The storm did not knock.
It clawed.
Rain lashed the old glass windows of Rutherford Manor, drumming hard enough to shake the fragile panes in their wooden frames. Thunder cracked so close it rattled her bones. The sky had turned the color of old bruises—dark, sullen, aching.
Aisling stood at the drawing room window, watching as a black carriage rolled down the gravel path, slick wheels whispering like death itself had sent for tea.
No coachman sat at the reins.
The horses—huge and ink-dark—moved as if summoned by will alone, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. No hoofbeats. No sound save the rain.
Her fingers curled around the window ledge.
"He's early," she muttered.
"He's not supposed to be anything," Liam said from the couch, huddled beneath a thin blanket, his face pale. "We didn't invite him."
Aisling turned. "As if men like that wait for invitations."
---
The knock came a heartbeat later.
Three of them.
Precise.
Measured.
Like a countdown. Like a judge's gavel. Like the pause between lightning and the inevitable crash of thunder.
One. Two. Three.
Each knock curled around Aisling's spine like a cold finger, uninvited and unwelcome.
She stiffened where she stood, every nerve in her body lighting up in protest. Her breath caught—not out of fear, of course. She didn't fear anything. Not darkness, not death, not monsters, and certainly not some arrogant bloodsucker who thought a wax seal and an ancestral title made him God.
But the silence that followed those knocks?
It hummed with power. Ancient. Heavy. The kind of quiet that made the air taste metallic on her tongue.
He's here.
Lord Rutherford—her father—jerked upright so suddenly, his teacup clattered to the floor and shattered like porcelain bones.
He stumbled over himself like a puppet with tangled strings. His cravat had twisted sideways in the rush, sitting askew like a drunk man's collar. His knees cracked as he rose, too fast, too eager, too desperate to salvage dignity that had long since drowned in brandy and bad decisions.
Aisling didn't move.
She didn't blink.
She only watched him.
Watched how his hands trembled as they smoothed his lapels, how his mouth opened and closed like a fish plucked from water. Pathetic.
And then he leaned toward her, close enough for his breath to brush her cheek.
"Do be polite, Aisling," he murmured, his voice brittle and frantic, too low for Liam to hear. "Please. We cannot afford to offend him."
Polite? Polite?
Aisling didn't respond.
But oh, her silence did.
It screamed.
It cut.
Sharper than any blade, colder than any winter wind.
She didn't need to speak for her opinion to crack the air between them like thunder.
He flinched.
Good.
Let him.
---
The butler opened the door.
A gust of cold air slithered in first—sharp, biting, and ancient, like something that had clawed its way out of a crypt. Then came the silence, thick and expectant, like the entire manor itself had paused to hold its breath.
And then…
He entered.
The Baron.
Tall. Towering. Unapologetically commanding, like a monarch walking into his court—or a predator stepping into his chosen hunting ground.
He didn't walk. He glided.
Every step was deliberate, echoing softly on the marble floor like the ticking of a clock before execution. His coat was obsidian—sleek, heavy, with shoulders so sharp they could cut throats. It hugged his frame like darkness tailored just for him. Not a single drop of rain dared cling to it.
His black hair was slicked back, tied at the nape of his neck with unsettling precision. The ends glistened, damp with the remnants of the storm outside, but not a single strand dared rebel.
Pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and a jaw carved like it was meant for biting more than speaking. He didn't smile. Not even a twitch. His face was too still, too sculpted, like marble brought to life just to torment the breathing.
But it was his eyes that pinned her.
That unnatural blue.
Icy.
Piercing.
Unforgiving.
The color of frozen rivers—ones that looked calm on the surface but would swallow you whole if you so much as dared to step too close.
And he was looking right at her.
No. Through her.
Like he already knew what her soul tasted like.
Aisling's lungs forgot how to work. She couldn't tell if it was because of the sudden drop in temperature… or the sheer arrogance in the way he breathed the same air as everyone else and somehow made it feel like a sin.
Her brother visibly paled, the little wine he had left in his glass trembling slightly in his hand. Even the butler—stoic, cold Mr. Ashbury—took half a step back as if gravity had shifted toward the Baron.
But not her.
No.
She didn't shrink.
She burned.
Oh, she was scared—her stomach was doing somersaults and her heart had begun to play the drums with her ribs—but her pride wouldn't let her look away. Not now. Not ever.
What? Just because he looked like death had decided to get fashionably elegant, she was supposed to tremble?
Please.
Her eyes narrowed. Her spine stiffened, and that stupid sarcastic voice in her head—the one that only got louder when danger knocked—decided now was the perfect time to speak up.
He looks like a vampire walked out of a nightmare and into a fashion catalog. Fantastic. Let's all die beautifully, shall we?
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, mostly to stop herself from doing something impulsive.
Like speak.
Or worse—smirk.
Because the moment he looked at her—really looked—something shifted.
His presence didn't enter the room.
It flooded it.
Like smoke curling through cracks, seeping into every breath, every heartbeat, every unspoken thought.
Everyone seemed to fold beneath it.
Everyone…
except her.
---
"Aisling," her father said, forcing a smile that looked painful. "This is—"
"I know who he is," she said, stepping forward, her skirts whispering over the rug. "The blood-buyer. The debt-collector. The one who sends cursed letters sealed in wax that doesn't melt."
Baron Kylian Hawkrige lifted one brow. It was barely a movement.
Yet somehow devastating.
"You speak as if I've wronged you," he said, voice low and textured—like wine spilled over broken glass. "I merely offered a contract."
"With my name on it," Aisling snapped. "And my future, apparently. No mention of courtship. No polite interest. Just a bargain written in blood."
"I find such contracts clear," he said smoothly. "No room for misunderstandings."
"And no room for me."
A slow, amused smile touched his lips. "On the contrary. There is only room for you."
Her heart gave a stupid little jump at that, and she hated it immediately.
She hated how calm he was. How deliberate.
He walked farther into the room, sparing only a nod for Liam, a stiff nod for her father, and then turned his gaze back to her. Held it.
The silence that followed felt alive.
Aisling folded her arms. "You want an answer?"
"I already know it," he said, eyes narrowing. "But I came to see if you know yourself well enough to give it."
The audacity.
The arrogance made her spine lock.
"I'm not a piece of property you can purchase," she said. "And I don't say yes to strange men who skulk around in storms and speak in riddles."
Kylian stepped closer.
Her breath hitched—just slightly.
He smelled like iron and night. Not sweat. Not cologne. Something older. Older than her, older than this manor, older than every damn debt haunting their name.
"I don't skulk," he said softly. "And I never speak in riddles. When I want something, I ask."
"And what exactly do you want, my lord?" Her voice dripped with scorn.
"You," he said.
Flat. Direct. No drama.
The way someone might say I want the last piece of bread.
She blinked. Her body warmed in irritation.
"You don't even know me."
"I know your name. I know your blood. I know the house you haunt and the dreams you try to forget."
She flinched.
Just slightly.
But it was enough.
His eyes sharpened.
"What do you know of my dreams?" she asked, too quickly.
He smiled again. That infuriating little tilt of his lips.
"Only that they are not always yours."
Her skin prickled.
She couldn't breathe.
Not for the rain. Not for the storm outside.
But for the way he removed one glove—slowly, deliberately—and held out his hand.
There.
On his palm.
A black sigil. Burned into the flesh like a brand.
Circular. Thorned. Bleeding from the edges like a wound that never healed.
She'd seen it.
Not here.
Not in life.
But in the strange half-dreams she hadn't dared speak of.
Her stomach twisted.
"What is that?" she asked hoarsely.
"Proof," he said simply. "That this is not the first time we've met."
She hated that her legs felt weak.
Hated that her pulse was pounding behind her ribs like a war drum.
"No."
That one word carried every ounce of defiance she had left.
"No, I don't care what you say or what you brand on yourself. You are not some long-lost lover. You are a man who thinks he can buy me like livestock. I won't be your bride."
There it was.
The open rejection.
The slap made of syllables.
Kylian didn't flinch.
He looked at her for a long, long moment.
Then he turned to the sideboard, set down a black folder with embossed edges, and flipped it open.
A contract.
Written in dark crimson ink.
"I will return in three nights," he said, tone unchanged. "This contract will remain here. Unburnable. Unshreddable. You may consider it a... standing offer."
Her father paled. Leo looked at her with wide, pleading eyes.
And the Baron?
He met her eyes one last time.
Then left without waiting for permission.
Only after the door shut did she realize her fists were clenched so tightly her nails had bitten half-moons into her palms.
She turned, lips trembling, barely keeping it together.
Her father rushed toward the folder, desperate.
Liam reached for her hand. "Aisling..."
"I said no," she whispered.
But then, from down the hall, behind her father's closed door—
She heard the weeping.
Quiet.
Shameful.
Hopeless.