At the top of the entry steps, Elena Nightshade remained motionless, watching him with the silent, unblinking fixation of a jade statue—beautiful, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Marcus drew in a deep, steadying breath, forcing down the terror that churned in his gut like acid. His legs trembled ever so slightly—a tremor he hoped wasn't visible in the harsh lighting—but he climbed those steps anyway, one foot after another, ascending toward his fate.
He'd worked as a bodyguard in his original world. He'd faced down armed criminals, defused volatile situations, stared down the barrel of guns more times than he could count. But never—never—had he felt quite like this. Every step felt like walking across a field of upturned blades. His life balanced on a knife's edge, swaying in the wind, ready to fall.
Elena's eyes were breathtakingly beautiful. Even marred by injury, her irises resembled black glass submerged in liquid mercury—dark, reflective, hypnotic. But right now, those stunning eyes were filled to the brim with shattered anguish and a hatred so profound it threatened to spill over like water from an overfilled vessel.
After the briefest moment of eye contact—a glance that felt like touching an exposed electrical wire—she slowly, deliberately turned her gaze away from him. She stared instead into the courtyard's depths, into the impenetrable darkness that pooled in the shadows beyond the security lights. Her profile was a study in tension, every line of her face drawn tight, radiating an icy indifference that screamed stay away.
As Marcus drew closer, he could see her with terrible clarity now. Her fingers—pale as bone china, delicate as porcelain—gripped the wheelchair's armrests with white-knuckled intensity. The pressure made her knuckles stand out in sharp relief against already-pale skin.
Half her body remained concealed in the doorway's shadow while harsh white light carved out the other half in stark relief, creating a chiaroscuro portrait of fragility. She was shockingly, alarmingly thin—probably didn't even weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. The voluminous black dress she wore only emphasized how insubstantial she was, how empty she looked, as if a strong gust of wind might simply carry her away like a fallen leaf.
Her long lashes swept downward like raven's feathers, casting delicate shadows on the hollows beneath her eyes. Her nose was elegantly upturned, bisecting the planes of light across her face, making her cheeks appear even more gaunt and heartbreakingly vulnerable than they already were.
That expensive black vintage dress caught the light with a subtle, expensive sheen, but rather than making her look sophisticated, it only intensified her aura of fragile, almost religious purity—like a martyr or a saint awaiting execution.
Weak. Pure. Pitiful. Delicate.
Every surface impression screamed innocence and vulnerability. These qualities seemed fundamentally incompatible with the system's warnings about the "dark, vicious, ruthless" future villainess she was destined to become. The cognitive dissonance was jarring, and it set off every alarm bell in Marcus's head. Extremes meeting like this only meant one thing: danger.
He closed the remaining distance in two measured steps, then slowly lowered himself into a crouch beside her wheelchair, bringing his eyes level with hers. A subtle fragrance reached him—cool, aloof, reminiscent of camellia blossoms blooming in winter. But that exquisite face stubbornly refused to turn his direction, jaw set with determination.
Marcus cleared his throat. His voice came out rough, dry. He tried to inject just the right amount of shock and—he hoped—a thread of barely perceptible guilt into his tone: "W-wife..." The word tasted like ash in his mouth. "Your eye... what happened to it?"
Elena's gaze snapped toward him so fast it was almost violent. Her long lashes flew upward in pure, unguarded astonishment. Those black-glass eyes finally, finally focused on him directly, and they were filled with such profound disbelief you'd think he'd just announced the moon was made of cheese. As if she couldn't comprehend what absurdity she'd just heard.
Before she could formulate a response—before that shock could harden back into cold fury—Marcus immediately pivoted, shifting his attention and accusatory tone toward the household butler who stood respectfully nearby, hands clasped, head slightly bowed.
"Butler!" Marcus's voice carried carefully calibrated notes of "anxiety" and "displeasure." "What the hell happened here? I was only gone a few hours—how did my wife get injured like this?!"
The butler's hands twisted nervously in the fabric of her uniform apron. She bowed even lower, her voice quavering with obvious apprehension:
"Y-Young Master, when I... when I entered to help the Miss prepare for bed, she was already... she was already in this state. I asked what happened, but the Miss... she refused to say anything. She wouldn't tell me."
Marcus's brow furrowed deeply. He ramped up the "stern concern" in his voice another notch:
"That's completely unacceptable! Has she seen a doctor? Call the family physician immediately—I want someone here within the hour!"
He was performing now, playing the role of a husband who'd been obliviously absent but remained fundamentally "concerned" about his wife's welfare. Just slow on the uptake. Just a little thoughtless. Not malicious.
The butler shook her head, voice dropping even lower with nervous deference: "Young Master, the Miss said... she insisted she was fine. She specifically ordered us not to call anyone."
Marcus decided he'd set the stage sufficiently. He took a deep breath—the picture of a man suppressing righteous anger while wrestling with helpless frustration—and rose to his feet. He made a show of brushing at imaginary dust on his expensive slacks, then moved to position himself behind Elena's wheelchair, hands closing around the push handles.
"It's windy out here. We should go inside." His voice had softened deliberately, but carried an undertone of firm insistence that brooked no argument. He began wheeling Elena forward, past the butler whose face registered complex, conflicted emotions, through the entrance and into what served as both prison and battlefield—the bridal suite.
Click.
The heavy door swung shut, sealing them off from the outside world and any potential witnesses.
The room's interior was decorated in traditionally festive style—expensive, luxurious, meant to celebrate a joyous union. Large red double-happiness characters still adorned the walls. But beneath the celebration trappings, the atmosphere was thick with cold, oppressive silence. It felt like a tomb.
Marcus released the wheelchair handles and circled around to face Elena directly. This time, he went even further—he actually dropped to one knee on the floor, looking up at her, his entire posture radiating submission and contrition.
"Wife." His voice came out low and rough, deliberately hoarse. "I was wrong."
"Stop pretending." Elena's words cut through the air like shards of ice, her tone absolutely flat and emotionless. With practiced efficiency, she maneuvered her wheelchair in a smooth half-circle, presenting him with nothing but her rigid back—a clear, unmistakable rejection.
Marcus didn't retreat. He shifted his position again, half-crawling to place himself back in her line of sight, forcing her to either look at him or deliberately turn away again.
"I know," he said, and he let genuine pain bleed into his expression, let his eyes show raw vulnerability. "I know that anything I say right now, you're going to interpret as excuses. As manipulation. As hollow lies."
"I was..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "I was drunk. The alcohol clouded my judgment, loosened my tongue. I said unconscionable things—cruel, unforgivable things. And your eye..." His gaze flicked to the vivid bruise and flinched away. "That was entirely my fault. I lost control. I hurt you."
"But." He emphasized the word, straightening his spine slightly, meeting her icy stare with steady determination. "I did those things. The damage is done. I won't insult you by making excuses or shirking responsibility. This apology isn't me asking for immediate forgiveness—I don't deserve that and I'm not entitled to it. This is just... the first necessary step. The bare minimum of human decency."
He wasn't running from it. Wasn't deflecting or rationalizing. He was owning it completely, presenting himself with almost brutal honesty.
Elena remained utterly deaf to his words, as if an invisible barrier separated them, rendering his voice meaningless noise.
She gripped the wheelchair's armrests and smoothly rolled herself to the bedside with practiced precision. Then, bracing her slender arms against the rests—muscles trembling from the strain—she attempted to leverage her upper body strength to haul her heavy, unresponsive lower half onto the mattress.
Watching this struggle, Marcus instinctively surged forward, arms already extending. His voice came out soft, careful: "Let me help you up."
"No." The single syllable cracked like a whip.
Elena's head whipped around, and that bruised right eye locked onto him with laser focus. Deep in those dark pupils, he could see something like a black whirlpool spinning, emanating bone-deep cold and unmistakable warning. That look alone was enough to freeze every word in his throat, trap them behind his teeth.
She spoke four words, each one dropping like a stone into still water: "Mind. Your. Own. Business."
Then she dismissed him entirely, returning her attention to the far more important task of getting herself into bed. Her hands clutched at the duvet's edge, and she began the slow, awkward, laborious process of inching her body upward onto the mattress.
Marcus knew she was operating in full defensive mode right now—bristling with resistance, armored in suspicion. Pushing would only make things worse. So he stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, though his eyes continued tracking her movements with helpless fascination.
He noticed the pale leg extending from beneath her dress hem, hanging limply over the bed's edge. The skin was flawless, delicate, fine enough to see faint blue veins beneath the surface. It should have been a perfectly healthy leg, vibrant and strong. Instead, it hung there like an abandoned ornament, a beautiful but broken object that could no longer fulfill its intended purpose.
Elena lay prone at the bed's edge, relying entirely on her arms and core strength to drag herself upward. Every single movement was a visible struggle, muscles straining, breath coming harder.
Finally—finally—she managed to haul most of her body onto the mattress. The effort left her gasping, chest heaving as she gulped air. She flipped over onto her back, face turned toward the ceiling, pale cheeks flushed crimson from exertion, forehead gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat.
But then she realized, with what looked like crushing defeat, that her legs were still pinned beneath the heavy quilt. And she had absolutely no strength left to pull it free.
She took two quick, shallow breaths, and in that moment seemed to become acutely aware of his unbroken stare—the weight of his gaze on her vulnerable position.
Her head turned, and those eyes—one clear, one bruised—glared at him with sharp, defensive warning.