Aisling snatched her hand back, cradling it to her chest as if she'd been struck by a serpent. The silvery brand on her palm tingled, a foreign energy humming in her skin, a poison delivered by his touch. She stared at Kylian, her defiant words from moments before turning to ash in her mouth. He had not just bought her. He had branded her.
Kylian's lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. It was the smile of a collector who had just acquired an exquisite, priceless artifact. He gave her one last, lingering look—a look that stripped her bare, that saw the sputtering fire of her magic and the wild terror in her heart, and seemed to find them equally appealing.
"A carriage will be sent for you in three days' time," he announced to the room at large, his voice once again cool and commanding. "See that she is ready."
With a final, almost imperceptible nod to Aisling, he turned. Cedric, who had already rolled and tied the contract with swift efficiency, fell into step behind him. They moved out of the broken doorway and were swallowed by the Westmarch fog, their footsteps making no sound. The rumble of their carriage wheels faded into the night, leaving behind a silence more profound and terrifying than before.
The spell was broken.
"Well," Tavien said, his voice brittle with forced cheerfulness. "That's that, then. A new beginning, Elenya! For all of us." He rubbed his hands together, a nervous, desperate gesture. "No more debts. A physician for Eireen. Aisling at Hawkrige Manor… she'll be a lady."
"She'll be a prisoner," Elenya whispered, her voice like the cracking of ice. She finally moved, striding past her husband as if he weren't there, her eyes fixed on Aisling. She grabbed Aisling's hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and turned it over to the faint candlelight.
Her mother's gasp was sharp with horror. She stared at the silvery sigil of the hawk and roses, her face paling to a deathly white.
"Gods above," Elenya breathed, her composure finally crumbling completely. "What have you done, child?"
Aisling ripped her hand away, the injustice of the question a fresh venom in her veins. "What have I done?" she shot back, her voice shaking with rage. "I did what you told me to do my entire life! I chose survival! I did what was necessary to save this family, to save you!"
"This is not survival!" Elenya's voice rose, cracking with a fear so deep it seemed to emanate from her very bones. She pointed a trembling finger at Aisling's branded palm. "This is a damnation! Do you have any idea what that mark means? What a blood contract with his kind entails?"
"I know that Eireen will not cough blood into her pillow tonight because of it!" Aisling retorted, her own volume rising to match her mother's. "I know that Father will not be dragged to a debtor's prison! What more should I know? What secrets are you still keeping, Mother, about the man you sold me to?"
"I did not sell you!"
"You stood there in silence! Your silence was your consent!"
"Because I was afraid!" Elenya cried, her eyes wild. "Because I know him! That mark… it doesn't just claim you, Aisling. It's not just ink and parchment. It's a hook in your soul. It connects you. He will be in your blood now. In your head."
The words hung in the air, heavy and prophetic. A cold dread, far deeper than before, trickled down Aisling's spine. In your head.
"Then you should have warned me," Aisling whispered, her fury giving way to a cold, aching sense of betrayal. "You should have fought. You should have told me the truth of what he was, of what you knew."
"And what would you have done?" Elenya demanded, her expression pleading, desperate for Aisling to understand. "Fought them with your fire? Burned us all down in a blaze of righteous glory? I chose to save my last living daughter from the pyre! Even if it meant… this." She gestured helplessly at Aisling, at the brand, at the whole sorry situation.
Aisling had no answer for that. She felt hollowed out, the fire in her banked to smoldering embers of grief and exhaustion. She looked from her mother's tormented face to her father's pathetic shame. They were all trapped, each in a prison of their own making.
She turned away from them, unable to bear it a moment longer. "I am going to my room."
She walked down the hall, the tingling in her palm a constant, maddening reminder. In her room, she lit a single candle, the flame a weak and lonely thing. She went to the basin of cold water on her dresser and plunged her hand into it, scrubbing at her palm with a rough cloth. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and red, but when she pulled her hand out, the silvery sigil remained. Faint, ethereal, and utterly permanent. It was a part of her now.
Defeated, she sank onto her narrow bed. The last forty-eight hours crashed down on her like a tidal wave. The Enforcers. The fire from her own hands. The impossible choice. The icy touch of a vampire. The searing brand of a blood pact. It was too much. Her body, pushed beyond its limits, began to betray her. Her eyelids grew heavy, her limbs leaden.
She didn't want to sleep. She was terrified of what dreams might come. But exhaustion was a tide she could not fight, and it pulled her under, down into the waiting dark.
She did not dream of her cottage.
She dreamt she was floating in an endless, starless dark. There was no ground, no sky, only a vast, silent emptiness. And it was cold. A deep, profound cold that seeped into her bones.
Then, she felt it.
A touch.
It was not a hand, not at first. It was the darkness itself, coalescing around her. Shadows, thick as velvet, began to move over her skin. They slid up her arms like silken ribbons, a touch so light it was almost a tickle, yet so invasive it made her want to scream. But she had no voice here. She was paralyzed, a spectator to her own violation.
The shadows licked across her throat, traced the line of her collarbone, and slithered down her spine. The sensation was terrifying, a feeling of being explored, mapped, and claimed. And yet, beneath the terror, there was a strange, forbidden hum. A dark allure. It was the feeling of immense power, of ancient secrets brushing against her soul. The latent magic under her own skin seemed to stir in response, a dormant creature recognizing its master.
She knew who was doing this. She could feel his presence all around her, a concentration of the cold and the dark. He was the intelligence behind the shadows, the will that guided their every chilling caress.
Then, the voice came.
It did not come through her ears. It bloomed inside her mind, a resonant purr that vibrated through her very skull. It was his voice, Kylian's voice, but stripped of its playful, mocking charm. This was his true voice, the one that echoed with centuries of darkness and absolute, unwavering authority.
It was a voice of pure possession.
And it did not speak to her. It spoke of her, a declaration made to the endless, listening dark.
"She is mine."
The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. They were the final lock on her cage, the ultimate brand on her soul.
Aisling jolted awake, a silent scream trapped in her throat. She sat bolt upright in her bed, gasping for air, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dark, the candle long since extinguished. She was alone.
But the feeling… the feeling of being touched, of being watched, lingered.
Her hand. It was burning. No, not burning. It was ice-cold. She clutched her left palm, the dream so vivid, so real, she could still feel the phantom touch of shadows on her skin. The silvery sigil of the hawk and roses was glowing with a faint, cold light, pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat.
The connection was real. Her mother was right.
He was in her blood. He was in her head. And even in sleep, she could not escape him.