I stared at my palms. The skin was blistered, angry red, already weeping. I started to laugh.

It was a raw, broken sound in the tense silence.

Marcus froze. “Why are you laughing?” he demanded, a thread of unease in his voice.

I was laughing at the colossal, tragic joke of my own life. For years, I had contorted myself, swallowed insults, borne injustices, all to preserve the shallow, conditional affection of my parents and this man.

And for what?

Every time Liana performed her fragile maiden act, they believed her. Without question. Blood relations and childhood promises meant nothing against her practiced tears.

I was the villain in their story. The envious sister. The obstacle.

I clenched my fists, the fresh burns screaming in protest, the pain a sharp, clarifying focus. I looked up at Marcus, my eyes dry and hot.

“No,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “I will not apologize. I have done nothing wrong.”

His jaw went slack. My defiance was a language he no longer understood.

“Marcus…” Liana’s sob was a masterpiece of frail misery. “My hand… it hurts so much…”

He turned to her instantly, his concern a physical thing. He gathered her close, murmuring comforts.

Then, absurdly, as if she might catch a chill in this room of horror, he ran outside to his carriage. He returned with a cloak—a luxurious, hooded cloak lined with silvery fur.

My breath hitched.

It was lined with pelt from a ice-wolf. A rare, magical creature. My magical creature. A companion I’d bonded with as a child. Liana had claimed it was vicious, that it threatened her. Marcus had demanded I prove my loyalty. He’d made me give the order for its execution.

I shared a mind-link with it. When it died, I nearly died as well.

And now its fur warmed the liar who orchestrated its death.

Liana saw where my gaze had fallen. A tiny, smug smile touched her lips as she snuggled into the fur, pressing herself against Marcus and whimpering about the pain.

Any shred of doubt in Marcus’s eyes vanished, burned away by protective rage.

He turned back to me, his expression glacial. “You are not welcome in my home, not a single step across my threshold, until you are on your knees begging Liana’s forgiveness. Let’s see how long that stubborn pride of yours lasts.”

I smiled then, a cold, thin thing. “You’ll be disappointed.”

I had two days. Two days until I became the bride of the vampire prince.

Suddenly, a thunderous crash and the scream of horses echoed from the street outside. Through the open door, I saw a carriage, its team spooked and wild, careening straight for the Registrar’s open doorway.

Marcus reacted with the preternatural speed of his bloodline—a diluted trace of lion-kin heritage. In a blur, he scooped Liana up and leaped clear across the room to safety.

And in his leap, his shoulder clipped me, knocking me off balance once more. I fell to the cobblestones outside, a sharp pain lancing through my ankle. The runaway carriage filled my vision, the panicked eyes of the driver, the crushing weight of the wheels.

I closed my eyes. This was it. An ignoble, accidental end.

But the impact never came.

Instead, I was swept up. The world spun, then stilled. The cacophony of the street faded to a distant roar.

I was cradled against a chest. A scent enveloped me—cold night air, aged wine, and a faint, sharp ozone, like the moment after lightning.

I opened my eyes.

I was looking into a face half-hidden by a black leather mask. But the eyes—green.

He had set me down on a stone bench across the wide avenue. The out-of-control carriage was now a tangled wreck far down the street.

Before I could speak, before I could even draw a full breath, he was gone. A shadow dissolving into the deeper shadows of an alleyway.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked down the street. Marcus was holding Liana, brushing dust from her cloak, his face etched with concern.

I felt in the pocket of my dress. My fingers closed around a small, cool vial I hadn’t put there. I pulled it out. A salve. The label, in elegant script, read: For Silver-Burn & Ember-Weal.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. I swallowed it.

I reached into my small bag. My fingers found the heavy, familiar weight of Marcus’s betrothal ring. I pulled it out, the gem dull in the afternoon light.

Without a second look, I drew back my arm and threw it. It sailed in a high, glittering arc before vanishing with a faint plink into the murky waters of the storm drain.

Two days later, I stood in my family’s foyer, the weight of the gown heavy on my shoulders. It was a masterpiece of black velvet and silver filigree, beautiful and severe.

The room was filled with wedding gifts from the Prince’s allies—caskets of aged blood-wine, chests of moon-forged chalices, ancient tapestries depicting scenes from the Long Night. A fortune in grim splendor.

My parents approached me, their steps hesitant. My mother wrung her hands.

“Elara,” my father began, his voice low. “About Liana’s… confession. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. A moment of youthful rivalry. To demand she humiliate herself at your wedding… it’s so harsh. Can’t you find it in your heart to be merciful? To be the bigger person?”

The last, fragile hope I’d clung to—that they might see me, just once, on this day—shattered into dust.

I had made excuses for them. For the empty seat where a dowry chest should be. For the lack of any familial blessing. I’d told myself they were distracted, forgetful.

But they remembered. They remembered to beg favors for their favorite.

“No,” I said, the word final as a slamming door. “The deal stands. If you break it, I will refuse to walk out that door. You can explain my absence to Prince Kaelan yourselves. I wonder how forgiving he is.”

Their faces flushed with impotent anger.

A commotion erupted from the front parlor. Boisterous, arrogant laughter. Marcus’s laughter.

I swept down the hall, the train of my gown whispering over the stones.

He was lounging in my father’s high-backed chair as if he owned the manor. In his hand, held loosely like a staff, was a slender branding iron. Not the vulgar one from the shop, but one bearing his own family’s wolf-head sigil.

“Ah, Elara! There you are,” he chuckled, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You have thirty minutes before the city ledger finalizes your match with some gutter-born sellsword. Here is my new offer. Bow to Liana, here, now. One thousand eight hundred times. If you complete it in time, I will generously grant you my servant’s mark. Despite your wretched behavior.”

He paused, his gaze finally taking in the black gown. His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “What is this morbid costume? Are you trying to steal attention from Liana on the very day she needs comfort?!”

I met his gaze, my own like flint. “I am being wed today. I don’t recall inviting you.”

“Hah!” He snorted, leaning forward. “Still playing the proud fool? Fine. You just wasted two minutes talking. That’s three thousand six hundred bows now. Decide. Or I will decide for you.”

He snapped his fingers.

Three of his burly retainers stepped forward from the shadows. Their intent was clear in their eyes—to strip the gown from me, to force me to my knees in front of everyone.

I stumbled back as hands reached for me. “Don’t you dare touch me! I am to be bound today—!”

They closed in with cruel grins, shoving me back. “And what’s to stop us? You’re about to become Marcus’s lowly blood-bound servant—ranked beneath us all. Keep your hands off your chest—what’s there to hide? Dressed like that, you’re asking to be looked at.”

As they pressed me back and Marcus opened his arms as if to receive me—suddenly, the entire hall dimmed into darkness.

Outside the windows, a swarm of blood-red bats flooded across the glass.

Color drained from every face in the room. No one dared to move.

“Go on then,” a voice drawled from the entrance of the parlor. “Lay a single finger on my wife. I dare you.”