The air in Rutherford Manor clung heavy with the ghosts of thyme and woodsmoke, a scent usually a comfort, like a faded blanket. But now, it felt suffocating, a cruel reminder of the three days Aisling had spent tethered to this place, this outcome. Three days since she'd felt Liam's life flicker like a dying candle. Three days since she'd bowed her head to the devil in the drawing room. Three days since the burning kiss of a sigil had marked her skin, a constant, throbbing reminder of the impossible choice she'd made.
She'd poured every ounce of her frantic energy into tending Liam, watching the dark edges of death recede with every slow breath he took. The elixir Kylian had given her worked with a terrifying grace, knitting bone and mending flesh where sickness had claimed its territory. He was still weak, yes, a shadow of himself, but his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of life. He was there. And the relief of it was a physical ache beneath her ribs.
Aisling sat on the edge of his bed, her hand steady as she lifted a spoon of broth to his lips. Liam swallowed, his eyes, finally clear and bright, watched her face with a soft wonder. A ghost of his old smile touched his mouth. "It tastes like... like living," he murmured, his voice raspy but no longer thin and reedy. "Not like that gray feeling."
A faint smile touched Aisling's own lips. "Good. You need to eat. Stop looking like a gust of wind could carry you off." She reached for the spoon again, her worn sleeve sliding back. Liam's gaze, sharp even in his weakness, immediately locked onto her wrist. His smile vanished.
"Ash?" His brow furrowed, a line of worry deepening between his eyes. "What's on your arm?"
Aisling froze, her hand hovering in the air. She snatched her sleeve down, trying to hide the mark. "Nothing," she said, too quickly, her voice brittle. "Just... ink. From Father's ledgers."
Liam's eyes held hers, unwavering. "Ink doesn't glow," he said, his voice quiet but firm. He reached out, his weak fingers gentle but insistent as he pushed her sleeve back up. His touch on her skin, tracing the faint, raised lines of the crescent thorn and dagger, sent a jolt through her. "That's not ink."
He looked up, his emerald eyes serious, demanding the truth. "What is it? What happened, Ash?"
"It doesn't matter," she insisted, trying to push the spoon forward, a desperate distraction. "Eat your soup. You need your strength."
But Liam stopped her, his hand closing weakly but surely around her wrist, holding her in place. "Aisling," he pleaded, his voice softer now, but impossible to ignore. "Tell me. You went downstairs... and then he came back. Kylian. What did he do to you?"
She looked at his face, open and trusting, etched with fear for her. Lies died on her tongue. The words spilled out, ragged and sharp, edged with the lingering taste of humiliation and fury. "He had... a vial," she whispered, her voice raw. "An elixir. He said it could save you."
Liam's eyes widened slightly. "And... he just gave it to you?"
"He gave me a choice," she corrected, the bitterness rising like bile. "He said he would give it to me if I signed his contract. If I agreed... to marry him."
Liam stared at her, his face clouding with disbelief. "No," he breathed, shaking his head faintly. "Ash, no. You hated that idea. You were so angry... you wouldn't... not for that."
"You were dying, Liam!" The words burst from her, hot and wild. "You were dying. And Father was useless, lost in his cups, and I... I couldn't do anything! He had the only thing that could save you!"
She pulled her wrist from his grasp, lifting her hand to cup his cheek, her fingers brushing his skin, blessedly warm. "He said he would take you instead. Your life for mine. I saw you... you were almost gone. I couldn't lose you, Liam. I couldn't."
Liam reached up, covering her hand with his, his gaze swimming with unshed tears. "Oh, Ash," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "My brave, foolish sister. Thank you. Thank you."
She clung to him, trembling, the hard shell around her heart cracking. Silent tears tracked paths down her cheeks as she pressed her face into his shoulder. "Don't," she choked out, muffled against his shift. "Just... live."
He pulled back slowly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "What happens now?" he asked, his voice quiet, the weight of her sacrifice settling between them. "With the contract? With him?"
Aisling pulled back completely, wrapping her arms around herself, the cold dread seeping into her bones. "I don't know... exactly," she admitted, looking away. "He has it. Signed in blood. He's going to make me his wife. He'll likely consolidate the debts, fix this crumbling house... and I will belong to him."
Just then, a loud bellow echoed from downstairs, followed by the heavy thud of boots and raised voices.
"What's that?" Liam asked, startled, trying to push himself up.
Aisling stood quickly, smoothing her shift. "Sounds like Father yelling again. Stay here, Liam. Please. You're still too weak." She hurried out of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs, a familiar mix of dread and fury coiling in her gut. What fresh hell had arrived?
She found her father in the foyer, his face a florid mask of anger and confusion. He was arguing with a group of men unloading rolls of wallpaper and shrouded furniture. Standing slightly apart was a woman, tall and slender, dressed in severe grey, holding a leather satchel. Her presence was unnervingly still, like a statue carved from pale stone.
"What in God's name is happening?" Aisling demanded, stepping fully into the chaotic scene.
Fionn spun around, sputtering. "Aisling! These ruffians say the Baron sent them! Talking about renovations! Renovations! Why would Baron Hawkrige be renovating my house?"
Aisling met his furious gaze, her expression cold, the truth a bitter taste on her tongue. "Because I agreed to marry him, Father."
Silence descended like a shroud. The workmen froze, looking from Aisling to her father. Fionn stared at her, his mouth agape. Then, a slow understanding dawned, quickly replaced by a sickening wave of relief.
"You... you did it?" he whispered, the bluster draining from him, replaced by breathless hope. "You signed the contract?"
Aisling simply nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
A wide, almost maniacal grin split Fionn's face. "He's settling the debts! He's renovating the house! By God, Aisling, you've saved us!" He looked around the dusty foyer with new, possessive eyes, already calculating.
As Fionn began to preen, the woman in grey stepped forward. Her movements were graceful, almost silent. "Miss Rutherford?" she said, her voice soft, like cool water. "I am Virelai Morwenna. Baron Hawkrige also sent me. I am a healer. I am here to see to your brother's complete recovery."
Aisling's eyes snapped to the woman, a fierce, protective heat rising in her chest. This cool, composed stranger sent by him? "No," Aisling said, her voice sharp, cutting through the sudden calm. "That won't be necessary. I can care for my brother myself."
Virelai's pale blue eyes, unnervingly placid, remained fixed on Aisling. A polite, unreadable smile touched her lips. "My lady, the Baron has paid for my services. I assure you, I am quite skilled. I will not leave until Master Liam is completely restored to health."
Aisling stepped towards her, her eyes narrowed to emerald slits. The air around her seemed to crackle. "I said no. I don't care what he paid you. If you don't leave this instant, I will throw you out myself."
Before the tension could erupt, a voice, weak but firm, called from the bottom of the stairs. "Ash, leave it."
Aisling turned, startled, to see Liam standing there, leaning heavily on the banister, watching them with tired but clear eyes. He was pale, exhaustion etched on his face, but his gaze held a familiar, steady strength.
"Liam! What are you doing down here?" Aisling rushed to his side, her anger forgotten in a surge of concern. "You should be in bed!"
Fionn, who had been beaming at the prospect of renovations, stared at Liam, his mouth dropping open again. "Liam? Son? By the saints, you're... you're well!" He looked back at Aisling, bewildered. "How? How did he...?"
Aisling ignored her father's stunned questions for a moment, supporting Liam as he carefully descended the last few steps. Liam looked at his father, a faint, weary smile on his face. "It was Aisling, Father. She saved me."
Fionn turned back to Aisling, his eyes wide with disbelief, the dawning realization of the price she had paid slowly sinking in. "But... how? What did you do?"
Aisling looked at her father – the man who had failed them both, who now saw only the promise of comfort and repaired walls. The bitterness in her gut twisted. "I signed the contract," she said, her voice flat, hollowed out. "He gave me an elixir for Liam, and I signed the contract."
Fionn's face softened, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude touching his eyes before the self-interest returned. "Aisling... thank you."
"Don't," she said again, the word sharp, cutting through the air like a thrown dagger. "Don't thank me. If it had just been you," she gestured towards him, contempt heavy in her voice, "if it had just been this crumbling manor, I would have let it all fall to ruin around your ears. I would have watched you lose everything. I did this for Liam. Only for Liam."
She turned away from him, the finality of her words a cold barrier between them. Virelai stepped forward again, her expression one of measured sympathy. "If you'll permit me, Miss Rutherford," she said gently, her voice a soothing balm that Aisling instantly distrusted. "I can ensure his recovery is complete. I have remedies for strength and rest."
Aisling looked at Liam, who gave her a small, tired nod. He needed care. Skilled care. And soon, she would be gone. "Very well," she said, her voice clipped, the surrender tasting like ash. "See to him."
Virelai smiled, a faint, knowing curve of her lips, and moved towards Liam, her movements efficient and calm. The renovators, sensing the shift in the air, resumed their work, the sounds of hammering and movement filling the silence Aisling had just created.
A profound sense of detachment settled over Aisling. Her task was done. Liam was safe. She felt like a tool, used and discarded. She walked past her father, already excitedly directing the builders, and ascended the stairs, the noise below fading as she climbed.
Her room was a sanctuary of silence, a stark contrast to the invasion happening downstairs. She sank onto the window seat, wrapping her arms around herself, the cold stone a mirror of the ice forming in her chest. The last three days spun in her mind – Kylian's chilling gaze, the burning mark, the unsettling dreams. Crimson dresses. Bathtubs. Blood.
Kylian had saved Liam. He was fixing the house. He was weaving himself into the very fabric of their lives, his presence becoming terrifyingly real, undeniably permanent. She was bound to him.
The dreams... they felt less like dreams now. More like memories she shouldn't have. The woman who looked like her, Serena. And Kylian. His sharp teeth. Licking blood from a wrist...
A chilling thought, cold and heavy, settled deep within her. Was that what it meant? To be his wife? Would she have to... feed him? Like Serena had in the dream? A wave of pure revulsion washed over her.
A soft rustle beside her elbow.
Her eyes snapped to the windowsill.
Lying there, stark against the grey stone, was an envelope. Black.
The seal was crimson wax, shaped like a rose crushed beneath a fang. His sigil – an ornate 'H' crowned with thorns – was pressed into the wax. Kylian.
She didn't need to open it to know who it was from. Yet, her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up. A faint, metallic scent, like iron mixed with crushed roses, seemed to rise from the paper.
She cracked the seal. Inside, a single line of elegant, looping calligraphy.
"Your engagement shall be made public by the stroke of midnight."
She stared at the words. Engagement. It felt less like a promise and more like the tightening of a silken noose around her throat.
A laugh escaped her lips, shaky, bitter, bordering on hysterical. "Of course," she whispered to the empty room, the sound swallowed by the sudden gust of wind outside. "Of course you wouldn't even let me have one damn hour of peace before dragging me into your circus."
She could see him in her mind's eye – Baron Kylian Hawkrige, all sharp angles and unreadable eyes. Probably swirling a goblet of something dark and viscous, utterly amused as he watched her unravel. "Bastard," she muttered, the word a curse and a prayer against the shiver that ran down her spine. It wasn't fear that caused it. It was the memory of his possessive gaze, the finality in his eyes when she had signed that cursed contract.
Aisling pressed the letter to her lips for a moment, a strange, desperate gesture. Then, she tore it in half, the paper ripping with the sound of a broken vow. The wind snatched the pieces from her fingers, whipping them out the window, carrying them away like black petals scattered to the storm.
But as they vanished, she knew it didn't matter. Midnight was coming. And with it, the world would know she was to marry the most dangerous man in the realm. A man who might want more than just her name. A man who might want her blood.