Cold. That was the first thing I registered. A deep, bone-aching cold that felt like it was seeping into my very core. Not just 'forgot-to-pay-the-heating-bill-again' cold, but the kind of cold that felt ancient and empty. Like being in a place where warmth was a forgotten concept.
My head throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the sharp, cold ache spreading through my limbs. I tried to shift, but found myself lying on something surprisingly soft, yet somehow rigid. Velvet? Black velvet. Because of course it was. My life had apparently taken a dramatic, gothic turn into a Tim Burton movie set.
I pushed myself up slowly, blinking against the gloom. The air smelled faintly of dust and something else… something like ozone and graveyards. Charming. I was definitely not in my apartment anymore. Unless my landlord had gotten really ambitious with the redecorating and skipped straight to 'haunted mansion chic.'
Dim light filtered through tall, arched windows draped in heavy, dark fabric. The room was enormous, high-ceilinged, filled with furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum dedicated to 'Things That Look Fancy But Are Probably Uncomfortable.' Carved wood, dark stone, shadows clinging to every corner like unwelcome guests. And whispers. Still the whispers, low and murmuring, just at the edge of hearing.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Where was I? How did I get here? The mirror. The shadows. Being pulled through. It hadn't been a dream. It had been… an express trip through my bathroom mirror to wherever this was.
Before I could fully freak out – which was high on the agenda – I noticed I wasn't alone.
Standing across the vast room, near one of the tall windows, was a man. Tall. Impossibly tall. And pale. Not just pale, but like moonlight on fresh snow pale. He was dressed in clothes so dark they seemed to drink the light, tailored perfectly to his lean, imposing frame.
His face… okay, let's be honest. Objectively? Sinfully gorgeous. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it was carved from stone. But his eyes…
They weren't eyes. They were voids. Like staring into a night sky with no stars. Just bottomless, impenetrable black. They held absolutely no light, no warmth, no emotion. Yet, I felt the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and intense.
He wasn't moving. Just watching me. Standing there in the oppressive silence of the gothic ballroom I'd apparently materialized in. My sarcastic shield snapped into place on pure instinct.
"Okay," I said, my voice sounding shaky despite my best efforts. "New rule: no pulling people through mirrors without a minimum of 24 hours' notice. And maybe a little basket of apology muffins."
He didn't react immediately. Just kept those unnerving black voids fixed on me. The silence stretched, thick and awkward. My pulse pounded in my ears.
Then, a slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't warm. It was the kind of smile a predator gives just before it strikes. It was unsettling. And infuriatingly, it did weird things to my insides. Hormones, you absolute traitors.
"Awake, I see," he said, his voice low, resonant, like a cello played in a cavern. It wasn't unkind, exactly, but it was utterly devoid of anything remotely resembling human empathy. "Good. The transition can be… disorienting."
"Disorienting is an understatement," I shot back, pushing myself fully upright. My legs felt shaky. "Where am I? And who the actual hell are you?"
He took a step towards me, gliding across the floor like he wasn't touching it. Every movement was fluid, silent. "You are where you are bound to be, Sera Quinn."
He knew my name. Of course he did. Everyone in this weird, contract-fueled nightmare seemed to know my name.
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze unwavering. "As for who I am… you signed the contract, did you not? The pact is sealed."
The contract. The "modeling contract." With Lucien. The shadowless creep who spoke in riddles and gave me a melting pen. This guy… was he the head of the agency? The one who oversaw the "immortal branding" and "soul alignment"?
"Yeah, I signed a modeling contract," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "With some guy named Lucien. It was weird. Really weird. He mentioned 'eternal exposure' and 'soul alignment,' which frankly sounded like terrible marketing copy. Is this… is this the 'eternal exposure' part? Because this is not exactly a well-lit studio."
He let out a soft sound that might have been a chuckle, though it held no mirth. "Lucien is… efficient. He handles the necessary introductions. This, Sera Quinn, is merely… home."
Home? This creepy, cold, whisper-filled mansion was home? My tiny, slightly-too-colorful apartment with the listing fan suddenly seemed like a palace of warmth and normalcy.
"Home?" I scoffed, looking around the cavernous, shadowy room. "This looks less like home and more like where vampires host extremely boring parties. And what's with the whispers? Are you guys having a séance?"
He tilted his head slightly, that void gaze still fixed on me. "The whispers are merely… the echoes. The residual energy of those who linger. Nothing to concern yourself with."
Nothing to concern myself with? The literal sound of disembodied voices muttering ominous things was "nothing to concern myself with"? My sarcastic shield was struggling valiantly against the rising tide of sheer terror.
"Right, nothing to concern myself with," I repeated, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just the ambient noise of... wherever this is. You still haven't told me where 'wherever this is' actually is. Or who you are."
He took another slow step closer. The air around him felt colder. He smelled faintly of rain on dry earth, and something sharp and metallic.
"You are in The In-Between," he stated, his voice calm. "And I am… the one to whom you are bound. The terms of the contract are quite explicit."
The In-Between. Sounded comforting. Like a bus stop for souls. And bound? Explicit terms? What explicit terms? Lucien had just waved a spooky scroll and talked about modeling.
"Explicit?" I scoffed. "The only thing explicit was how hungry I was when I signed it. And that Lucien guy talked about modeling! Exposure! He didn't say anything about... being bound! Or being dragged through a mirror!"
His expression didn't change, but there was a subtle tension in his stillness. "The nature of the exposure is… absolute. And the binding is… unbreakable. It is the most fundamental clause."
Unbreakable binding? This was getting worse. Way, way worse than terrible marketing copy. This sounded like… like something from a fantasy novel. A bad one.
"Unbreakable binding?" I repeated, my voice rising slightly. "What does that even mean? Bound to you? Why? Because I signed up to have my picture taken?"
He took another step, closing the distance between us. He was close enough now that I had to crane my neck slightly to meet his gaze. Those starless eyes held a strange, quiet power that made my skin prickle. And despite the absurdity of the situation, despite the terror, that traitorous part of my brain registered just how striking he was up close. Curse you, hormones.
"It means precisely what it says," he responded, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the air around us. "You are bound to me, by the terms of the Soulbound Matrimony contract."
Soulbound… Matrimony? My brain stuttered. Matrimony. That meant…
No. No way. Absolutely not.
"Soulbound what now?" I stared at him, my mind reeling. "Matrimony? Are you saying… I signed a marriage contract?"
He gave that unsettling smile again. "In a manner of speaking. It is the most complete form of binding. It anchors you to this realm, and to me. As… my wife."
My jaw dropped. My sarcasm, my panic, everything vanished in a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated shock. Wife? He called me… his wife? Because I signed a contract for modeling while I was hangry?
"Wife?" I choked out, the word foreign and ridiculous on my tongue. "You think I signed up to be your… your wife? With a guy named Lucien and a bleeding scroll? Are you insane?"
"The terms were clear," he said, his voice flat now. "Though perhaps… the presentation lacked… certain details."
Lacked certain details?! Like, oh, I don't know, THE FACT THAT IT WAS A MARRIAGE CONTRACT?! With a guy who lives in a haunted mansion in The In-Between and has creepy void eyes?!
My hands instinctively went to my face, pushing against my temples. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. I signed for exposure. Not… matrimony. With this guy.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "No. You're wrong. It was a modeling contract. For eternal exposure. That's what he said!"
"And you are now exposed," he stated calmly, gesturing around the room. "To this realm. To its inhabitants. And irrevocably, to me."
I looked down at the black ring on my finger. It felt heavier now. It pulsed faintly with that same cold energy as the parchment had. The crescent mark beneath it felt like a brand. Soulbound Matrimony. The unremovable ring. It all clicked into place with a sickening lurch.
I hadn't signed a modeling contract. I had signed… this. A binding. A pact. A… marriage. With… him.
He took another step back, turning towards a large, ornate mirror across the room. It was framed in dark, twisted metal, its surface shimmering faintly.
"Look," he said, his voice almost gentle, but with an undercurrent of undeniable command. "See the truth of the pact."
Hesitantly, my legs still wobbly, I walked towards the mirror. As I approached, my reflection came into view. But it wasn't me in my combat boots and thrift store dress.
My reflection was wearing a gown. A long, flowing bridal gown, not white, but made of swirling, inky black smoke. It clung to my form, ethereal and terrifyingly beautiful. The black ring on my finger gleamed against the smoky fabric.
My eyes widened in horror. I turned back to the man. He was standing directly behind me now, his reflection appearing over my shoulder in the mirror.
And reflected there, in his hand, the hand resting lightly on my shoulder in the glass… was not a hand.
It was a scythe. Long, wicked, its blade catching the dim light with a sinister gleam. And his eyes, in the reflection, were no longer voids. They held a cold, ancient power that filled me with absolute dread.
He was the one to whom I was bound. The one who claimed me as wife.
The one with the scythe.
The world tilted. I stared at the reflection, at the smoky dress, at the scythe, at the man who called me wife.
And the last vestiges of denial shattered.