Centuries ago, he’d killed her.
She hadn’t let it go. Skulking in the back during her book signing, he flipped through the hard copy whose glossy cover was a sensationalized rendition of his medieval portrait.
Many smear campaigns had been launched against him over time, but he wouldn’t abide one from her, regardless of whether she knew why she was so drawn to hate him.
In the parking lot afterwards, he malingered near her car. “What do you want?” She demanded.
“An honest review,” he replied, exposing her throat for the upcoming feast.
Centuries from now, would she write again?
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