Aisling's fingers trembled violently, no matter how hard she tried to keep them steady. The sealing wax dripped with a lazy indifference onto the parchment, pale gold—not crimson, thank all the gods in every damn pantheon. Crimson would've made her scream.
She had found the wax stick buried in the back of her mother's writing desk, tucked away like a final mercy. It smelled faintly of lavender and time. A reminder that someone once used it to write love letters and recipes—not pleas for rescue.
Her handwriting was a disgrace. Not her usual graceful script but frantic, smeared in places where her hand shook too much to hold the quill right. The edges of the page curled where her sweat had soaked in.
But she didn't care.
This wasn't about beauty. It was about survival.
"Sorcha," she'd written, the name itself feeling like a balm on her raw mind.
"I need sanctuary. Kylian Hawkrige has returned. He's offered Father a bargain in blood. I can't do this. Please, please, let me come to you. Let me breathe."
She'd stared at the page for a full minute after the ink dried, just to make sure she hadn't accidentally summoned some ancient horror. Every word screamed desperation. But gods, it was real. All of it.
She wrapped the letter in oilcloth and tied it with fraying twine, her hands still trembling. Her nails dug crescents into her palms. She didn't even flinch.
At the crack of dawn, she found the stableboy. Sleep still clung to his lashes, his mouth cracked from the cold, and he blinked at her like he wasn't sure if she was real or a ghost.
"Take this to Braemar," she told him, voice flat from exhaustion. "Put it in the hands of the housekeeper at the McCleery estate. Only the housekeeper. If anyone else touches it—"
Her fingers clutched his wrist, hard enough to make him flinch.
"Tell no one. And gods help you if it's intercepted."
He nodded, wide-eyed, clutching the oilcloth like it was sacred. "I swear on my mother, miss."
She gave him the coins. More than he probably made in a week. Enough to keep him honest.
And then he rode off, hooves cracking through frost and silence, leaving only cold air and hope in his wake.
For the first time in days, her lungs didn't feel like they were stitched shut. She leaned against the post and let herself exhale.
It's done. It's sent. I'll be safe. She'll understand. Sorcha always understands.
Maybe, just maybe, she'd wake up tomorrow and find this had all been a bad dream.
But morning didn't bring salvation.
It brought the letter.
The same one.
Same parchment. Same wax seal—still pale gold, still lavender-scented. Still hers. But the edges were too crisp. As if someone had only just sealed it.
Aisling's breath hitched.
"No," she whispered, already reaching for it, already knowing.
She tore the seal open with shaking fingers, nearly ripping the paper in half. Her eyes devoured the lines.
It wasn't her letter anymore.
The ink was darker now. Thick. Slick. It glistened faintly in the light. And it smelled—
She gagged. It wasn't ink.
The handwriting was cruelly elegant, every curve of the letters too perfect. Too sharp. Like something written not with a pen, but with a claw.
There is no running from destiny.
That was all it said.
No greeting. No signature needed.
Except at the bottom—there it was.
Kylian Hawkrige.
Written in that same unnatural hand. As if he'd carved it into her skin instead of paper.
Her throat closed up. The letter slipped from her fingers as if it had scorched her.
And maybe it had. Her fingertips still tingled.
She stared at it on the floor like it might open its eyes and hiss at her.
"What the bloody hell," she breathed.
The words were a whisper, hoarse and hollow. She took a step back, then another.
The parchment looked too alive.
She bent, booted foot trembling, and kicked it beneath the bed.
Out of sight.
Not out of mind.
---
Dinner was lamb stew and silence.
The kind of silence that weighed. Heavy. Suffocating.
Aisling could barely hear the clink of her spoon in the bowl over the sound of her own heartbeat. Her appetite had evaporated the moment she'd stepped into the dining room and seen her father already seated at the head, eyes glued to his untouched food like it had personally betrayed him.
She sat opposite Liam, who poked at his stew like it was a ticking curse waiting to explode. His skin looked worse than yesterday—paler, almost translucent under the chandelier's golden glow. Waxen.
She wanted to ask if he was alright. Wanted to say something. Anything. But her voice felt caught in her throat, a splinter refusing to budge.
Her father hadn't even looked at her.
Coward.
They were all cowards. Pretending the house wasn't cursed. Pretending a vampire hadn't walked in and torn their world apart.
Then—
Bootsteps.
Not the scuffed, shuffling kind of old Mr. Worthen, their ancient butler who walked like he was allergic to urgency.
No.
This was sharp. Deliberate. Predatory.
Her skin prickled. Every hair on the back of her neck stood up in warning. A sound so refined and threatening it could only belong to one man—
Him.
Kylian Hawkrige entered the dining room like a winter wind that had grown bored of knocking and decided to carve its own way in.
Tall. Impossibly still.
He wore black again. Of course he did. Velvet, tailored so precisely it looked like a second skin. Silver embroidery glinted subtly along the hem and cuffs, spider silk kissed by candlelight. His long hair was pulled into a tight, elegant bun—though a single rebellious strand curled by his temple like it had plans of its own.
And his eyes—
Frozen lightning. Icy and electric and far too knowing.
They locked with hers.
Aisling's stomach twisted. Her fingers trembled.
Her spoon slipped.
It clattered loudly against her plate, spraying broth. No one moved to pick it up. Not even Leo.
Not even her.
Because Kylian didn't just walk into a room. He conquered it. With silence. With stillness. With that haunting, terrifying air of someone who had lived long enough to find mortality boring.
He didn't greet anyone. Didn't wait to be seated.
He simply existed.
Like gravity.
"I see I'm just in time," he said, voice a low hum that curled at the edges. "I do hate eating alone."
His lips curled slightly—not a smile. A suggestion. A threat with good posture.
Aisling's stew turned cold.
No—worse. It spoiled.
She could swear it. The scent twisted in her nose, rich lamb turning iron-slick and wrong. The steam rising from her bowl no longer looked like mist. It curled dark, smoky—like it had been exhaled from something dead. Even the bread beside her sagged like it had given up on life.
Her father cleared his throat. Nervous. Attempting diplomacy.
"Kylian—"
"Baron Hawkrige," she cut in sharply. "We don't dine with the devil so informally."
A flicker of amusement curved his mouth. It was cold. It didn't even pretend to touch his eyes.
"Oh, little witchling," he murmured, voice dipped in silk and poison, "you wound me."
"Not yet," she muttered, just loud enough.
His brows arched—an artist admiring the bold brushstrokes of a flame that didn't know how close it was to being extinguished.
"Do you plan to?"
"If it gets you out of my house."
Gods, what was wrong with her mouth? Why couldn't she stop talking when she should? She knew she was being reckless. But the air was too tight around him. Her skin felt too small. She couldn't just sit there and pretend she wasn't terrified.
He sighed, dramatic and drawn out, as if she were the one being unreasonable.
"A shame," he said, pulling out a chair like he owned it—and probably did. He sat down without asking. Of course. "I was hoping we could be civil. Your future husband should, at the very least, be able to enjoy a cordial dinner with his bride-to-be."
What.
Her jaw snapped shut so fast she nearly bit her own tongue.
Her father's fork trembled slightly in his hand. But he said nothing. Nothing.
Coward.
Liam kept poking at his food like he wanted to disappear into it.
"I haven't agreed," she hissed, eyes burning.
Kylian tilted his head slightly. "Not yet."
There it was again. That quiet certainty. Like time had already bent to his will and she just hadn't caught up.
He picked up a spoon.
Lifted a portion of stew.
The meat blackened in mid-air. Withered like rot blooming in fast forward.
He set the spoon down gently.
"Pity," he said, fingers still gloved, as if he didn't want to soil himself by touching the world bare. "I rather liked lamb."
Her father finally found his voice.
"Aisling. Enough. Show some respect."
She turned her head slowly. Stared at him.
"Respect?" she asked, her voice cracking, all sugar gone. "For what? The parasite draining our family dry, or the one serving him wine like it's all perfectly fine?"
Her father's face darkened.
"That's enough. Go to your room."
Aisling stood up so quickly her chair screeched against the floor.
She didn't scream.
Didn't throw anything.
Didn't cry.
But her emerald eyes burned as she stormed out, leaving behind her untouched food and the three most useless men she had ever known.
Her bare feet echoed down the corridor as she moved blindly, heart pounding, blood singing with fury.
She didn't care where she went.
Anywhere but there.
The first door she saw—she flung it open without thinking.
Her father's study.
Dark wood, stale books, and the scent of old secrets.
She stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Chest heaving. Hands shaking.
"Gods—"
And then she froze.
He was there.
Standing in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back.
Like he'd been waiting.
Like he had been there the whole time.
Or worse—he'd followed her and appeared before she did.
She blinked.
"W-What—how did—"
Kylian smiled, the kind of smile shadows might wear before they swallow a flame.
"Did you think you could run from me, Aisling?"
She swallowed hard. The air suddenly tasted like iron and something darker.
His boots made no sound on the thick rug as he moved toward her. One step. Two.
Predator. That's what he was. And he knew it.
"I didn't run," she said stiffly, chin tilting. "I stormed."
"Semantics," he replied, voice dry as bone dust. "But noted."
Aisling's emerald eyes flared with fury. "You're insufferable."
"And you're enchanting when you're angry," he said, as if stating the weather.
She hated the way her cheeks burned. Hated that he saw it.
He took another step.
Close enough now that she could smell him—something cold, old, and darkly sweet. Like blood and roses left out in snow.
Her fists tightened. "Do you enjoy toying with people?" she demanded, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Is this all just entertainment for you? Are we just some little game to pass the centuries?"
"I offered your family salvation," he replied smoothly. "Your kind calls it bargaining. I call it generosity."
"Generosity?!" she spat. "You walked into my house, threatened my freedom, and declared yourself my future husband like this is some kind of twisted fairytale!"
His gaze flicked over her face, unbothered by her rage. If anything, he seemed amused.
"I'm merely following tradition. Witches used to understand the value of strategic marriages. I thought your house would remember its roots."
Her voice cracked with bitter laughter. "Roots? You mean the part where we bled for your kind in exchange for power?"
His expression remained unreadable. "There are worse trades."
Her hands shook at her sides.
"You're threatening my life."
"No," he said, stepping even closer. "I'm threatening your brother's."
The room tilted.
"What?"
Kylian's blue eyes went sharp, blade-bright. "If you do not accept the contract, I will collect Liam in your stead."
Her heart stopped.
"I have no preference," he said, gaze unwavering. "Only blood seals the bond."
"You wouldn't—"
He stepped into her space, fast. Too fast. One blink and he was there, looming over her with the terrible stillness only something inhuman could carry.
"You think I wouldn't take what I'm owed?" he said, voice low and cold. "That's sweet. And foolish. But mostly foolish."
Crack.
Her hand moved on instinct.
The sound of the slap echoed off the study walls like thunder breaking through still water.
Kylian's head turned slightly with the blow. A slow breath slid from her lips.
And then—
He looked back at her.
Eyes glowing.
Red.
Not wine-dark. Not rusted or poetic.
Burning.
And suddenly the fire was out.
The temperature plummeted.
The shadows behind him twisted like smoke given fangs. And in the mirror above her father's desk—
She saw herself.
Only it wasn't her.
Red hair, yes. But pinned back in a vintage style. Lips stained the color of dried blood. Her reflection wore a gown darker than midnight.
And the eyes…
The eyes were not hers.
Those were Serena's.
The woman who'd died. The wife who wasn't her. And yet—
The mirror flickered.
Gone.
She gasped.
Stumbled back.
Kylian didn't follow. Not physically.
But his gaze didn't waver. It pierced.
"You're remembering her," he said softly.
Not triumphant.
Not cruel.
Just… certain.
Her lungs refused to work right.
"I'm not her," Aisling choked out.
His expression was unreadable. Carved from stone and secrets.
"You will be."
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Her legs moved without her permission.
She fled.
Fled through the door, heart in her throat, fury on her tongue, fear snapping at her heels like hounds loosed from hell.
Behind her, his laughter followed.
Low. Cold.
Like a clock chime at midnight, echoing the beginning of something she didn't have a name for yet.