The city papers screamed the news at dawn. BARON HAWKRIGE TO WED! The words, stark and ugly, clawed at her. They were printed beneath crude drawings of fangs and wild, red hair. Her engagement. Made public at midnight, just as Kylian's chilling letter had promised.
Aisling crumpled the paper, the cheap ink smudging her palm. A raw fury burned in her veins. Why this haste? Why today? She had signed his damned contract; wasn't that enough? He didn't need to parade her around like some prize animal for the whole world to see.
Not a single word to her. No discussion, no planning. Just an announcement and a command. As if she were a doll, to be placed exactly where he wanted her.
Then the box arrived. It was black, polished wood, stamped with that infuriating crimson seal. Inside lay the dress. Silk and velvet, heavy and suffocating. It was sewn with gems the color of blood. Scarlet. Like Kylian's eyes in the study. Like the bathtub in her nightmares. Like the contract, sealed in blood. She hated it with a fierce, burning passion.
It clung to her, a silent declaration that her body already belonged to him. It was scandalous, made to draw every single eye. A brutal, visual claim. But she would wear it. She would put it on and face him, face them all, with her chin held high. A defiant flame in the creeping darkness.
Liam, looking much better but still frail, had wanted to come. "I should be there, Ash," he'd insisted, reaching for her hand. But Virelai, the healer, had gently but firmly stopped him. He wasn't strong enough.
Fionn, her father, had suddenly become very busy. He claimed he needed to watch the swarm of builders now crawling over Rutherford Manor. To make sure they didn't steal anything. Aisling knew the truth. There was nothing left to steal that Kylian hadn't already listed. Her father was a coward, hiding from the world. Hiding from the consequences of his debts. Consequences personified by her forced marriage. She hadn't even asked him to come.
So, she went alone.
The carriage waiting outside was a sleek, black monster. Silver gleamed dully in the twilight. The horses, two huge black beasts, snorted and pawed the ground. Their eyes flashed red, like something from a nightmare. It was built to announce the arrival of someone important. Someone taken.
The journey was a blur of simmering fury and cold dread. When the carriage stopped, she stepped out into a scene of unbelievable excess. Torches blazed, flags snapped in the chill air. Servants she didn't know bowed low. They treated her like a queen. She was led towards a grand building she'd never seen, surrounded by strangers.
The carriage door opened. "Lady Aisling Rutherford," a calm voice greeted her. Cedric Mornell. Kylian's advisor. He stood waiting, silver-grey hair neat, dark eyes holding that knowing, unsettling glint. "A pleasure to see you again. Welcome to Hawkrige Manor."
He offered his arm. His touch was cool and dry. Aisling took it, her arm stiff. The air here felt different. Colder, older. It smelled of stone, ancient power, and something else… something wild and dangerous. The huge double doors of the manor opened silently.
"Allow me the honor," Cedric murmured, leading her inside. The hall was immense, echoing. Chandeliers dripped with light, showing dark tapestries on the walls. Scenes of violent hunts, grim faces from centuries past. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of eyes turned towards her. A shiver went down her spine as applause rippled through the crowd.
"Presenting Lady Aisling Rutherford!" Cedric's voice boomed, clear and strong across the hall. "The future Lady Hawkrige!"
Another wave of applause, louder this time, mixed with whispers. She kept her chin high, ignoring the cold stares. The hushed words followed her like shadows. Cedric guided her through the people, their path clearing as if by magic. Her gaze swept over faces that seemed to glow with strange colors – red, gold, silver. These were Kylian's people. Creatures of the night.
Her eyes finally found him. Kylian Hawkrige. He stood at the foot of a wide staircase. His dark hair looked a little messy, not severe like usual. His jacket, tailored perfectly, looked both elegant and casually rebellious. His eyes, those sharp blue eyes, met hers. There was no cold claim in them now. Just a spark of wry amusement. He looked… maddeningly charming.
They reached him. Kylian held out a hand, a slightly crooked smile playing on his lips. "My lady," he said. His voice was a low murmur. "So glad you could grace us. Though, for a moment, I feared you'd found a less… public exit."
Aisling snatched her hand back the instant his cool fingers brushed hers. "And disappoint everyone? Never," she shot back, her voice tight. "Though I must praise you, Baron. You certainly know how to throw a party. Shame you forgot to invite the guest of honor to the planning."
Kylian chuckled, a low, rich sound that somehow made her shiver. "Ah, but where's the fun in that? Surprises, dear Aisling, are half the joy. Besides," he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you strike me as someone who appreciates a dramatic entrance."
Before she could retort, he straightened. His gaze softened just a little. "Your family," he began, looking out at the crowd. "Are they not joining us tonight?"
Aisling's jaw tightened. "Liam is recovering, as you well know. And my father… he has urgent business at Rutherford Manor. Renovations, you see. Very pressing." The lie tasted like ash.
Kylian's eyebrows lifted. There was a flicker of something real in his eyes. "Ah, yes, Liam. My apologies. My mind is a maze of trifles; sometimes a brother's near-death slips through a crack." He paused, then waved a hand. "No matter. You have us now."
A booming voice cut through the air. "Kylian! Don't be rude. Introduce the girl properly!"
Aisling looked up. Grandfather Draven Hawkrige was coming down the stairs. Silver-haired, sharp-eyed. A vampire whose presence felt like freezing air. He looked old, but his eyes held centuries of watching. Kylian sighed, a sound of mock tiredness.
"Aisling, this is my esteemed grandfather, Lord Draven Hawkrige. Draven, this is Lady Aisling Rutherford."
Draven's eyes fixed on her with cold amusement. "So this is the one who finally settles my stubborn grandson," he rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Remarkable. We had our doubts Kylian would ever want less than total chaos." He turned his piercing gaze back to her. "Tell me, child, how is your family? Your brother, Liam, I hear he had a brush with… misfortune?"
Aisling stiffened. "He's recovering, Lord Draven. Slowly."
"Indeed." Draven's eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. "A pity. The Hawkrige doctors are quite skilled. Perhaps a change of air, a more… vigorous recovery plan? We could send our best to help him."
"That is very kind, Lord Draven, but our healers are excellent. I appreciate the offer, though." Aisling forced a polite smile, trying to keep her voice steady. His offer felt like a threat hidden in velvet.
A sharp, brittle laugh echoed nearby. "Such a quaint refusal, Lord Draven!" Lady Illyra Hawkrige, Kylian's aunt, appeared beside Malric. Her black hair was perfect, her red lips curved in a cruel smile. "One simply doesn't say no to a Hawkrige's kindness, dear. Especially when one's family money is… shall we say, rather thin?" Her eyes, unblinking, scanned Aisling from head to toe, dismissing her. "One assumes the contract was quite… binding."
Before Aisling could snap back, Lord Malric Hawkrige, Kylian's father, stepped forward. He had a charming, wolf-like grin on his timeless face. "Illyra, my love, must you always darken such a bright occasion?" He turned his gaze to Aisling, his eyes gleaming with practiced charm. "My dear Lady Aisling, you are a vision. Truly, a flower in this rather old, dusty house. Kylian always did have an eye for beauty." He took her hand, raising it to his lips. His touch was cool and stayed a moment too long.
Then, Lady Celene Hawkrige, Kylian's mother, emerged from behind Malric. She was pale, with soft blonde hair, and her sad eyes held a surprising gentleness. "Malric, leave the poor girl be," she said softly. Her eyes found Aisling's with warmth. "Oh, my dear! You are even prettier than Kylian said!" She reached out, taking Aisling's other hand. "Finally! A daughter-in-law I can spoil! Zharayah hates it, you see, when I try to fuss over her. She's far too… independent."
Illyra scoffed. "Spoil her, Celene? A witch? And one whose family has brought shame upon their name? Hawkrige doesn't mix with witches. It always ends in ruin." Her voice was sharp with hate. "And her family's standing… lowest of the low, buried in debt. What is Kylian thinking?"
Celene's gentle look hardened. "Illyra, my dear, Aisling is going to be my daughter-in-law. Not yours. If you were so worried about Kylian's future, perhaps you should have had a son yourself."
Illyra's eyes widened, a flash of raw pain crossing her face before she masked it. This was clearly a raw wound. Malric stepped forward, his wolfish grin gone. "Celene! Enough! To stoop so low, to insult her in front of everyone, about such a painful subject—"
"Painful?" Celene snapped back, her voice rising. "She is insulting my son's chosen bride, and by extension, me! I don't need her permission to welcome my daughter-in-law, no matter her family's debts, and she had no right to insult me like that!"
"My Lords, Ladies," Cedric cut in smoothly, stepping between the two women. His usual calm showed a hint of strain. "Perhaps we could put this… lively discussion aside for a more private time? Our guests are watching closely, and we wouldn't want to give them more to gossip about than necessary. After all, Lord Kylian and Lady Aisling haven't even exchanged rings yet." His dry tone cut through the tension like a knife.
Kylian chuckled. "Indeed, Cedric makes a valid point. As always." He put an arm loosely around Aisling's waist, pulling her closer. His touch sent a confusing jolt through her. "Come, Aisling. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my… charming relatives."
He led her towards a tall, dark-haired man whose silver eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. "And this, Aisling, is my brother, Valaric Draevyn Hawkrige. Valaric, meet Aisling, my soon-to-be wife."
Valaric's lips curved into a mocking smile. "So, brother, you finally gave in to hearth and home? And with such a spirited beauty, no less. Tell me, Kylian," he lightly poked Kylian's chest, "how many women must you break before one finally breaks you?"
Kylian rolled his eyes. "Valaric, darling, you need new material. Your collection of veiled insults is getting tragically dull."
A woman with wild, dark curls and golden, wolf-like eyes stepped from behind Valaric. A scar marked her collarbone. Zharayah. Her eyes, sharp and judging, fixed on Aisling. "So this is the witchblood you've chosen, Kylian. She seems rather… breakable for a Hawkrige." She took a step closer, her voice a low growl. "Can you really survive in this den of vipers, little human?"
Aisling's short temper, already on edge, ignited. "Breakable?" she scoffed, meeting Zharayah's intense stare head-on. "Perhaps I simply don't feel the need to show my teeth to every newcomer. Though I assure you, Lady Zharayah, if provoked, I bite."
Zharayah's eyes widened slightly, then a genuine, though still predatory, smile touched her lips. "Oh? Good. I admire a woman who can stand her ground." She held out a hand, her grip strong. "Welcome to the family, Aisling. You'll need a thick skin, but you might just make it."
"Thank you," Aisling said, a flicker of surprise in her own eyes. Zharayah's honesty was jarring in this place.
Cedric, seeing the moment of calm, cleared his throat. "Now, if everyone would gather. It is time for the formal engagement." He walked to a small, decorated table where an open velvet box held two shining rings.
The vast hall fell silent. All eyes were on Kylian and Aisling. Cedric picked up one ring—a dark, intricate silver band with a deep blue stone. "Lady Aisling," he announced, "will you accept this promise of Lord Hawkrige's intention?"
Kylian took the ring from Cedric, his eyes sparkling as he looked at Aisling. He took her hand, his fingers cool and firm around hers. "Aisling," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "Ready to turn me into an honest man?"
Aisling glared at him, but held out her finger. "Don't expect miracles, Hawkrige," she muttered.
He slid the ring onto her finger. The cool metal felt strange against her skin. It fit perfectly. "It suits you," he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.
Cedric then presented the second ring, a simpler but still elegant silver band. "Lord Hawkrige, will you accept Lady Aisling's pledge?"
Aisling snatched the ring. "Kylian," she said, her voice tight. "Don't think this changes anything." She slid the ring onto his finger, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare.
A scattering of polite applause broke the silence, quickly growing louder. Then, a chant began. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Kylian raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk spreading across his face. "They're rather insistent, aren't they?" He looked at Aisling. "Normally, I'd save this moment for the wedding. Builds excitement, you know. But the crowd has spoken." He leaned in, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Just try not to bite my lips off, witchling. It'll ruin the dramatic effect."
Aisling, fueled by anger and a strange, reckless impulse, did exactly that. As his cool, firm lips met hers, she clenched her jaw and bit down. Not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to make him flinch.
Kylian pulled back, looking surprised but still amused. "Feisty," he chuckled, dabbing a finger to his mouth. "I knew it. But maybe less literal next time?"
Aisling's cheeks burned, a mix of fury and a weird sense of victory. The room erupted in laughter and low, dangerous murmurs. Valaric clapped, looking pleased. Celene smiled, her soft eyes knowing. Illyra looked horrified. Draven simply watched, something unreadable in his ancient gaze. Malric chuckled, clearly enjoying the show.
Then, from the crowd, a woman emerged, moving like flowing water. Her hair was white as pearls, spilling around her face, framing sea-green eyes that locked onto Kylian with a possessive glare. Vaelora.
She glided towards them, her voice like crashing waves. "Kylian, my darling. You truly are a master of performance. But love," she said, reaching for his arm, her eyes flicking to Aisling with a sweet, fake innocence, "must you make such a display? You know how I dislike sharing."
Kylian's smile stayed in place, but a subtle tightening around his eyes gave him away. He gently removed her hand from his arm, holding it in his own. "Vaelora," he said, his voice smooth but with an edge of ice, "always a pleasure. But we're in the grand hall, my dear. Not my private rooms. There's a time and a place for… certain affections." He squeezed her hand lightly, a warning in his touch. "Tonight is about my fiancée."
Vaelora pouted. Her green eyes narrowed at Aisling for a fleeting second before she smoothed her expression. "Of course, darling. My apologies. The excitement simply overwhelmed me." She offered Aisling a thin, sickly sweet smile. "Congratulations, Lady Aisling. May your marriage be… illuminating." Her voice dripped with hidden meaning, making Aisling's skin crawl. She wasn't just jealous; she was promising trouble.