"Burn the witch! Burn the witch!! Burn the witch!!!"
The words slammed into me harder than the stones hurled by the screaming mob. Smoke choked the night air, thisch as a shroud, and the butter stench of pitch clawed my throat raw. Firelight painted the jeering faces red, their eyes gleaming with terror and righteousness, an ugly combination that made them braver than they truly were.
I could hear my own heartbeat, slow and steady, as if mocking the chaos around me. Fear? I had left that behind long ago. Let them chain me to this stake, let them call down holy fire and spit prayers to their fragile gods. That'd taken my name, my coven, my magic, but they would never take me or my burning hatred for them.
The first spark of fire hissed to life.
"Any last words, Black witch?" sneered the priest, his hand trembling on the torch. He pretended it was anger but I knew better, it was fear.
I raised my head, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Yes," I said softly. "When I return, I'll carve your heart from your chest and feed it to your god."
The crowd gasp. The priest snarled and flung the torch. Flames roared upward, devouring the dry kindling, licking my legs. The heat came fast, blustering, tearing screams from the throat of those who watched, though not from me. I refused to give them that satisfaction. My skin cracked, blackened, but my eyes never left the priest until they burned to ash in my skull.
Then darkness.
No, not darkness. I woke up drowning. My lungs convulsed, sucking in icy water. Panic flared through me— a natural reflex— but I shoved it down and clawed upward, fighting the weight dragging me under. My fingers broke the surface first, then my face, gulping sweet air between ragged coughs.
Where was I?
The stake, the fire, gone. And my body was was softer and smaller. I blinked, shoving wet hair out of my eyes, and saw pale hands that were not mine. Weak, slender and trembling.
Memories that weren't my own crashed into me. Luciana Hayes, seventeen. Timid and the overlooked daughter of Baron Hayes. A substitute of her beautiful sister that was meant to we'd the Vampire Lord of Blackthorn castle, a marriage of politics and power. But when whispers claimed the groom was mad, savage, and bloodthirsty, the elder daughter wept, begged end refused to be the bride. So Luciana agreed to go in her place.
And last night.... she drowned herself.
A laugh bubbled up from my throat, hoarse and bitter. "Oh, little lamb," I murmured, treading water in the moonlit lake. "You died to escape a monster. How fortunate for you because I'm far worse."
I dragged myself to shore, my body shaking with exhaustion but my mind sharp as ever.
Somewhere beyond the trees, lanterns bobbed and voices called— searching for Luciana. No, me.
No doubt the thought the timid little bride had wandered off to cry.
By the time I reached the manor where Luciana's family waited, my dress clung like a second skin, my bare feet leaving wet prints on the marble floor. Servants gawked and my stepmother gasped in horror at my disheveled state.
"Luciana! What have you done to yourself?" she hissed. "You'll shame us before Lord Blackthorn even sees you?"
I smiled slowly. "Don't worry, stepmother. By the time Lord Blackthorn is through with me, shame will be the lead of your concerns."
She paled.
>>>>>>>
The carriage ride to Blackthorn Castle was long, silent, and cold. Rain lashed the windows, and thunder rolled over distant hills. But inside me, there was only fire. The memory of betrayal, of flames eating my flesh. I bit my lips as I traced the delicate patterns in the fogged glass with one finger, plotting.
In this new life, what I need is power, influence and revenge.
If I had to play wife to a vampire lord to seize them, so be it. And if he tried to make me his prey, he'd learn what it felt like to choke in poison.
The castle appeared at dawn, a black silhouette carved into the mountainside. Jagged spires pierced the clouds like fangs, the drawbridge lowered with a groan, and the heavy gates opened, revealing torchlight and shadows.
The servants bowed low as I entered the great ball. And the the far end, lounging like a predator waiting to pounce, was him.
Lord Darius Blackthorn.
They hadn't exaggerated. Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair black as midnight and eyes a crimson red too deep to be a human. His presence filled the room like smoke, choking and inescapable. When he stood, even the shadows seemed to flinch.
"You are late," he said, his voice smooth and cold as winter steel. His gaze swept over my damp gown and my tangled hair. His lips curled, not in anger but amusement. "Did you try to run?"
I met his gaze and smiled, slow and unafraid. "No," I said. "I tried to drown."
He paused— then laughed. A low, dangerous sound that rolled through the hall and silenced every servant.
"Perfect," he murmured, descending the steps with predatory grace. "I do so hate timid wives."
He stopped before me, close enough that j could see the faint glint of fangs behind his smile. His hand lifted— not to strike, but to lift my chin up, inspecting me like one might examine a rare, venomous flower.
"Tell me, little bride," he whispered, crimson eyes burning into mine, "are you brave...or simply dumb?"
I leaned forward, letting my breath brush his lips. "Neither," I said quietly. "I'm dangerous."
For a moment, silence. Then his grin widened, sharp and wicked. "Ah! I think I might actually enjoy this marriage."