The villa woke up earlier than usual the next morning, or maybe it only felt that way because Gerffron had barely closed his eyes. He stood at the window of his room long before the sun cleared the eastern hills, watching the road that wound down from the border patrol route. A thin column of dust rose in the distance—horses, at least six, moving fast. Gorgina was coming home.
Selfi had already laid out his clothes for the day: a deeper green than yesterday, almost the exact shade of his eyes, with gold threading that caught the light like tiny chains. "Her Grace prefers formal attire for evening meals," the maid explained while brushing invisible lint from the sleeves. "And she has requested you join her in the main dining hall at seven sharp. No excuses."
Gerffron touched the fabric. It felt heavier than it should. "Did she say anything else?"
"Only that the black rose suited you." Selfi's voice stayed perfectly level, but her eyes flicked to the vase on the nightstand where the flower still sat, petals now slightly curled at the edges. "She sounded… pleased."
Pleased. The word sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning chill. In his old life, "pleased" from someone like Birsha had always come right before the next knife twist. He forced a small smile. "Then I'll make sure to thank her personally."
Breakfast was eaten in silence. He barely tasted the fresh pastries or the spiced tea Selfi swore was imported from the southern provinces. His mind was too busy replaying every interaction he'd had so far—the grip on his arm, the hissed threats on the balcony, Lady Elowen's cold assessment, the voice behind the iron door begging for water. Small pieces. He was collecting them like the evidence he never had back in school.
By midday, the entire household buzzed with nervous energy. Servants polished silver until it blinded, gardeners cut the most perfect roses for the centrepieces, and Lady Elowen swept through the halls issuing orders in a voice that could freeze wine. Gerffron stayed out of her way, retreating to the library with a stack of etiquette books he pretended to read while actually memorising the layout of the villa from an old floor plan he'd found tucked between two volumes.
The east wing. The west wing. The hidden garden door. And that locked storage room at the end of his own corridor—the one Selfi had called "nothing important." He traced the ink lines with a fingertip. Everything connected. He just needed to find the threads.
At six-thirty, Selfi helped him dress. The emerald tunic fit like it had been sewn onto his skin. The chiffon shoulder pieces flowed when he moved, making him look ethereal and fragile. Exactly the image they wanted, he realised. A pretty doll for the duke to display. He adjusted the gold ring on his finger—the one that had sealed his fate at the altar—and met his own gaze in the mirror. Emerald eyes stared back, older than twenty-two now. Harder.
"You look every inch the consort, Your Grace," Selfi said softly.
He gave her a wry half-smile. "Let's hope the duke agrees."
The main dining hall was a cavern of marble and candlelight. Long oak table set for two at one end, heavy silver candelabras dripping wax like blood, and a roaring fireplace that cast dancing shadows across tapestries depicting ancient battles. Gorgina was already there when he arrived, standing by the window with her back to him. She had changed from riding leathers into a deep burgundy gown that somehow still looked like armor—high collar, long sleeves, a sword belt worn over it like jewelry. Her burgundy hair was loose tonight, cascading down her back like spilled wine.
She turned when he entered. Those golden-amber eyes locked onto him and for one terrifying second he was back in the school corridor, Birsha blocking his path with that same unreadable stare.
"Gerffron," she said. Her voice was low, almost husky from the road dust. "You kept the rose."
He bowed the perfect shallow consort bow. "It was beautiful, Your Grace. Thank you."
She crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching him. Close enough that he could smell leather and horse and something sharper—steel. "You're wearing the color I chose. Good. Sit."
Dinner was served in perfect silence at first. Roasted quail, herb-crusted potatoes, a rich wine that tasted like blackberries and secrets. Gerffron ate slowly, watching her from beneath his lashes. She cut her meat with precise, economical movements, the same way she had handled the dance floor on their wedding night—like everything was a battlefield.
Halfway through the main course she spoke again. "My mother tells me you explored the gardens yesterday."
He kept his voice light. "They are lovely. I especially enjoyed the older section with the wild roses."
Her fork paused mid-air. Just for a heartbeat. Then she resumed eating. "That area is restricted for a reason. Poisonous thorns. I would hate for my new husband to prick himself so soon."
The warning was clear. Gerffron smiled anyway. "I'm careful with thorns, Your Grace. I've learned they can be useful if you know where to grip them."
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise? Amusement? Suspicion? She set her knife down and leaned back, studying him like he was a new weapon she hadn't decided whether to wield or melt down.
"You're different from the reports," she said finally. "The Cliff family described you as… docile. Broken, even. Yet here you are, quoting poetry about thorns at my dinner table."
He took a slow sip of wine to hide the way his pulse jumped. "People change, Your Grace. Especially after a wedding."
A low chuckle escaped her—unexpected, rough, almost warm. "Indeed, they do." She reached across the table and brushed a stray lock of mousy brown hair from his forehead. The touch was gentle. Too gentle. His skin crawled with memories of hands that had never been kind.
"You survived the terrace," she murmured. "Most men in your position wouldn't have. I find that… intriguing."
Gerffron's throat tightened. Then he realised that she was reffering to original Gerffron's suicide attempt. She knew. Of course, she knew. "I decided I wanted to live," he answered simply. "Differently."
Their eyes met. For a moment, the dining hall disappeared, and all he could see was the golden-amber stare that felt like staring into his own past. The same shape. The same cold intelligence. The same way Birsha used to look at him right before pushing him down the stairs or spreading another rumour. His stomach turned.
Gorgina leaned closer. "Good. Because I have no use for a husband who breaks easily. You will attend the winter ball with me in three weeks. You will smile. You will dance. And you will not embarrass me in front of the Crown Prince. Understood?"
He nodded. "Perfectly."
She sat back, satisfied. The rest of the meal passed in lighter conversation—border reports, gossip about other dukes, the price of silk from the east. Gerffron answered when spoken to, laughed at the right moments, and played the part so well he almost scared himself. Inside, his mind was screaming. The resemblance wasn't just personality anymore. The way she held her wine glass, the tilt of her head, the way her voice dropped when she issued orders—it was Birsha wearing a different skin. He pushed the thought down hard. Paranoia would get him killed faster than any thorn.
When the last plate was cleared, Gorgina stood. "Walk with me to the balcony. I want air."
The same balcony from their wedding night. The market lights below twinkled like distant stars. She leaned on the railing, cape swirling in the night breeze, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
Then she said quietly, "You haven't asked about your family. Most new consorts beg for news within the first week."
"I already received a letter," he answered. "They're… well."
She snorted. "They're greedy. They took my gold and still want more. Tell me, Gerffron—do you miss them?"
The honest answer was no. The safe answer was yes. He chose something in between. "I miss the version of home that existed before I was sold. But I'm learning this one suits me better."
Another low chuckle. She turned and looked at him—really looked. "You're not what I expected, little husband. I think I might keep you longer than planned."
Before he could respond, she did something that froze every muscle in his body. She reached out and pulled him into a brief, rough hug. One arm around his shoulders, the other pressing his head against her collarbone. The embrace lasted maybe three seconds, but it felt like drowning. Her scent—rose and steel—filled his lungs. Her heartbeat was steady against his ear.
Then she released him just as suddenly. "Sleep well. We have etiquette lessons together tomorrow. I want to see how far you've come."
She left without another word.
Gerffron stood alone on the balcony for a long time after she disappeared, gripping the stone railing until his knuckles hurt. The hug replayed in his head on loop. Gorgina had never been the type to show affection—not in the information that he was fed to before he got married to her.
He didn't know which terrified him more.
That night he waited until the villa grew quiet. Then he slipped out of his rooms in a dark cloak, dagger in his boot, and made his way back through the gardens. The hidden gate opened with the same soft creak. The bundle he had left yesterday was gone. In its place sat a small, perfectly smooth stone. A thank-you.
His heart thudded. He crouched by the barred window and whispered, "You're welcome. I'll bring more tomorrow night. Can you… tell me your name?"
Silence. Then a faint rustle. A voice—younger than he expected, rough from disuse—answered.
"Styrmir."
Gerffron closed his eyes.
He slid another waterskin and a fresh bundle of food through the bars. "Sleep, Styrmir. I'll come again. You're not alone anymore."
No answer. But the breathing on the other side sounded a fraction less pained.
Gerffron closed the gate and hurried back before the night patrols began. His mind raced the entire way. He had made contact. Risked everything on a whisper. And for the first time since waking up in this body, he felt something besides fear.
Purpose.
Back in his bed he stared at the ceiling, the black rose still watching him from the vase. Gorgina's hug lingered on his skin like a brand. Lady Elowen's warnings echoed. And somewhere beneath the villa, a boy named Styrmir was eating bread because of him.
Gerffron smiled in the dark—small, sharp, dangerous.
Roses had thorns.
And tomorrow, he would start learning how to draw blood with them.