Nevan
Today is my wedding day.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the face I never let anyone see.
Without the mask, the Duke of Wellspring didn't exist. There was just Nevan Wilder, a cursed man, studying his reflection.
The lower half of my face was unremarkable. A strong jaw that was clean shaven, a mouth that had been told it favoured my mother's, but from the cheekbones upward, the curse had made its claim.
My skin was pale, far paler than it should have been, as though the blood had retreated from the surface and never returned. Faint white lines traced across my cheekbones and up toward my temples, thin as thread, forming patterns that weren't scars and weren't veins but something in between, as though the curse had tried to write itself across my face in a language no one alive could read.
