "A year after we got married, I asked myself if life was worth living. I tried to find something to take my mind off of the guilt, but the drinks were not enough and I found myself at the tallest tower in the palace I resided in those months, I asked myself if life was worth living without you, worth living with all that guilt."

"And so you decided to bring me back," I piece together, running my hands through Zion's locks of hair. "You searched for a witch both powerful enough and willing to do something many believe to be impossible."

"Death may have taken you from me, but you are not his. I marked you, I married you, I loved you, and I was to be a parent with you, we were to live our lives together. You belonged to me and I to you, we still do, we still belong to one another. Death does not have the rights to our souls until fate cuts our string." But my soul also belongs to Fiona.

Pulling away, Zion keeps a hand softly holding my cheek, gazing into my eyes as I know what he is about to do and how I will react. Lips, soft and warm, placed upon mine as I grab onto his shoulders, one arm behind his neck as I keep Zion close as he pulls me closer, hand on my waist as it is a kiss of both passion and need. My back meets a wall and I wonder what I have allowed myself to do in these moments of weakness, head spinning with answers of where this will take us as I think back to Fiona, to her words. But rather than worry further, I hold Zion closer, eyes shut tight as I feel like I am dancing. A dance of both a fast pace, passion, aggression, and softness which would cause anyone to become starstruck by the view.

"Stardust helped to bring you back to me," Zion whispers as we briefly pull away for air. "It was part of the spell for Fiona to cheat Death, a small amount of stardust that shined lilac in the darkness. Beautiful, just like you." I do not leave room for words, pulling Zion back in for another kiss which makes it feel like time has stopped.