Prologue: The Red Stain
I followed him because I was a fool. A fool in love, wearing the fragile armor of hope.
The cold seeped through my thin coat, a sharp contrast to the feverish worry that had driven me from our bed. Rowan had left in the dead of night, his side of the mattress cooling too quickly, the silence he left behind screaming of secrets. I told myself I needed to understand. To see the world that stole my husband's warmth and replaced it with a granite silence.
The abandoned warehouse by the docks was a tomb of rust and shadows. The only light spilled from a single, dangling bulb, carving a grim stage in the vast darkness. And there he was.
Rowan.
My Rowan. But not mine. Not here.
He stood, a statue of elegant cruelty in a tailored black coat. A man knelt before him, sobbing. "Please, Mr. Royce... I can get the money... I have a family..."
Rowan's voice was a quiet, chilling melody in the gloom. "You had a family. You chose to steal from me instead of feed them."
He moved. A swift, brutal motion. The sound was wet, final. The man's pleas dissolved into a gurgle. Rowan straightened, and the light caught his hand. Not the hand that traced my spine in sleep. This hand was gloved in leather, and it was dripping. Red painted his knuckles, a vile jewelery.
One of his men, a hulking shadow named Viktor, handed him a cloth. "Clean-up, boss?"
"After," Rowan said, wiping slowly, his eyes never leaving the broken man at his feet. "Let this be a lesson to anyone who thinks my mercy is endless."
A gasp tore from my lips. I slammed my hand over my mouth, but it was too late.
All heads turned. The world froze.
Rowan's gaze snapped to the darkness where I stood. For a heartbeat, I saw nothing in his eyes. No recognition. Just a lethal, calculating coldness.
"Who's there?" Viktor barked, his hand flying to his gun.
Before I could blink, a massive guard—one I hadn't seen lurking by the door—seized me. His arm was a steel bar across my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. The cold kiss of a gun barrel pressed to my temple.
"Don't move!" the guard snarled, dragging me into the circle of light. "Look what I found, boss. A little mouse."
I was shoved forward, stumbling. My hands flew protectively to my stomach, to the tiny, secret swell I carried.
"Please," I whimpered, my eyes locked on Rowan. "Rowan..."
The guard shook me hard. "Shut up! You know his name? Who sent you? Was it the Graces?"
"I said, please..." My voice was a terrified thread.
Rowan had gone perfectly still. The bloody cloth dangled from his fingers. The cold void in his eyes shattered, replaced by a hurricane of emotion—shock, then a dawning, terrifying fury.
"Take your hand off her," Rowan said. His voice was low, but it sliced through the warehouse like a blade.
The guard hesitated, confused. "Boss, she's a witness. She saw everything. We can't just—"
"I won't repeat myself, Marco." Rowan took a step forward, his presence expanding, dominating the space. "Remove your hand from my wife. Now."
The word 'wife' hung in the air, a bomb detonating in the silence.
Marco flinched as if burned. The gun dropped from my temple. His arm sprang away from me. "W-wife? Mr. Royce, I didn't... I didn't know!"
I swayed, my legs liquid. Rowan closed the distance in two strides, catching me before I fell. He pulled me against his chest. The smell of him—cologne, winter air, and the sharp, undeniable scent of blood—engulfed me. His heart hammered against my ear, a frantic drum matching my own.
He cupped my face, his gloved thumb streaking a smear of red across my cheekbone. He stared at it, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle leapt.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
I forced my eyes up to his. They were wild, dark with fear and rage. "Aira," he breathed. "What have you done? Why are you here?"
"I... I was worried. You left..." My words were broken by tremors I couldn't control.
"This is what you worried about?" he hissed, his grip tightening. He held his bloodied hand up between us, a grotesque exhibit. "This is what I do! This is the man you married! Did you think I ran a charity, my love? Did you think my hands stayed clean?"
Tears spilled over, cutting through the red stain on my cheek. "I just wanted to understand..."
"Understand?" A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. He looked from my terrified face to his men, who stood frozen, to the evidence of his violence on the floor. His expression crumbled into something like agony. "Now you do. Now you see the monster. Are you happy?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned his furious gaze to Viktor, his voice dropping back into that chilling, controlled tone. "Get her out of here. Take her home. No one touches her. No one looks at her."
Viktor nodded sharply. "Yes, boss."
Rowan looked back at me, his eyes tracing the path of my tears, the smear of his sin on my skin. The anger bled away, leaving only a bleak, hollow horror. He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear, his whisper for me alone.
"Go home, Aira. And pray to God you can forget what you saw tonight. Because I never will."
He let me go. Viktor stepped forward, gently taking my elbow. As I was led away, numb and shattered, I looked back once.
Rowan stood alone in the circle of light, staring at his red-stained hands, the monster confronted by the one thing his cruelty couldn't conquer: the devastation in his own wife's eyes.
Following him was my greatest mistake. And in that moment, with the taste of fear and metal in the air, I felt the first fragile crack in our world, a fissure that promised to swallow us whole.
He cupped my face, his gloved thumb streaking a smear of red across my cheekbone. He stared at it, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle leapt.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
I forced my eyes up to his. They were wild, dark with fear and rage. "Aira," he breathed. "What have you done? Why are you here?"
"I... I was worried. You left..." My words were broken by tremors I couldn't control.
"This is what you worried about?" he hissed, his grip tightening. He held his bloodied hand up between us, a grotesque exhibit. "This is what I do! This is the man you married! Did you think I ran a charity, my love? Did you think my hands stayed clean?"
Tears spilled over, cutting through the red stain on my cheek. The fight-or-flight instinct, frozen until now, finally exploded. I shoved against his chest with a strength born of pure terror. "Let me go! Don't touch me!"
I twisted, breaking his hold, and ran. Three stumbling steps toward the dark, gaping doorway—toward freedom, toward sanity, away from the blood and the man who wore my husband's face.
I didn't make it.
A low curse ripped from him. In two strides, he was on me. An arm banded around my waist, lifting me clean off my feet as if I weighed nothing.
"No! Rowan! Put me down!" I screamed, beating my fists against his back, kicking wildly. My protests were raw, ragged things against the stone of his shoulder.
He didn't falter. He adjusted his grip, securing my thrashing legs, and began walking toward a side entrance, his steps eerily calm.
"Viktor!" he barked over his shoulder, his voice cutting through my cries. "Clean this mess. The docks. Deep. No traces."
"Yes, boss!" Viktor's reply was immediate, already moving.
"Rowan, please!" I sobbed, the world upside down, the warehouse floor moving beneath my dangling hair. "Please, just let me go home!"
"You are going home," he said, his voice grim and final as he pushed through a metal door into the biting night air. His black car idled, a beast waiting. "My home. Our home. Where you will stay."
He yanked open the rear door and deposited me onto the cool leather seat before I could scramble away. He followed instantly, crowding in, his large body blocking my escape. He slammed the door shut.
"Drive," he ordered the shadowy figure in the driver's seat. "Now."
As the car pulled away, sealing us in a silent, moving tomb, he turned to me. In the fleeting glow of a passing streetlight, I saw his face. The fury was gone, burned away by something harder, colder, and infinitely more determined.
He reached for me again, not with violence, but with an inescapable intent. His hands, still bearing the ghost of another man's life, framed my face, forcing me to look at him.
"You ran from me," he stated, his voice a low vibration in the dark. "You will never run from me again, Aira. Do you understand? Never again."