Oleander

Caspien Deveraux was poison.

It took me years to realise that he hadn’t been born like that. He’d been cultivated and nurtured by a careful hand and a bitter heart.

When I first met him, he was a bud. One primed to bloom beautifully and deadly. One I should have torn out at the root.

I loathed him. I loved him. And until him, I hadn’t known just how completely those two things could exist at once.