The carriage halted with a jolt sharp enough to knock Aisling's teeth together. A footman—expression carved from stone—opened the door without a word.
Cold.
Not the kind she could breathe out in puffs or chase away with wool. No, this cold crawled. It slithered beneath her borrowed velvet gown and coiled around her spine like ivy left to die.
So this was his home.
Hawkrige Castle reared like a specter from the fog, towering against the bruised sky. No turrets. No banners. Just brutal, black stone rising like a clenched fist, polished to a shine that seemed to drink the moonlight whole. It didn't look built—it looked summoned.
Aisling hesitated on the threshold, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the carriage. Everything in her screamed not to cross. But her pride was louder.
He'd summoned her like some obedient pet.
She wasn't a bloody lapdog. She was a Rutherford. Even if the name was a fractured crown at this point.
Still.
She stepped down.
The instant her foot touched the stone, something shifted. The wind hushed. The fog thickened behind her like a curtain drawn closed.
Too late to turn back, princess.
The front doors groaned open before she could knock. Mr. Thorne stood waiting, as though he'd known the exact moment her heel would touch the first stair. Tall. Pale. Perfect posture.
"Lady Aisling," he said with a bow so smooth it could've been taught by ghosts. "Welcome to Hawkrige Castle. His Lordship is expecting you."
Of course he is. The bastard probably dreams in schedules.
Thorne's gaze flicked over her gown, her hair, the minute shiver she tried to hide. "Shall I have someone bring a cloak?"
She straightened. "No. If I freeze to death, at least I'll be fashionably tragic."
The corners of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it felt like a win.
Inside, the cold was worse.
Rutherford Manor, with its draughty corridors and moldy portraits, suddenly felt like a summer cottage. This place wasn't just cold—it was watching.
Oil paintings lined the entryway. None with names. All with eyes. Too many eyes.
As she walked, the candles lit themselves. One by one.
She almost jumped the first time. Almost.
Thorne guided her through hallways wide enough for a duel and high enough to swallow sound. The silence clung to the walls like ivy. Even their footsteps were swallowed by the plush midnight carpet.
She passed a drawing room where someone sat playing a mournful tune on the harpsichord—slim hands in silken gloves. A woman, maybe. Or a wraith.
Another corridor, this one lined with armor that gleamed like bone. Then a glimpse through arched glass—gardens strangled by thorn and frost.
Aisling's head spun. How the hell do they not get lost in here?
The house felt like it breathed, like its walls curved when she wasn't looking.
"May I ask a question?" she said, because silence made her itch.
"Of course, my lady," Thorne replied without looking back.
"Am I walking into a dinner or a trial?"
"Both, perhaps," he said mildly. "The Hawkrige family does enjoy their traditions."
What a completely unhelpful answer. Thanks for that.
They rounded a corner and the light dimmed again.
"The family will be assembled in the east dining wing," Thorne continued. "His Lordship requested your presence beforehand, but I was instructed to first… offer orientation."
"Orientation," she repeated flatly. "How thoughtful."
"You will be the future Lady of the House, after all," he said. "It would be a disservice to leave you… uninformed."
Now that sounded ominous.
He opened a narrow door that led into what she assumed was some kind of long gallery. Dim lamps cast strange shadows. On the far end, she could see a tall mirror covered with black velvet. She tried not to look at it too long.
"Let me introduce the household you will be… sharing."
She didn't like his pause.
"This wing belongs to Lord Draven Hawkrige—His Grace's grandfather. You may hear him referred to as the 'Matriarch.' He holds final authority in all matters of blood."
Matriarch? Aisling blinked. "But he's—"
"A title, not a gender," Thorne said simply. "Lady Celene resides in the east wing—Kylian's mother. Gentle creature. Avoids confrontation. But she notices everything."
Lovely. One of those.
"Lord Malric—Kylian's father—sits in the solar tower. A man of influence. You would do well not to let him charm you."
Charming men are the worst. Especially the ones who smile like they have knives behind their teeth.
"Lady Illyra—his... companion—also resides in the east wing. She is quite protective of her place in the household."
"Protective," Aisling echoed. "How polite."
Thorne did not smile.
"There is also the staff. Miss Martha Dane is head housekeeper. Punctual. Devoted. Prone to... emotional outbursts."
Translation: unhinged and territorial.
"Her daughter, Liora, assists where needed. Young. Shy. Then there is Greta—the cook. She does not speak. But she knows every inch of this place. Including its secrets."
Aisling opened her mouth. Closed it.
"Willem manages the stables," he added. "You may find him... overly familiar."
"I'll bite him if he tries anything," she muttered.
"I imagine you would."
They stopped before a set of doors.
"Through here," Thorne said, and gestured like a man offering her to the gallows. "The family awaits."
Aisling swallowed hard.
The moment the dining hall doors groaned open under Thorne's hand, Aisling felt her spine stiffen.
Cold air licked at her neck like a warning. The room beyond was massive—vaulted ceilings vanished into shadow, and the long table that stretched before her gleamed like polished bone. Candlelight flickered in their ornate sconces, casting grotesque silhouettes against the stone walls. The place looked less like a room meant for meals and more like a ceremonial chamber where things were devoured whole.
And they were all already seated.
Aisling's boots clicked softly on the floor as she stepped in behind Thorne, her breath catching. Her eyes swept across the figures at the table, striking and strange. Their names rose to her mind—recalled not from whispered stories, but from the chillingly precise tour Thorne had given her minutes ago.
"Lord Malric Hawkrige," Thorne announced, gesturing to the man seated to the left—dark-haired, statuesque, a wine goblet twirling lazily between his fingers. His gaze was amused. Predatory. Like he could peel back skin with a smile.
"Lady Celene Hawkrige," came next. Aisling's eyes softened slightly. The woman looked as though she'd stepped out of a faded portrait—pale, serene, ghostlike in presence. There was a kindness in her eyes, though sorrow clung to her like perfume. The quiet mother who noticed everything.
"Lady Illyra Hawkrige." Aisling's breath hitched. So this was the companion. Cold, elegant, with lips perpetually curled like she smelled something foul. She didn't so much glance at Aisling as dissect her with a gaze that said: You do not belong here.
Thorne turned to her then. "Lady Aisling of House Rutherford."
All eyes. On. Her.
Her fingers twitched by her sides, but her face didn't flinch. Not in front of them.
She raised her chin. Gave the slightest, court-perfect nod. "A pleasure."
Malric's smile stretched. Illyra didn't blink. Celene offered a gentle nod, her eyes studying Aisling like a puzzle she hadn't quite solved.
Then she saw him.
Kylian.
Not at the head of the table—that seat was conspicuously empty, reserved for the "Matriarch" that had yet to arrive: Lord Draven.
Kylian sat midway down, not king, but still unmistakably sovereign.
His hair was bound in that infuriatingly neat bun, dark silk against his collar. The sharpness of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw—he looked carved from something cold and ancient. But it wasn't his appearance that unnerved her. It was his eyes.
They were fixed. On. Her.
Not blank. Not soft. Just… watching.
Her spine prickled. Not hostile, but not safe either. Like a beast evaluating her worth. Or flavor.
And then—
Her blood iced.
Seated at his right, lounging like a crowned serpent in a gown the color of slaughtered grapes, was her.
Lysandra.
Aisling's lips parted before her thoughts caught up.
Of course. Of course Lysandra would be here, looking like a statue of sin, sipping wine like it was blood, and wearing that smug, knowing smile.
She barely heard Thorne's voice when it came next:
"And lastly, Lady Lysandra of House Virellin—Mistress to Lord Kylian."
Mistress.
The word rang like a slap.
Ah. So that's what she is.
Lysandra's eyes met hers. That awful, icy blue sparkle like frostbite. She raised her goblet, her smile sugar-dipped poison.
Lady Celene's voice, soft as a breeze through mourning veils, cut through the tension. "Do join us, my dear."
Aisling moved, stiffly, slowly, as if the air had thickened around her. As she approached the table, the maids lining the room dipped shallow curtseys. She felt their stares—curious, hostile, hungry for scandal.
And Lysandra—oh, she made sure to lean just a little closer to Kylian, her fingers brushing his sleeve with a lover's ease.
Aisling's jaw clenched.
Touch him again, you painted corpse, and I'll turn this table into a battlefield.
But she said nothing. Did nothing.
She took her seat.
And Kylian's eyes never left her.
She could feel them.
Watching.
Measuring.
Waiting.