Isabelle Mesias was going to die. On what ought to have been the happiest day of her life, she was going to die. The thought struck her like a lightning bolt — sudden, searing — igniting terror in her veins and sending her already galloping heart careening into a wild, panic.
She knew, with cold and terrible certainty, that her death was imminent as she lay there on her back, motionless, eyes wide, staring at the impossible sky stretched above her.
A vast tapestry of darkness unfurled overhead, embroidered with a scatter of stars and stained in bruised shades of violet and blue. Within that glittering vault, entire galaxies winked back at her, but what stunned her most were the twin pale crescents poised at its center. They shone down upon her like Cheshire Cat grins — one half the size of the other.
Two moons, she thought numbly. I must be dreaming. Please, please, let this be a dream.
Somewhere in the distance, men shouted and hounds bayed — their voices a discordant chorus to her ears, snapping her back to herself.
The bitter, metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth. She rolled to her knees and spat crimson into the soil. She gingerly touched her split lip — a brutal gift from a behemoth of a man with pointed ears and a gleam of death in his eyes.
They're so close! I have to move, she thought, desperately. I need to find help — I need to get out of here!
That she had no earthly idea where here was did not escape her. She would have to unravel that mystery along the way — if she survived long enough.
"Come out now, my lady," an impatient voice thundered from beyond the treeline. "You cannot elude the Fates — and you most certainly shall not elude me. You're only prolonging your own suffering."
Isabelle swallowed her terror and gathered up the heavy mass of ivory fabric knotted about her legs.
The dress had been a vision that morning — custom-tailored months ago to drape perfectly over every curve. Its strapless sweetheart neckline and bodice studded with Swarovski crystals tapered to a waspish waist, then spilled into endless yards of billowing silk and lace. It was exquisite — chosen by her soon-to-be mother-in-law, whose tastes she respected, if not entirely shared.
But now, Isabelle could not have despised the gown more. It snagged and tore with every frantic step through the brambles and thorns, threatening to drag her down to the earth with its weight.
Damn it, damn it!
A mournful howl rose somewhere in the distance, setting the hounds into a frenzy of barking that reverberated through the forest's bones.
She was hopelessly lost in what felt like a fever dream — a nightmare spun from a twisted fairy tale. She fled through an alien wood, pursued by a dozen madmen clad in black armor, swords drawn, mastiffs straining at their leashes. She had thought her plight could not possibly get worse — but as another chilling howl rent the night air, she realized how wrong she was.
Wolves.
She wasn't sure which fate was crueller — to be hunted, tortured, and butchered by the psychopaths trailing her, or torn apart and devoured alive by a hungry pack of wolves.
She ran harder, branches tearing at her veil and hair, her choice already made without hesitation. Better the wolves than the monsters in men's skin.
Then, without warning, her veil snagged on a low branch. Her head snapped back violently, halting her mid-stride.
"No! No, no, no — come on! Dammit!" she hissed, her voice a ragged plea as she writhed like an insect ensnared in a spider's web.
Precious seconds bled away before she wrenched herself free, spun, and bolted like a hare sprung from a trap.
Thwack!
She slammed into an unyielding wall of muscle and rebounded, sent sprawling onto the forest floor. The impact stole the breath from her lungs; she gasped, her ribs aching as she forced herself up onto her elbows.
Then she looked up — and froze.
Her jaw slackened as she beheld the face of her assailant. In all her twenty-three years, she had never imagined that beauty could wear so savage a mask. His features were carved with an unholy grace — a fallen angel draped in shadows and moonlight. It seemed absurd to think of a man as beautiful — yet no other word suited him more.
"Ah, there you are, my dear," he purred — a lovely sound, yet as ominous as a piano chord struck in a minor key. "We've been searching everywhere for you," he tsked softly. "You have no idea the grief you've caused us all. Mother is in a foul mood — you've quite ruined the night's festivities."
He lifted one elegant hand and raked long fingers through his moonlit hair, his rich, golden curls haloed in silver.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, he rolled his eyes heavenward — as if seeking, in vain, some shred of divine patience. "At the very least, the night is yet young." He turned his icy blue gaze on her. "There's still plenty of time to turn this all around. After all, what's a party without a main event?"
Stealing the remnants of her courage, she snapped, "I don't know what you're talking about! This is all a huge mistake. I've never met any of you in my entire life. I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm telling you, you've got the wrong person!"