BLAIR'S POV
The bitter wind of the North didn't bother me. Why should it? In ten days, my heart would stop beating anyway.
The doctors at the clinic had looked at me with those pitiful, watery eyes—the kind of eyes that saw a corpse before it was even cold. They called it a rare, irreversible cardiac failure. A fancy name for a broken engine. I called it a shitty expiration date. I had spent twenty-four years being the "good girl," the fragile porcelain doll kept on a shelf to avoid a single crack. And look where that got me. Dying, alone, and—the most pathetic part—completely untouched.
I stood before the obsidian gates of the Iron Castle, the towering fortress that loomed over the frosted peaks like a jagged tooth. My fingers were numb, but I didn't care. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the vial of heart medication that had been my leash for years, and tossed it into the snowy abyss below. I watched it disappear.
No more hiding. No more surviving. It's time to live.
I was wearing nothing but a black silk slip dress that clung to my curves like a second skin. It was thin, scandalous, and utterly inappropriate for the sub-zero temperatures. It was the color of mourning, but I wasn't here to cry. I was here to burn.
"Open the damn gates!" I shouted, my voice raw, echoing against the ancient stone.
For a moment, there was only the howling wind. Then, with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through the soles of my feet, the massive doors swung open. The air that rushed out wasn't cold; it was heavy, smelling of ancient dust, expensive sandalwood, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
I stepped inside. The hall was a cathedral of shadows. Torches flickered with unnatural blue flames, casting long, dancing silhouettes against the marble walls. And there, at the far end of the hall, sitting on a throne of jagged obsidian, was the reason for my journey.
Damien. The Prince of Shadows.
He was a legend whispered in taverns to scare children, a monster who had supposedly been cursed into a thousand-year slumber by his own kind. But looking at him now, he didn't look like a monster. He looked like a god carved from moonlight and malice.
He didn't move. He simply watched me. His presence was a physical weight, a crushing pressure that made my weak heart skip a beat—this time, not because of my illness. Even from thirty feet away, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. High, razor-sharp cheekbones, hair as dark as a raven's wing, and a jawline that could probably cut glass.
"You're late, little lamb," his voice finally broke the silence. It was a deep, velvety baritone that felt like a caress against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I didn't stop until I was standing at the foot of his throne. I looked up, refusing to be intimidated. Close up, his eyes were the most terrifying part—they were the color of a fresh kill, a deep, glowing crimson that seemed to see right through my black silk dress and into my very soul.
"I'm Blair," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I was told the Prince of the North required a bride. I'm here to apply for the position."
Damien leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He moved with the grace of a predator—silent and lethal. In a blur of motion, he was suddenly in front of me. I hadn't even seen him move. One moment he was on the throne; the next, he was inches from my face.
He reached out, his long, pale fingers gripping my chin. His skin was ice-cold, yet it sent a searing heat through my body. He tilted my head back, exposing my neck, his gaze lingering on the fluttering pulse at the base of my throat.
"I asked for a sacrifice, not a tragedy," he hissed, his lips inches from mine. "I can smell it on you, Blair. The scent of decay. The bitter tang of medicine and failing organs. You aren't a bride; you're a dying bird. I have no use for a woman who will be a corpse by next week."
He let go of me with a sneer, his hand moving as if he were brushing off filth. "My curse requires life, vitality, kemurnian—not the dregs of a human life already half-extinguished. Leave. Go die in the snow where you belong. I won't waste a single night on a woman who is already claimed by the Grave."
He turned his back on me, his long black cloak billowing like wings.
My heart gave a sharp, agonizing tug. Not now. Not when I was so close. The arrogance of this man—this creature—was infuriating. He thought he could reject me? He thought I was just a victim?
"Are you afraid, Your Highness?" I called out.
Damien froze. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned slowly, his expression a mask of lethal calm that would have made a braver person drop to their knees. "What did you say, human?"
"I said, are you afraid?" I stepped into his personal space, my chest nearly brushing the intricate silver embroidery of his doublet. "You need a thousand women to break your curse, don't you? You need to... deflower them, mark them, take whatever essence you need to rebuild your lost kingdom."
I took his large, cold hand. He tried to pull away, but I gripped him with a strength I didn't know I had. I pulled his hand to my chest, pressing his palm flat against my left breast.
He stiffened. Beneath his hand, my heart was thumping a frantic, irregular rhythm—a ticking time bomb.
"I'm dying, Damien. In ten days, this heart will stop. I'm not here because I'm a loyal subject. I'm here because I want to feel something other than pain before I go," I whispered, my voice dropping to a low, seductive rasp. I leaned in, my breath fanning over his lips. "I don't want your pity. I don't want your mercy. I want your fire. I want to spend my final nights in the arms of the most dangerous man in existence."
I watched his pupils dilate until his eyes were almost entirely black. The scent of him was intoxicating—like a deep forest after a lightning strike.
"You call me a dying bird," I continued, my hand sliding up his arm to his neck, my thumb brushing the sharp line of his jaw. "But a bird that's already falling has nothing to fear from the predator. So, tell me, Prince... are you going to let me die untouched because you're a coward? Or are you man enough to handle a woman who has nothing left to lose?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could see the battle behind his eyes—the hunger, the disgust, and a flickering spark of something that looked dangerously like curiosity.
Suddenly, his hand moved from my chest to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair with a violent tug. He pulled me closer until our noses touched, his breath smelling like dark wine.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," he growled, his voice a low vibration that I felt in my bones. "If I take you into my bed, Blair, I won't be gentle. I won't care about your fragile heart or your failing breath. I will consume you. I will leave my mark so deep on your soul that even Death won't be able to wash it off."
I smiled, a reckless, beautiful smile that felt like a victory. "Then do it. Break me, ruin me, use me. Just make sure you do it before the clock hits zero."
Damien's gaze dropped to my lips, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. For a second, I thought he would kiss me—or kill me. Instead, he leaned down to my ear, his fangs grazing my lobe.
"Welcome to your funeral, little bride," he whispered. "Let's see how many nights that heart of yours can actually survive."
He swept me off my feet, his arms like iron bands around me, and began walking toward the dark staircase that led to his private chambers.
I leaned my head against his shoulder, closing my eyes. I had ten days left. And I was going to make every single one of them a sin.