Chapter 1: The Coldest Vow
The air inside the cathedral didn't carry the scent of lilies or expensive wax. Instead, it tasted of damp limestone and the kind of suffocating dust you only find in places that haven't seen sunlight in a century.
I stood at the threshold, my fingers white-knuckled around a bouquet of black roses. My father had insisted on them. "The Thorne family appreciates tradition, Elara," he'd snapped earlier that morning, unable to meet my eyes while the maid laced my corset. We both knew the black petals weren't for tradition. They were a warning.
"Don't trip," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling. The sound was lost in the high, hollow vault of the ceiling. I felt less like a bride and more like a lamb being led to a very expensive slaughter.
I began the walk.
The silk of my gown—a dress that cost more than our family's entire winter food supply—hissed against the floorboards. It sounded like a snake in the grass. To my left and right, the pews were ghosts. Empty. No friends to fake a smile, no aunts to weep into lace handkerchiefs. There was only my father, standing near the altar with his shoulders slumped, looking like a man who had finally cleared his gambling debts and lost his soul in the process.
I could still taste the bitterness of the tea from the night he told me. It had been raining then, too—a low, rhythmic drumming on our thatched roof that sounded like a countdown.
"He's a Duke, Elara," my father had whispered that night, his hands shaking as he clutched a glass of cheap, stinging gin. "You'll live in a palace. You'll have servants. You'll never be hungry again."
"I'll be a prisoner," I had countered, my voice cracking.
He hadn't denied it. He just looked at the stack of gambling markers on the table—debts signed in ink that was supposed to be paid in gold, but would now be paid in my flesh. He had traded my heartbeat for his breathing room. Now, looking at his stiff back in the cathedral, I realized he wasn't mourning my departure. He was celebrating his survival.
Then, I saw him. Duke Alistair Thorne.
He was a pillar of shadow against the flickering candlelight. The rumors had mentioned the mask, but seeing it was different. It was polished silver, cold and unblinking, covering the right side of his face from brow to chin. The left side was devastatingly handsome, but it was a frozen beauty—like a lake that had turned to ice and trapped everything beneath it.
As I reached his side, the temperature didn't just drop; it plummeted. My breath came out in a faint, ragged puff of white mist.
"You're late," he said.
His voice wasn't a growl. It was a low, smooth vibration, like a cello played in a tomb. He didn't sound angry—he sounded bored. That was the part that made my skin crawl.
"The rain, Your Grace... the carriage struggled with the mud," I managed to say. My voice sounded small, like a child's.
He didn't acknowledge my excuse. He simply nodded to the priest—a man so shriveled and pale he looked like he'd been carved from the same limestone as the walls.
"Begin," Alistair commanded.
The ceremony was a blur of Latin phrases that felt like heavy stones being piled on my chest. I kept thinking about the contract. The Thorne line needs a Mistress. I wondered what happened to the last one. Or the one before that.
"The rings," the priest wheezed, his eyes never leaving the yellowed pages of his book.
Alistair reached out. When his fingers brushed mine, I nearly jolted. His skin was unnaturally cold. Not 'chilly from the rain' cold—it was the temperature of a windowpane in mid-winter.
The priest held out a silver quill. "The seal of blood, Your Grace. To bind the souls where the law cannot reach."
Alistair didn't hesitate. He took the quill and pressed the sharp nib into the pad of his thumb. He didn't flinch. He pressed his thumb onto the parchment, leaving a dark, crimson smudge next to his name. Then, he handed the quill to me.
The nib was still warm with his blood. My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped it. I pricked my finger—a sharp, tiny spark of pain—and pressed my thumb onto the paper. As our blood mingled, a faint, golden glow pulsed through the ink before fading into a dull, permanent black. It was done. I was no longer a daughter; I was property.
As he slid the heavy gold band onto my finger, the candles surrounding the altar suddenly shuddered. The flames turned a sickly, bruised blue. Then, they vanished.
Total darkness swallowed the cathedral.
In that heartbeat of silence, I felt a pair of hands—thin, bony, and damp—settle onto my shoulders. A breath that smelled of stagnant water and old, pressed flowers brushed against my ear.
"Run," a voice hissed.
It wasn't a human sound. It was the rasp of dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. "Run, little bird... before you become part of the collection."
I tried to scream, but my lungs felt like they'd been filled with ice water. I pulled back, but Alistair's grip on my hand was a vice. He didn't let go.
Then, the candles snapped back to life.
Alistair was looking at me. His one visible eye tracked the frantic movement of my pulse.
"Is there a problem, Elara?" he asked softly.
"I... I heard someone. Behind me," I stammered.
Alistair's jaw tightened. "There is no one here but us, my Lady. I suggest you stop listening to things that don't exist. It would be... healthier for you."
He led me toward the doors. Outside, a carriage waited—black wood, black horses, and a driver who wouldn't look up. As the door clicked shut, locking us into the cramped, leather-scented dark, the carriage jolted into motion.
Hours passed in a suffocating silence. I lifted my hand, staring at the thumb that had pressed into the blood-soaked parchment. I tried to rub the crimson stain against the white silk of my skirt, but it wouldn't budge. It wasn't just on the skin; it felt as though the Duke's blood had seeped into my very pores.
Across from me, Alistair sat as motionless as a gargoyle. I wondered what lay beneath that silver mask. Was it a scar? A deformity? The mystery was a cold knot in my stomach. Every time the carriage hit a bump, our knees almost touched, and a spark of terrifying electricity shot through me. It was a strange, toxic pull—I was terrified of him, yet I couldn't stop wondering what he was hiding.
I must have drifted into a fitful sleep, because I woke to the carriage slowing down. I wiped the condensation from the window and peered out.
Thorne Manor loomed through the mist. It was a terrifying masterpiece of Gothic architecture—spires like needles poking the sky, iron gates rusted into the shape of screaming faces. Standing in the middle of a row of dead rosebushes was a woman. She wore a wedding dress identical to mine, shredded and hanging off her frame. She stood perfectly still in the pouring rain, her head tilted at an unnatural angle.
"Alistair," I gasped. "There's someone in the garden!"
The Duke didn't even look. "The rain plays tricks on the eyes, Elara."
I looked back. The woman was gone. In her place was only a stone statue of a weeping angel.
The carriage stopped. A butler, pale and thin as a skeleton, opened the door. "Welcome home, Your Grace," he rasped.
Alistair stepped out and reached back to help me down. As my boots hit the muddy gravel, I looked up at the front door. Hanging from the knocker was a single, fresh white lily—the flower of mourning.
I felt the cold weight of the gold ring on my finger. The voice in the cathedral had been wrong. I didn't need to run. It was already too late.