Decisions

I can't decide which opening line I want to enter in the Samhain Contest. I haven't got much time left to decide. The first choice, and the one I'm leaning toward is from a story I'm working on called "Ember":

I know you think you've heard this story before, but you're wrong.

The second is from an untitled short story I started as an entry for Bam's "Create-a-Conflict" June contest:

In her butter-yellow silk gown, her brown eyes wide with wonder, Rosalind stood out from the black-clad sophisticates at the Vespertine Foundation's gala like a baby chick amidst a murder of hungry crows.

Actually, scratch that second one. Rosalind and her Prince of Lies were firmly trounced in the voting. It's probably best to start fresh.

R.I.P. Untitled. I'll resurrect you one of these days.

“Bastard!”

He caught her wrist before her palm connected with his stubbled cheek. His big hand squeezed her delicate bones while his finger pressed against the place where her pulse hammered hard beneath her skin.

“You called me a snake the night we met,” he growled.

She shivered at the memory of his wicked white smile by moonlight. She had called him the Prince of Lies and he’d laughed before he kissed her.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Did you think my scales would change to skin if you spread your legs for me?”

“I thought you loved me.”

His full lips stretched into a cruel smirk. “You’ve read too many fairytales, Rosalind. The beast doesn’t always turn into a prince when the beauty kisses him. Sometimes the beauty grows teeth and claws. Creatures like us don't love.”

“I’m not like you!” She lashed at him with her free hand, faster this time and with more force. Her nails scored a set of bloody scratches along his cheek.

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your claws are coming along quite nicely, my dear.”

She closed her eyes as he licked his blood from her fingertips.