The envelope hissed when Violet touched it.
Not a metaphorical hiss, either—an actual serpentine ssssssk, like it resented being touched by mortal hands. It curled slightly on the edges, smoking faintly, and released a subtle aroma of brimstone and artisanal bergamot. Violet narrowed her eyes and picked it up using her wand tongs—the same ones she used for hexed tax forms and morally compromised love potions.
The card inside was a rich blood-red vellum with gold ink that shimmered in an irritatingly smug font.
---
You are cordially invited to the Sacred Engagement Binding of Rhys Nox & Seraphina Duskwhisper
WHEN: Blood Moon Rising
WHERE: Hollowshade Graveyard (north gate entrance, BYOB—Bring Your Own Bones)
ATTIRE: Masquerade, Formal Enchanted
NO CURSING (unless tasteful)
---
Violet read it once. Then again. Then very slowly looked up, her face blank.
"Oh, absolutely not."
She dropped the invitation onto the kitchen counter like it was a used hex condom and walked away. Then came back and picked it up again, because some things deserved a more personal flavor of spite.
"Sacred engagement binding," she muttered, pouring herself a generous splash of chaos bitters into her coffee. "He couldn't just text me. No, no, Rhys has to summon me like a low-rent demon with social media access."
The invitation hissed again.
She hissed back.
The card politely flared into pink glitter and vanished.
---
Violet stared at the space where it had been. Then sighed. Then, quietly:
"I am absolutely going to that party."
---
Her familiar, a lazy three-legged cat named Fiasco, blinked one golden eye from atop the fridge.
"You said you were done with demon men," he said in a voice like smoke through velvet. "Your exact words were, 'If I even think about Rhys again, shove a hedgehog up my—'"
"Right," Violet cut him off, "but I didn't say I was done sabotaging them."
She flung open her cursed cabinet and grabbed a compact revenge kit: a pocket hex mirror, one heartbreak confetti bomb, and a perfume bottle labeled L'Infidèle (guaranteed to give the wearer an aura of recent betrayal).
Fiasco gave a long-suffering sigh. "You sure this isn't just... you being lonely again?"
Violet paused for a beat. Then tossed him a can of tuna and said, "Don't project your abandonment issues onto me, Fiasco. You left your litter."
---
By the time sunset hit, she was dressed in sleek black lace lined with protective glyphs, a mask shaped like a raven skull, and boots with secret compartments full of salt, sarcasm, and condoms. Just in case.
Not that she planned on using them.
She was done with bad decisions.
Totally.
Probably.
Maybe.
---
---
The Hollowshade Graveyard looked exactly how you'd expect a supernatural engagement party to look: cursed.
Floating lanterns flickered through fog that whispered dirty secrets. Skeleton waiters in crushed velvet waistcoats carried trays of demon-absorbing hors d'oeuvres. A harpist—undead, one arm—plucked out a hauntingly beautiful rendition of WAP on silver strings. It was all very tasteful, in that way only morally gray people with a lot of money could pull off.
Violet walked past the iron gates and muttered a minor glamor: nothing fancy, just something to make her cheekbones look sharper and her enemies feel vaguely insecure.
A floating eyeball scanned her at the entrance. It blinked once, then two glittery pink hearts appeared above her head. She flipped it off. It winked.
Inside, bodies swirled through moonlit smoke—fae in feathered masks, vampires with sequined fangs, a banshee dressed as a flapper who cried every time someone mentioned commitment. It was a mess. It was perfect.
Then Violet saw him.
Rhys.
Her ex.
Looking irritatingly edible in a white velvet tux like a slutty villain from a high-budget perfume ad. His horns gleamed. His smile was sharper than ever.
And worse—he saw her.
He raised a glass in her direction. Winked.
She smiled back. Then cast a micro-curse that would make his pants mildly itch for the next seven hours and turned away.
---
Across the party, Lucien Drake leaned against a weeping willow with mild contempt and a cup of cursed punch.
He wasn't entirely sure why he was here.
Okay, that was a lie. He knew exactly why.
A witch had cursed his libido 300 years ago. He hadn't been able to climax since the Renaissance without causing minor tectonic instability. And rumor said she'd be here tonight.
He hadn't expected to find her.
What he also hadn't expected?
The woman currently slow-dancing with a goblin who looked like a tax accountant.
She was short, fierce-eyed, all curves and curses, in a raven mask and heels sharp enough to commit a felony. She moved like she owned the place. Like she'd hex you for breathing wrong. Like she kept spare glitter in her bra.
Lucien took a sip of punch. And choked.
Not because it was cursed (it was)—but because the woman in black had just stuffed something into the goblin's coat pocket while giggling. The goblin burst into sneezes made of glitter. Everyone clapped.
Lucien blinked.
That... was not the witch he was looking for.
But suddenly, he really didn't care.
---
Violet returned to the bar for a refill of something unwise and carbonated. The bartender was a selkie with glowing tattoos and a bad attitude.
"You want the Aphrodisiac Elixir or the Horny Goat Spritz?" she asked.
"Whichever's more likely to make me text someone I shouldn't," Violet replied, leaning on the bar.
"Double Horny Goat. Got it."
She turned to scope the party and that's when she saw him.
Lean, dark-haired, tall in a way that shouldn't be legal. Leather jacket at a formal event. Jawline that could cut through grief. And a broody stillness like he'd been carved out of poetry and unresolved trauma.
Their eyes locked.
She raised a brow.
He raised one back.
She looked away first, but only because she needed both hands to flip him off properly.
---
Lucien approached with the slow caution of someone who'd been burned before. Not by love. Literally burned. He'd dated a fire elemental once.
"Nice mask," he said when he got close enough to be annoying.
"Thanks. It doubles as a murder weapon," Violet replied sweetly.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You don't look like you belong here."
"I don't. You do."
"Aw. Flatter me again and I'll hex your kneecaps."
Lucien tilted his head. "Is that flirting?"
"It's... pre-foreplay threatening."
"I'll take it."
They stared at each other. Tension thick as magical fog. A nearby fairy coughed loudly and whispered, "Get a crypt, you two."
---
Before Violet could come up with a retort involving his face and a brick wall, the party's prank magic activated. Random dares began appearing in the air like enchanted fortune cookies.
The floating text over Violet's head lit up:
DARE: Kiss a stranger under the Blood Moon altar.
She squinted. "This party is trash."
Lucien's smirk deepened. "It's tradition."
"Yeah? What's your dare?"
His lit up:
DARE: Participate in a binding ritual.
The words glowed. Then pulsed. Then blinked.
They both looked at each other. Then at the dares. Then back.
"Nope," Violet said, immediately walking away.
"Wait—" Lucien followed. "We could fake it."
"What part of 'binding ritual' screams fake to you, wolf-boy?"
"The part where neither of us takes it seriously."
That made her pause.
She turned slowly. "Alright, listen. You kiss me, I pretend to bind you, and then we both walk away with bragging rights and—"
"—And no one gets cursed," Lucien finished.
They both smiled.
The sky rumbled faintly.
---
---
The altar wasn't ominous, per se. Just... aggressively symbolic.
It stood at the center of the graveyard under a canopy of gnarled trees, lit from below by bioluminescent mushrooms and ringed in faintly glowing runes. At the top was a curved stone slab dusted with ritual salt and rose petals and, inexplicably, a bottle of champagne.
"Oh good," Violet muttered as they approached. "Nothing says 'safe and not a magical felony' like ceremonial champagne."
Lucien ran a hand through his hair, the gesture almost bashful. "We just play it up, then walk away."
Violet glanced at the glowing dare still floating above her. Then at his. Then at his mouth. Then back to his dare.
"Okay," she said, "but if I wake up tomorrow with a tail or a craving for raw elk, I'm suing you with my entire coven."
"I haven't eaten elk in a century," he said. "It's gamey."
"You're gamey."
"Was that flirting again?"
"Don't push it, Dracula."
---
They stepped onto the altar circle. The runes flared faintly. Several guests began watching from a polite distance—half bored, half horny.
Lucien raised a brow. "Want me to lead, or—"
"Gods, no. I've got this," Violet said, pulling a black lipstick from her cleavage and drawing a fast sigil on her palm.
"What's that one do?"
"Literally nothing. It just looks hot."
He huffed a soft laugh.
She faced him, took his hand, and said in a mock-ceremonial voice:
"I, Violet Amari, daughter of mild chaos and low impulse control, do bind thee—uh—Sir Growls-a-Lot—to a night of questionable decisions and zero consequences."
Lucien bit the inside of his cheek. "I accept this non-legally-binding prank rite in the name of… peer pressure and your extremely aggressive eyeliner."
Their hands clasped. The wind stirred.
Nothing happened.
Violet smirked. "See? Totally fake. Now we—"
BOOM.
The altar flared with moonlight. A shockwave of magic snapped outward, flattening nearby grass and sending the champagne bottle flying. Mushrooms screamed. Somewhere, a banshee fainted.
Violet's hair lifted around her face like static. The ground trembled.
Lucien looked down at their hands. They were glowing.
"What the hell did you just say?" Violet whispered.
"I think we accidentally said the real vow," Lucien muttered, eyes widening.
The sky turned blood-red. The moon pulsed once. Then again.
Then—click.
They both heard it. A soft, echoing, cosmic click.
Like a key turning in a very old lock.
Like a trigger being pulled.
Like a curse being sealed.
Violet blinked.
"Tell me that was just magical gas."
Lucien didn't respond.
Because the sigils under their feet were burning brighter now—spiraling up their bodies like fireflies drunk on lust and bad life choices.
He looked up.
"I think we just got married by the moon."
---