The day before the banquet, a sleek black carriage emblazoned with the silver crest of House Noctis arrived at Willowmere Manor just after dusk. Duke Denzel met it on the front steps, his face drawn and ashen. Primus's summons had been polite on parchment, but the unspoken threat beneath the words was clear: deliver Hazel, or face consequences no mortal house could survive.
With a final, stiff embrace—more duty than affection—the duke handed his adopted daughter into the carriage. Hazel offered him a small, brave smile, though her green eyes betrayed her uncertainty. Then the door closed, and the wheels began to turn.
Escorted by Lazarus and a silent retinue of vampire guards on midnight-black steeds, the carriage rolled through deepening twilight toward the hidden heart of Primus's domain.
Halfway along a narrow forest road, the attack struck like lightning.
Hooded figures erupted from the trees—arrows slicing the air, blades flashing. The guards met them with lethal grace, but Lazarus leapt from his horse with eerie delight, silver braid whipping behind him like a banner.
He was poetry in violence.
A dagger flashed; an attacker's guts spilled steaming onto the dirt. A twist of slender wrists snapped bones like dry twigs. Heads parted from necks in clean, crimson arcs. In mere moments the road became a charnel ground.
"Oh, how I've missed killing flies," Lazarus sighed, almost wistful, as he flicked gore from his fingers.
Inside the carriage, Hazel remained curled on the seat, hands pressed to her ears, waiting for the sounds of battle to end. When silence finally fell, she pushed the door open and stepped out—intending only to be sure Lazarus still lived.
The sight hit her like a physical blow.
Bodies lay strewn in pieces, blood soaking the earth, the air thick with iron and death. Her stomach rebelled instantly; she stumbled to the roadside and retched until there was nothing left.
Lazarus watched with a faint, knowing smile.
"Now I understand why the master calls you little rabbit," he murmured. "My lady, I am sorry you had to witness such ugliness. But we must move on. And… prepare yourself. There will be far more blood where you are bound."
Hazel straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, pale but steady. She nodded once and returned to the carriage without a word.
As the journey resumed, anger kindled inside her like a struck flint.
How dare he?
How dare Primus summon her like chattel, announce a wedding as though her will meant nothing? Yes, he was beautiful—dangerously, impossibly beautiful—but beauty did not grant him ownership. She had not agreed to any marriage. She would not be taken without a fight.
I am going to deal with him, she vowed silently, fists clenched in her lap.
At last the carriage passed through towering gates of wrought iron and ascended a torch-lit drive. When it halted in the grand courtyard, Lazarus opened the door and offered his hand. Hazel accepted it and stepped down, gaze lifting to the palace that rose around her—black marble and silver filigree, towers piercing the star-drenched sky, windows glowing like banks of crimson embers.
"So beautiful," she breathed, momentarily awed despite herself.
Lines of maids and nobles waited in perfect formation, bowing deeply as she approached the marble steps. Accustomed only to invisibility, the sudden attention overwhelmed her; her foot caught on the hem of her traveling cloak, and she pitched forward.
Strong arms caught her instantly, steadying her against a broad chest.
"So clumsy," a familiar velvet voice murmured, laced with amusement.
Primus.
Up close he stole what little breath the attack had left her—midnight hair tousled, crimson eyes gleaming with teasing warmth, lips curved in that devastating half-smile.
Hazel's thoughts scattered. Goddess, those lips…
She stared far too long, unconsciously wetting her own.
Primus's grin sharpened, fangs glinting. "Careful, little rabbit. Staring like that, I might think I'm the one who needs protecting from you."
Heat flooded her face. She pulled away quickly, chin high. "I wasn't—"
"Running already?" he teased, voice low and warm. "Come. You must be tired after the journey."
He gestured, and the head maid stepped forward to guide her inside. Hazel followed, back straight, refusing to look at him again—though she felt his gaze on her every step of the way.
Only when she had disappeared into the palace depths did Primus turn to Lazarus.
His expression hardened instantly, amusement vanishing like smoke.
"Who were they?" he asked, voice quiet but edged with ice. "Did you learn anything?"
Lazarus inclined his head. "I do not yet know, my lord. They carried no markings, no tokens. Common hired blades, perhaps—or the first wave of something larger."
Primus's eyes narrowed to slits of crimson fire. "How disappointing, my dear Lazarus. Incompetence does not suit you."
Lazarus bowed lower. "Forgive me. I will discover who sent them."
"See that you do," Primus said softly. "Bring me names. Bring me the ones who gave the orders. It has been centuries since I killed frogs—and I find I am quite in the mood."
A faint, eager smile touched Lazarus's lips. "It will be my pleasure, my lord."
Above them, in the highest tower, Hazel was led to chambers draped in midnight silk and silver. She stood at the window overlooking the moonlit courtyard, heart still racing from Primus's nearness—and from the promise she had made herself.
Tomorrow night the banquet would try to bind her forever.
But Hazel of Willowmere had never been given a choice before.
She intended to take one now.