Chapter Two: Shadowmere
The journey was a blur of oppressive silence and escalating dread. Cassian had dismissed her luggage and, indeed, her past with a wave of his hand. She was bundled into a closed carriage heavy, black, and upholstered in plush velvet that felt less luxurious and more like the lining of a coffin.
She rode alone. Lord Thorne followed in a separate carriage, a gesture that spoke volumes: she was property being transported, not a companion being escorted.
The hours passed, taking them from the familiar, if fading, grandeur of the capital into a landscape that grew increasingly wild, choked by tangled forests and shadowed by forbidding hills. The sun, a rare friend on the best of days, surrendered early to the perpetual, bruised twilight that seemed to blanket this region.
Elara pressed her cheek against the cold glass, trying to draw strength from the outside world, but there was only wilderness. This was the country of the Obsidian Baron, and it was as unforgiving as its master.
By the time the carriage began its final ascent up a winding, rocky track, the evening was deep and the wind howled a desolate welcome. Elara sat up, bracing herself.
Shadowmere.
It did not stand; it loomed. The manor was a vast, sprawling edifice of dark grey stone, gothic arches, and narrow, black windows that stared out like blind, ancient eyes. Turrets punctuated the skyline, sharp and hostile against the bruised sky, and a dense tangle of ivy seemed to be choking the very walls. There was no warmth, no welcoming light only a chilling, profound sense of isolation.
The carriage shuddered to a halt beneath a grand portico, where massive oak doors, studded with iron, stood shut like a final, immutable barrier.
The Obsidian Baron's presence preceded his arrival. A footman, pale and thesilent, opened the carriage door, and Elara stepped out onto cold cobblestones. The air here smelled of wet earth and ancient secrets.
Lord Thorne's carriage arrived moments later. He descended with that same frightening economy of movement, his figure dominating the shadowed entrance. He did not look at her; he looked at the manor, as if surveying the tools of his trade.
"Welcome, Lady Elara," he finally said, his voice flat, echoing in the stone archway. "You may consider your old name retired. You are now the Mistress of Shadowmere. And you will conduct yourself accordingly."
She stood straight, refusing to shrink under his gaze. "I intend to conduct myself as your wife, my Lord, as the contract demands."
His gaze finally landed on her, sharp as a shard of glass, and she felt the immediate heat of his displeasure or something far more dangerous.
"Wife," he repeated, the word twisted into a mockery. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them with unnerving speed. The footman retreated instantly, leaving them alone beneath the heavy portico.
"You misunderstand, Elara," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that thrilled her nerves against her will. "The contract demands an heir, a mistress to command my staff, and silence regarding my affairs. It demands your submission. It does not demand my affection, nor your pretense of it."
His hand reached out, swift and unexpected, his fingers curving around her jaw, his thumb resting dangerously close to the pulse throbbing frantically beneath her ear. It was the first time he had touched her outside of the lawyer's office, and the sheer, unbridled possessiveness in the contact was immediate, violating, and electrifying.
"This house is large, Mistress," he continued, his slate-gray eyes boring into hers. "But there are no shadows in which you can hide from me. Your duty begins tonight. Your dignity ends here."
He released her as abruptly as he had seized her, leaving a searing trail of warmth across her skin.
"You will be shown to your chambers. I expect you in the West Drawing Room precisely at nine. We have business to conclude." His command was absolute, leaving no room for refusal, debate, or even a moment of rest.
Elara watched him disappear through the heavy oak doors, the crushing reality of her position settling over her like a shroud. There would be no polite dinner, no gentle easing into her new role. The Obsidian Baron wanted what he had paid for, and he wanted it now. The coldness of the manor was nothing compared to the fiery terror of his immediate demands.