Three long days. Three days the silence had clawed at the walls of Rutherford Manor, thick and suffocating like grave dust. It pressed in on Aisling, heavy and cold, a mirror of the dread coiling in her gut. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the hall felt like a hammer blow, counting down time she didn't have.
She paced her room, the worn path on the rug a testament to her restless fear. Under her sleeve, the faint burn of the sigil was a constant, irritating reminder of a fevered nightmare and a man who felt less like flesh and blood and more like a walking shadow. It was a secret, another weight pressing her down.
Down the hall, Liam's coughing rattled through the quiet house. Each gasping breath was weaker, more desperate. It was the same sound that had haunted her mother's final days, a cruel echo that tightened Aisling's chest until she felt she might suffocate herself. He was fading, just as their mother had, stolen by the same wasting fever.
Her father had drowned himself in drink. The clink of bottles was the only other sound besides Liam's struggle, a different kind of despair. He couldn't face his son's dying, so he simply chose not to see. Aisling was alone, left to face the encroaching darkness. His cowardice fueled a hot, sharp ember of hatred in her heart.
Now, Liam's breath came in shallow, ragged whispers. Aisling sat by his bedside, holding his thin hand. Her tears had run dry hours ago, her face stiff and numb. There was only the raw, tearing ache in her chest and a desperate, burning need for a miracle she knew wouldn't come.
Then, a sound.
Knock.
Three sharp, distinct raps at the front door. Not the hesitant rap of a neighbor, or the familiar sound of someone expected. This was deliberate. Impatient. A sound that spoke of someone who knew exactly what they wanted.
Aisling froze. Her heart leaped into her throat, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. Debtors. It had to be. Men her father owed, come to collect what little they had left, perhaps even the house itself. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her grief. She didn't want to open it. She wanted to barricade the door, pretend they weren't there.
But another urge pulled at her, frantic and illogical. Go. A desperate, wild hope flickered – what if...? No, it couldn't be. But the knock came again, demanding. Taking a shaky breath, she pushed herself up, her legs heavy, and moved towards the door. The corridor was a tunnel of frigid air and clinging shadows. She didn't stop for a cloak, her hair was a tangled mess. None of it mattered. Only the possibility, however slim, that whoever was on the other side wasn't another blow from fate.
Down the stairs she went, clumsy in her haste, driven by an instinct she couldn't name. The grand front door loomed, dark and imposing. Her fingers fumbled for the heavy iron handle.
She pulled the door inward, stepping into the rush of cold evening air that swept into the foyer.
And stopped dead.
Kylian. And Cedric.
Baron Hawkrige leaned against the doorframe, a silhouette against the deepening twilight. His dark hair, free and wild, framed a face that was impossibly striking, though a faint, knowing smirk curved his lips. He wore a coat that looked expensive, but his boots were scuffed, as if he'd walked through the world to get here. Beside him, Cedric Mornell stood still, his silver-gray hair pulled neatly back, a book tucked under his arm. His dark eyes met Aisling's, calm and weary.
"Well, look who it is," Kylian drawled, pushing off the frame with a lazy grace that made her skin crawl. He stepped into the foyer, bringing the biting cold with him. "The little witchling herself. Surprised to see me?"
Aisling stared, speechless for a moment, the fear of debtors instantly replaced by a shock that stole her breath. Him? Here? Now? "You," she finally choked out, her voice raw. "What are you doing here?"
Kylian's smirk widened. "Why, Lady Aisling, I came to collect on a debt, of course." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, watching the color drain from her face. Then he chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. "Though not the kind your dear father owes. More… personal, shall we say? I heard you hadn't yet accepted my rather generous proposal. And since you were so hesitant to agree to join me, I decided I would simply acquire the next best thing."
He gestured past her, towards the stairs, towards Liam's room. "Your brother. A promising young man, I'm told. Perhaps he would find the terms of my… company ... more agreeable than you did."
Aisling reeled back as if he had struck her. The shock dissolved instantly into pure, incandescent fury. He wanted Liam? Because she refused ? "You monstrous bastard!" she screamed, the sound tearing from her throat and echoing in the silent house. "Get out! Get out of my house! You have no right!"
"No right?" Kylian tilted his head, his blue eyes glinting with cold amusement. "My dear, as Baron of these lands, I have every right. And besides," his voice dropped, becoming a silken threat, "you left me little choice. You refused to come willingly. What's a man to do but take what he desires by other means?"
"He's sick!" she shrieked, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "He's dying! You can't just—"
A sudden, harsh fit of coughing ripped through the quiet house, louder now, more desperate. It was Liam.
Kylian's gaze flickered upstairs, then back to Aisling, that unnerving smirk still in place, but something colder entering his eyes. "Dying, you say? Yes, I can sense it from here. A fading flame. He's fighting for his last breath, isn't he? Poor boy."
His words, casual and cruel, struck Aisling like a physical blow. Liam. Dying. Now. The image of his pale, fading face slammed into her mind, overriding the rage, the fear, everything. He was going to die. And the only thing standing between him and the grave was this monster, this impossible being who wielded power she couldn't comprehend.
The hatred, the pride, the unyielding defiance she usually wore like armor—it all crumbled in that moment. Her legs gave out, and she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, uncaring of her dignity, uncaring of anything but the life gasping away upstairs.
"Please," she choked out, the word tearing from her raw throat, a desperate plea she swore she would never utter to him. Tears, hot and sudden, streamed down her face. She looked up at Kylian, her voice broken, pleading. "Please. Don't let him die. You can help him. I know you can. Please. I'll do anything."
Kylian knelt down, smoothly, effortlessly, bringing himself to her level. His gloved fingers, cool against her skin, lifted her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. He didn't smile, but his expression softened, infinitesimally, like a hairline crack in ice. His thumb gently wiped a tear from her cheek. "Ah, 'anything'," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Now that is a word that has infinite possibilities. And you say it with such conviction, little witchling."
He rose, pulling her up with him, drawing her against his chest. For a moment, she was held, cradled against his solid, unnervingly still form. His scent—cold, ancient, and subtly sweet—filled her senses, both repelling and inexplicably drawing her in. He stroked her tangled hair, a gesture that felt both tender and possessive, a stark contrast to the glint in his eye. He held her for a few seconds, letting her tremble against him, letting the raw edge of her despair touch him. Then, he released her, holding her by the shoulders, his blue eyes holding hers.
"So," he said, his voice calm, measured, but with that theatrical hint she hated. "Anything? You truly mean that?"
Aisling nodded frantically, unable to speak, her throat thick with sobs and desperate hope. Anything. Yes. Anything to save Liam.
Kylian's smile was unsettling, charming and cruel all at once. "Good. Because I have something. An elixir." He reached into his coat, producing a small glass vial. It glowed with a soft, internal light, shimmering gold and rose. The scent that rose from it was faint, complex, hinting at earth and frost and something else, something alive and potent. "Brewed by the Corvidae, those masters of life and death in the Sunken Marshes. One drop could pull him back from the brink."
He held the vial out of reach, his gaze piercing, linking the glowing liquid and his words. "With this, he could live. Free of pain, free of wasting. A full, healthy life." His eyes locked onto hers. "It is yours… upon the signing of our contract." His lips curved into that unsettling, charming smile. "A simple exchange of promises, my dear. Your brother's future for your own."
Aisling stared at the vial, then at his face. The cost. The cost was everything. Her freedom. Her life. But Liam… Liam was upstairs, fighting for every breath. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, the shame of her begging, the cold dread of the bargain.
"I accept," she whispered, the words barely audible, a vow offered to the silent house, to the dying boy, to the monster who waited. "I accept the contract."
Kylian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his blue eyes – triumph? Satisfaction? "You understand the terms?" he pressed, his voice low. "You will be my wife. For eternity."
"Yes," she managed, her voice stronger now, the despair replaced by a grim resolve. "I understand."
Kylian turned his head slightly. "Cedric?"
Cedric stepped forward, his dark eyes calm and steady. "The Lady Aisling has accepted the terms of the Baron's contract in exchange for the elixir for her brother's life." His gaze met Aisling's, a flicker of something that might have been pity in their depth. "Do you confirm this, Lady Aisling?"
"I confirm it," she said, her voice clear now, though trembling slightly. The bargain was struck.
Kylian finally extended the vial to her. "Take it. Quickly. Time is, as Cedric so often reminds me, of the essence."
Aisling snatched the vial, clutching it as if it were the most precious thing in existence. It was. Her brother's life rested in her hand. She spun away from them, the cold dread of the bargain a distant echo for now, drowned out by the frantic need to save Liam.
She flew up the stairs, driven by a renewed panic, leaving the cold foyer and the chilling bargain behind her. She burst back into Liam's room, skidding to a halt beside his bed.
He was worse. His breathing was shallower, more ragged. His eyes were closed, his face slack, almost translucent. He looked impossibly fragile, poised on the very edge of existence.
"Liam?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Her fingers fumbled with the vial, slick with sweat. There was no time. No time for regret, for fear, for anything but this desperate, final act. She couldn't lose him. Not Liam.
Her gaze flickered to the vial, then back to her brother's face. The cost... it was her life. Her future. But Liam...
A single tear traced a path down her cheek.
Forcing herself to be steady, she tilted Liam's head back gently, the vial shaking in her hand. She poured the glowing liquid between his lips.
One drop.
Two.
Three.
She watched, breath held tight in her chest. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then, a shudder ran through him, a harsh, rattling cough, and a gasp that sounded like a breath of fresh air after drowning. His body relaxed, the tremors ceasing. His breathing deepened, evening out into a soft, steady rhythm. Color, faint but undeniable, returned to his cheeks.
Liam's lashes fluttered. His eyes opened, no longer dull and fading, but clear, still the vibrant emerald of the sea. He looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips.
"Hey, Ash," he rasped, his voice hoarse, but present. "Did you... dye your hair again? Looks... messy."
Aisling let out a shaky sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, collapsing beside his bed, clutching his arm. Relief, potent and overwhelming, washed over her, leaving her weak and trembling. He was alive. He was alive.
"You absolute bastard," she choked out, tears streaming down her face. "You scared the hell out of me."
Liam's smile widened, faint but real. "You cry pretty ugly, you know that?"
"Shut up," she said fiercely, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "You're lucky you're not dead or I'd have murdered you myself."
He wheezed a laugh, closing his eyes. "Still dramatic. Still loud."
"Still breathing," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "That's all that matters." His grip was weak, but real. Soon, he drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, the sound of his even breathing a balm to her ragged nerves.
She stayed there for a long time, watching him, listening to the quiet, steady sound of his life. Her fingers stroked his soft, red hair. The weight of the bargain pressed down on her, cold and heavy, but for now, all that mattered was this moment.
But the moment couldn't last forever.
A soft click of the door, and footsteps, quiet but distinct, entered the room.
Kylian. And Cedric.
"Remarkable," Cedric murmured, stepping closer to the bed, his onyx eyes scanning Liam's serene face. "The Corvidae's work is truly beyond compare."
Kylian stood a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Aisling, a predatory purr in his voice. "He sleeps. My part is done." He inclined his head towards Liam. "Looks like he'll live to be an irritating nuisance for years to come. You're welcome."
Cedric offered Aisling a small, apologetic smile. "Lady Aisling, the bargain is struck. We must proceed with the formalities."
Kylian stepped forward, his hand closing around her wrist. "Now," he stated, his gaze locking onto hers, utterly devoid of the brief, manufactured softness from downstairs. "Your part."
Aisling cried out, struggling against his grip. "Let me go! Just a moment!"
"My dear, the longer we delay, the more time you have to think," Kylian said, his tone light but his grip unyielding. "And we wouldn't want your admirable resolve to waver, would we? It would simply be rude." He dragged her from the room, down the silent corridor, her protests caught in her throat. Cedric followed, shaking his head faintly.
Down the stairs they went, back into the chilling silence of the foyer. He didn't release her until they were standing once more on the cold stone floor.
The parchment lay on a small table, unrolled and waiting. That cursed, ancient parchment.
"The pin," Kylian said, his voice a quiet command, laced with a hint of anticipation. "Let's make this official, shall we?"
Her hands trembled as she reached into her sleeve, fumbling for the silver pin. Her fingers closed around it, cold and sharp.
She looked from the pin, to the parchment, to Kylian's implacable face. He offered no comfort now, only expectation, his eyes bright with a dangerous amusement. Cedric stood nearby, overseeing the proceedings with a calm, professional air.
She raised the pin, her hand shaking violently. She pricked the tip of her finger. A bead of blood welled, bright crimson against her pale skin.
She pressed her bleeding finger to the parchment.
It sizzled, a faint, unnatural sound in the quiet hall. The parchment glowed crimson for a moment, then the edges curled, and it crumbled into ash, scattering silently onto the stone floor.
A burning pain laced through her wrist, exactly where the sigil had appeared after her fever dream. She gasped, clutching her wrist.
The skin throbbed, the pain sharp and deep.
The sigil was there, clearer now, branded into her skin – the circle, the crescent thorn, the coiled dagger. A permanent mark.
She looked up, her eyes burning, but Kylian was already reaching for her, his hand closing around her marked wrist. His thumb traced the raw lines of the sigil, possessive and final.
"Done," he murmured, his voice low, a predatory purr that resonated through her bones. He pulled her closer, his face mere inches from hers, his eyes glinting. "You are bound, little witchling. And you belong to me now."
Aisling stared into his cold, beautiful eyes, the burning sigil on her wrist a searing truth. She had saved her brother. But she had just sold herself to the devil. And his grip on her wrist was a promise of an eternity she could only begin to imagine, dark and inescapable.