The gown itched against Aisling's skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one pricking a little deeper with every breath she took.
She stood rigid, arms frozen at her sides as the maid fastened the last cruel clasp at the back of her neck.
Silk and velvet, suffocating in their luxury.
The bodice was boned within an inch of her life, squeezing her ribs until she thought she might shatter from the pressure alone.
And the skirt—gods, the skirt—heavy as guilt, layered with blood-red gems stitched along the hem like droplets from some ancient, grisly sacrifice.
She hated it.
She hated the way it clung to her, as if claiming her body already belonged to him.
"It suits you, my lady," the maid had said earlier, voice too cheerful, too oblivious.
Suits her, as if she were some dressmaker's mannequin waiting to be sold off to the highest bidder.
As if she hadn't been given away already.
The dress hadn't even been her choice.
It had arrived earlier that afternoon, delivered in a black-lacquered box stamped with a crimson wax seal she recognized all too well.
No note. No instructions.
Just expectation.
Her father had been thrilled, of course.
He'd clapped his hands like a boy receiving a sweet, eyes gleaming as if the glinting rubies were a personal reward for every reckless debt he'd racked up over the years.
"See, Aisling," he had said, thumping the box as if congratulating it, "only the finest for the future Lady Hawkrige."
Liam, bless him, hadn't said a word at first.
He'd just stood there at the edge of the room, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.
His face, pale and drawn from his long sickness, twisted into something ugly when he caught sight of the dress.
She remembered the way he had looked at her—not with pride, not with happiness.
With helplessness.
She'd wanted to tear the gown apart with her bare hands then, just to spite them all.
But there had been the carriage waiting outside.
A sleek, gleaming monstrosity in midnight black, its silver trim catching the last dying light of day.
The horses—two magnificent black beasts—stamped and snorted, their eyes flashing red in the dusk like something out of a fever dream.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
For her.
The engagement had been announced precisely at midnight the night before, just as he had promised.
There had been no time to breathe since then, no time to protest.
Only orders.
Only the tightening noose around her throat.
Now, hours later, she caught a glimpse of herself as she passed a gilded mirror outside the antechamber leading to the Court of Thorns.
And she barely recognized the girl staring back.
The same emerald eyes, wide and wary, shimmered back at her—eyes that had always been too bright, too sharp, too filled with things better left unspoken.
The same unruly cascade of red hair, now yanked and pinned into some monstrous, elegant updo by the maid's relentless fingers.
The same stubborn mouth, pressed into a thin line, trying—failing—to hide the trembling underneath.
But there was something new too.
Something brittle.
Something bitter, blooming just beneath the fragile polish they had tried to paste over her like a coat of fresh paint.
A crack running straight through the middle of her chest.
Aisling curled her fingers into fists, feeling the silky gloves stretch and strain over her knuckles, the fine seams threatening to split.
The motion made the gemstones at her hem glint maliciously in the mirror, little drops of blood catching the candlelight.
They were sending her into the lion's den, she thought, a bitter laugh curdling at the back of her throat, dressed like a prize pig.
And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
The double doors groaned open with a sound that scraped against her nerves.
Aisling barely had a second to brace herself before the scent hit her—
Sharp, heavy perfume.
The metallic sweetness of bloodwine.
The colder, more ruthless perfume of ambition.
It wrapped around her, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of eyes turned toward her in one synchronized, bone-chilling moment.
Eyes that gleamed in colors no mortal had ever been born with.
Scarlet.
Gold.
Silver.
The kind of colors that whispered monster without ever needing a word.
Aisling sucked in a breath, the air slicing cold against her throat.
She squared her shoulders the way her mother once did when facing down enemies at court.
House Rutherford does not raise cowards.
Her heels clicked against the polished marble, each step ricocheting through the vast hall like a gunshot fired straight at her.
The Court of Thorns watched.
And waited.
And then—
From the shadows above, he came.
Kylian Hawkrige descended the staircase not like a man—but like the night itself had torn free and decided to take human form.
His long black hair was pulled into a tight, severe bun at the crown of his head, though a few rebellious strands framed a face that should have been sculpted from stone—if stone could somehow be cruel and breathtaking at once.
Those piercing blue eyes locked onto her.
Cold. Hungry.
Possessive.
The weight of that gaze made her skin prickle, burning a trail down her spine.
She could feel him dragging his eyes over her body, unhurried, as if cataloging every inch for his private collection.
Her cheeks flared hot.
She hated that he could do that—make her feel seen and stripped bare with just a look.
He wore that same maddening expression he always did:
Composed. Detached. Slightly bored, as if this entire circus were just another Tuesday.
Aisling wanted to throw something at him.
Preferably something heavy and sharp.
He stopped a few feet from her, hands clasped behind his back in that infuriating posture that screamed military commander instead of newly betrothed.
His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"My bride," he said, voice dripping lazy amusement, smooth and smoky as it unfurled into the tense silence.
"Mortal. Witchblood. And still with a sharper tongue than most corpses in this room."
The room shivered.
A ripple of sound moved through the crowd—a low, predatory murmur, like wolves tasting the scent of something fresh.
Aisling's mouth twitched.
Bride, my ass.
She could feel hundreds of eyes raking over her, assessing, weighing, hungering.
She wanted to shrink.
She wanted to run.
Instead, she lifted her chin higher, her nails digging crescents into her palms until the sting anchored her to herself.
Be still. Be proud. Be a Rutherford.
A few vampires wore the masks of courtly civility, thin smiles pinned to sharp faces.
Others didn't bother pretending—eyes glittering openly with disdain, with lust, with ancient, bloodthirsty amusement.
Aisling's stomach churned, but she forced herself to look ahead.
She caught sight of a woman standing near the front—a tall, willowy figure dressed in ghost-pale silk, her hair so white it nearly glowed under the chandeliers.
The woman's lips twitched in a mockery of a smile, eyes narrowing with the kind of open contempt that needed no words.
Aisling stiffened.
Okay. Noted. Not a fan.
She searched her memory, scrambling for anything from Kylian's utterly useless two-minute "briefing" earlier.
Lady... something?
Cressida.
That was it.
The court's most venomous gossip, if the muttered rumors were anything to go by.
Next to Lady Cressida, a man lounged with all the lazy arrogance of a cat presented with an easy kill.
He looked... dangerous.
In a way that was almost attractive if you had a death wish.
Sharp cheekbones, a mouth made for smiling while delivering bad news, and dark, foxlike eyes that glinted with cruel amusement.
He tipped an invisible glass at her in silent mockery.
Aisling returned his smile with a look that could curdle blood.
Kylian's second-in-command, she guessed.
Though, knowing her luck, he was probably also an assassin or a professional backstabber.
Before she could process the wave of hostility oozing off the entire room, another figure detached herself from the crowd.
Aisling's breath caught.
This woman didn't walk—she prowled.
Graceful and predatory, wrapped in crimson silk that clung to every lethal curve.
Her skin was pale to the point of glowing, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a velvet curtain.
The entire Court seemed to part for her, instinctively, like lesser creatures stepping aside for a queen cobra.
She stopped just close enough for her perfume—something dark and heady and dangerously sweet—to coil around Aisling's senses.
The woman's lips curved into a slow, devastating smile.
"Such bravery," she purred, voice low and syrupy sweet.
"To step into our world with mortal blood still so deliciously warm beneath your skin."
Aisling's spine locked tight.
Who the hell—?
Every instinct screamed danger, but Aisling bared her teeth in a smile that felt more like a snarl.
"And such restraint," she said sweetly, tilting her head in mock concern, "to pretend you're still relevant when a single engagement renders you obsolete."
The slap of her words cracked across the room like a whip.
A few vampires actually chuckled—deep, low sounds half-smothered behind elegant hands and lace fans.
The woman's smile didn't so much as flicker.
But her eyes—
Her eyes sharpened like knives unsheathed.
Aisling's pulse thudded wildly in her ears, but she held her ground.
Don't back down. Don't you dare.
The woman leaned in slightly, her voice dropping low enough that it brushed the shell of Aisling's ear like a threat.
"I suppose," she murmured, syrupy and cruel, "it's only natural that you'd cling to your little victories. After all—"
Her mouth curved wider, showing a glint of fang.
"Replacing me is the only way he could tolerate marriage at all."
Aisling's breath stuttered.
Replacing you—
Her stomach twisted violently, rage and humiliation crashing over her in a brutal, sick wave.
This... this is—
She hadn't been warned.
No one had warned her.
Not about this.
Not about her.
She barely kept herself from physically recoiling as understanding clicked into place with an ugly, vicious finality.
Before she could lash out, could tear into the woman with the full force of her fury, a presence loomed behind her.
Heavy. Inevitable.
Kylian.
His hand—barely a breath of contact—hovered at the small of her back.
Silent.
Possessive.
Aisling didn't dare turn to look at him, but she could feel it.
The dark, simmering heat rolling off him.
The raw, electric promise of violence.
The crimson woman—Lysandra—gave Kylian a lingering, almost taunting glance.
But it wasn't returned.
Not even acknowledged.
Kylian's cold, merciless gaze was fixed solely on Aisling.
On his bride.
Not a word passed his lips.
But his meaning was as clear as if he'd screamed it.
Mine.
When the endless masquerade of stiff smiles, hollow courtesies, and sharpened lies finally sputtered to an end, Aisling slipped away.
Or at least, she tried.
She barely made it past the grand archway when a hand, cold and unyielding, snapped around her wrist.
Her heart thudded once, hard. She didn't need to look back.
"Kylian," she bit out, her voice as cold as the winter sea.
"If you're here to flaunt whatever tragic creature you've strung along tonight, save it. I'm not interested."
A low, sinful chuckle brushed the shell of her ear, thick with amusement.
"Jealousy, witchling," he murmured. "It doesn't suit you."
Aisling stiffened, her spine locking tight. She yanked her wrist free with a savage tug, spinning to face him.
"Jealous?" she scoffed, voice slicing the air between them.
"Of what? Your endless parade of simpering dolls? Gods, Kylian, I pity them. Do they even realize they're just ornaments to you?"
His mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile, the kind that promised both pleasure and ruin.
"You presume much for someone so desperate to run," he said lazily.
"I'm not running," she snapped. "I'm trying to breathe. Something that's impossible around you."
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were some curious, twitching creature he'd pinned under glass.
"You're trembling."
"I'm furious."
"You're terrified."
His words struck like a slap. Aisling's fists clenched at her sides, trembling with rage.
"You think you scare me?" she hissed.
"You think because you corner me in dark halls and whisper in my ear like some damned nightmare, I'll just fall to pieces?"
Kylian stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between them, cold and vast and inevitable.
"No," he said, voice low. "I think you wish you could."
Aisling's breath hitched. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs, furious at her for being so weak, so stupid.
"You're insufferable," she spat, lifting her chin. "Arrogant. Cruel. A monster who thinks the world owes him devotion."
"And yet you keep standing here," he murmured, inching closer still.
"You keep fighting with me. You could have walked away, Aisling. But you didn't."
Her face flushed hot. "Because you won't let me!"
"You could have screamed. You could have struck me down with your magic. You could have made a scene so large, the entire Court would've dragged me off in chains."
His lips curved into a dark smile.
"But you didn't."
Aisling hated how steady he sounded. Hated how he laid her bare with so few words.
"I stayed because I have dignity," she snarled.
"Not because of you."
He laughed then—low, rough, almost genuine.
"And yet here you are. Fighting me like a storm fights the sea. Knowing you'll drown, and doing it anyway."
"I'm not drowning," she said fiercely. "Not for you."
"You're already halfway sunk, witchling."
Her hand flew up, instinct and fury and hurt twisting together in her chest.
But he was faster.
He caught her wrist again, pinning it between them. This time, he didn't just hold her. He leaned in, forcing her back until she hit the cold stone wall behind her.
The impact rattled her, but she refused to flinch.
"You're a coward," she seethed, glaring up at him.
"You think power is forcing people to their knees. But real power? Real strength? It's letting them stand and still choosing you."
His breath hitched.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of amusement cracked.
Just a little.
"You think you understand me?" he whispered, voice dark and shaking with something she didn't dare name.
"You know nothing, Aisling Rutherford."
"I know enough," she shot back, shoving against him, struggling to free her wrist.
"You think you're some tragic god of darkness, but you're just another lonely, broken boy playing dress-up!"
That did it.
Something snapped in his eyes. Something feral and unmasked and too real.
"You want honesty?" he growled, voice a low, vicious snarl.
"Fine. I am broken. I am lonely. And I chose you anyway."
The words slammed into her like a punch to the gut.
He let go of her wrist then—slowly, deliberately—and stepped back.
The space between them crackled like a live wire.
"I hate you," she said, voice breaking.
He smiled, slow and wicked and unbearably sad.
"No, you don't," he said simply.
"You want me." His voice dipped, rough and raw.
"And gods help you, Aisling, you hate yourself for it."
Her mouth opened—to deny it, to scream, to curse him—but nothing came out.
Because deep down, in the darkest, ugliest corners of her heart... she knew he was right.
He turned, dark coat flaring behind him, and disappeared into the glittering crowd without another word.
Leaving Aisling standing there.
Shaking. Bleeding from wounds he hadn't even touched.
And cursing herself for wanting to chase after him anyway.