Isabella
The silk clings to me like a bruise.
Crimson folds, sharp as spilled blood, slide down my body while I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Someone thought this was poetic, dressing the daughter of Moretti in red for her marriage to the man who slaughtered her fiancé. Adrian DeLuca. The devil wearing a tailored suit.
Outside, violins play something soft and expensive. My hands tremble as I fasten the diamond bracelet my father gave me—an heirloom, a shackle. My pulse pounds so loudly I barely hear the knock at the door.
"Miss Moretti," a guard says. "It's time."
I don't answer. I just lift my chin, schooling my expression into something cold and unbreakable. I will not let them see fear. Fear is blood in the water, and sharks are everywhere.
The ballroom smells of roses and gun oil. Crystal chandeliers throw shards of light over men in black suits and women with eyes like blades. My father stands near the altar, smiling that politician's smile. Adrian waits beside him.
He's taller than I remembered six foot two, maybe three. Broad shoulders under an Italian tuxedo. His hair is dark, perfectly slicked back, and his eyes are a glacial gray that strip me bare. There's a scar near his temple, a faint reminder of the last war between our families.
When I reach him, he doesn't offer his hand. He only watches as I stop before him, the hem of my red gown pooling between us like fresh blood.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice low enough that only I hear. "Like a sacrifice."
I force a smile. "I didn't realize the groom was the priest."
The corners of his mouth twitch, almost a smirk. The priest clears his throat and begins the vows, but the words are noise to me. Do you take this man… Do you take this woman… I hear myself say I do, but it tastes like rust on my tongue.
Then comes the contract. A single sheet of legal parchment. My signature binds not just me but the remnants of my family. I sign. Adrian signs. Cameras flash. The crowd applauds, all calculated civility and silent threats.
We are husband and wife.
But I am not his bride. I am the blood price.
When the celebration begins, champagne flows and laughter fills the hall. My father makes a toast. My new husband keeps his eyes on me, unreadable, predatory. I feel the weight of his gaze more than the diamond ring on my finger.
Later, when the crowd thins and the music fades, a guard escorts me to the DeLuca suite. The room is massive, black marble, gold accents, too cold to breathe in. I stand by the window, staring at the city glittering beneath the night sky.
The door opens behind me.
I don't need to turn to know it's him.
"Do you always wear red to your weddings?" I ask, voice steady though my heartbeat isn't.
Adrian's footsteps are slow, deliberate. "Only when it suits the occasion."
"And what's today's occasion? Victory?"
"Debt," he says simply.
I turn to face him. The firelight from the hearth paints his features in gold and shadow. He looks less like a man and more like something carved from power. Dangerous. Controlled. Beautiful in a way that should come with a warning.
He closes the distance between us until the air itself feels heavy. "You're not my wife, Isabella," he says, each word a blade. "You're my debt. And I always collect."
My throat tightens, but I lift my chin higher. "Then collect, Mr. DeLuca. Let's finish the transaction."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then he laughs. Soft, dark, and disbelieving. "You've got fire. I wondered if you'd inherited any of your mother's spine."
I want to slap him, but my fingers curl instead against my dress. "You know nothing about my mother."
His smile dies. "I know she tried to protect you from this world. And failed."
He steps closer. The scent of cedar and smoke surrounds me. His hand rises—not to hurt, but to touch. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, the gesture almost gentle. My skin burns where he touches me.
"You think you hate me now, princess," he murmurs, voice rougher. "Wait until you learn what it means to be mine."
My breath catches. Every instinct screams to step back, but my body betrays me, rooted in place by the gravity between us. His gaze drops to my lips. For one suspended second, I think he'll kiss me.
Instead, he turns away, crossing to pour himself a drink. "We'll present ourselves to the families tomorrow. Tonight, you stay here."
"Locked up?" I ask.
"Safe," he corrects. "Don't mistake the two."
I open my mouth to retort, but he's already moved to the window, his posture still, listening. I follow his gaze toward the courtyard, where shadows shift beneath the lights.
Something's wrong.
Before I can speak, the perspective shifts.
Adrian
She doesn't flinch.
Even when I tell her she's nothing but a debt, she looks me in the eye like she's daring me to destroy her. That kind of defiance is rare in our world. Dangerous, addictive. I should hate her for what her family did, but I can't stop watching the way she moves every step controlled, every breath measured.
The red dress was my idea. I wanted her to look like war.
Now, standing across from her, I realize I've made a mistake. She looks like temptation.
I sip my whiskey and try to ignore the storm building in my chest. She's Moretti blood, my enemy's daughter. But she's also mine now. The ring on her finger says so. The contract makes it law.
And yet… there's something about the way she stared at me in that hall, unblinking, like she already knew the beast she was marrying. No fear. Just fury wrapped in silk.
A sound outside the window breaks the silence. A faint metallic click. My instincts sharpen. I set the glass down.
"Adrian?" she asks, turning toward me. Her voice is cautious, soft. The kind that could soothe or provoke.
I lift a hand, signaling her to stay still. The music from below has stopped. The guards outside the suite haven't moved, but the night feels wrong too quiet, too watchful.
Then I hear it. A whisper of boots on marble.
"Stay behind me," I say.
She hesitates. "What's"
The gunshot cuts her words in half.
Glass shatters somewhere below. The echo rolls through the mansion, loud and final. She gasps, eyes wide. I reach for my weapon even as instinct takes over.
"Get down!" I bark.
She freezes, red silk swirling as I grab her arm and pull her toward the floor.
The chandeliers tremble. The night explodes into chaos.
And our wedding night turns to war.