The rain turned savage, turning the cobblestone paths outside the estate into slick, black veins under the flickering light of my flashlight.
I clutched my heavy lace hem and ran barefoot through the muddy forest trails. The freezing downpour had soaked my crimson wedding gown; the once-delicate tulle now felt like a leaden shackle, dragging me toward an inevitable abyss with every frantic step.
"Run. Just keep running." That was the only pulse left in my brain.
Behind me, the manor faded into the mist. The Blackwood Estate—a place locals whispered about as cursed ground—looked like a gargantuan stone beast crouching in the dark. My father had sold me to a dead man. He sold me to Alaric Thorne, the eldest son who was rumored to have perished in a fire a decade ago, yet somehow continued to "live" within those decaying walls.
I tore through the thickets at the edge of the grounds. Thorns sliced the soles of my feet, mixing blood with the freezing mud. If I could just cross this ridge, I would reach the main road.
But the moment my foot hit the crest of the hill, the world went mute.
The crickets, the rain, even my own ragged gasps—everything was swallowed into a sudden, vacuum-like void. In the dead silence, the thick, cloying scent of rotting roses and cold sandalwood drifted from behind me.
"Is this the etiquette of the Blackwoods? To run into the muck like a frightened animal on your wedding night?"
The voice was low and gravelly, like the lowest string of a cello, yet it carried a chill that turned my marrow to ice.
I froze, my blood congealing in my veins. I turned my head slowly and saw a figure standing in the darkness. He held a black umbrella, dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat. His skin, under the moonlight, possessed a sickly, translucent pallor.
It was Alaric.
He didn't rush. He simply stood there, his eyes dark and abyssal, like two wells that had never seen the light of day.
"I... I won't be a bride to a monster," I stammered, backing away instinctively. My heel slipped on the wet earth, and I collapsed into the mud.
Alaric tilted his head slightly, the movement possessing a subtle, elegant, yet non-human lag. He stepped toward me, tilting his umbrella to shield my face from the rain. He reached out with those long, porcelain-cold fingers, hooking them under my chin to force me to look up at him.
"A monster?" He let out a soft, dark chuckle. His fingertip traced the line of my jaw down to my throat, resting right over my carotid artery. "If that is truly what you believe, Evangeline, then perhaps I should drag you into hell with me. Would you like that?"
His grip wasn't violent, yet the sheer weight of his presence made it impossible to breathe.
"Be a good girl," he whispered against my ear, his icy breath ghosting over my skin. "In these woods, not even the wind leaves without my permission. What makes you think you can?"
He swept me up into his arms, and the unnatural coldness of his body instantly enveloped me. All my struggles felt futile against his stillness. I knew then that I was no longer my father's daughter. I was a private collection, claimed by a devil.