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But this woman, this brave, beguiling mortal, was my bride. She could run, but I would always find her. And I’d prove she had nothing to fear with me. I’d sooner burn down the world than inflict that acute kind of torture on an innocent person.1
I couldn’t take my eyes off the bride as we rode into the shadow of the castle, close enough that its familiar scent washed over me, soothing the torment that made me want to scream, cry, and rip my heart out for a split second before it all roared back. I was always surprised there was space for it inside me, that so much pain actually fit in one living body. Well. Not living, I supposed. I’d been dead seven hundred years.
I needed to know her name. The bride. I watched her go still, watched her knuckles whiten where she gripped Mort’s reins, watched her eyes widen—a pale grey like the silver veil of souls, like ominous mist, like spectres and hauntings. I needed her name. Needed everything. Her favourite colour. Her favourite food. What brought her joy, what made her sad, what drove her to pure rage. I wanted a list of her enemies numbered in the order of who’d harmed her the worst, with itemised bullet points of exactly what they’d done, so I could decide how I might kill them.
She was mine. My bride.
I hadn’t had anyone as mine since I joined Death and Misery, hadn’t entertained the thought that someone else might be mine to keep, mine to love, mine to—
She tore herself away from Death with an abrupt wrench, so sudden that he couldn’t anticipate the move. Before any of us could stop her, she rolled off Mort’s back and dropped to the ground, landing with a rough cry.
The sound of the impact went through me like the clang of a bell and I leapt off Lanai’s dark back, releasing my grip on her spectral mane as I swung to the ground. I landed beside the bride, reaching for her before I could stop myself. And why should I stop? She was our bride, my girl.
“Are you insane?” I demanded, scanning her body with frantic eyes. I caught her face, my hand moulded to her pale cheek. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, recoiling from me. “Leave me alone.”
“You’re obviously not fine. Fine people don’t hurl themselves from the back of a shadow shire.”
A furrow knitted her brow, and for a single moment I had all her attention. It was heady. I couldn’t look away. “Shadow shire?”
“The horse,” I clarified, reaching for her again, sliding my fingers along her cheek and marvelling at the softness, the heat. “Tell me if this hurts,” I said and forced my hand away from her face to grasp her leg, rotating her foot. When she didn’t hiss in pain, I repeated the motion on her other foot.
“It’s fine,” she said quietly, still frowning. “Why do you care if I’m hurt?”
Because I know torment, my bride, and I don’t want you well acquainted with it, too.
“We’ll explain inside.” I wrapped my hand around hers, guiding her to her feet and glancing at Miz and Death who’d climbed off their steeds and hovered, watching through the slits in their helmets. Speaking of… When the bride was steady on her feet, and I was sure she wasn’t going to run, I reached up and pulled off my helmet, dropping it into a pool of shadow until I needed it next.
“Oh, you’re…” she said, her grey eyes wide on my face.
My chest swelled. I lifted my head, a smile pulling at my mouth. “Striking? Devastatingly handsome?”
“Normal,” she corrected, swiftly popping the inflated balloon of my ego.
“Were you expecting a monster?” I drawled, wrapping my hand around her elbow, unable to resist touching her. My thumb caressed the fragile skin above her forearm through her shirt. She really ought to be wearing a coat; a chill like this could make mortals seriously ill.
She swallowed, biting the inside of her lip. My cock throbbed viciously at the sight. “Well, you were wearing the helmet and cloak, riding a huge shadow horse…”
I smiled, and barely swallowed a remark about her riding my huge shadow horse instead.
“Tor,” Death warned, as if sensing the words on the tip of my tongue.
The bride glanced over my shoulder and froze. I glared. The beautiful bastard had removed his helm—and so had Miz. Pretty fuckers, both of them, Miz icy and elegant, Death rendered in warm browns and rich golds, his features not as delicate as Misery’s but no less arresting.
“Who are you?” she breathed, her pulse thrumming in her throat. It called to me like a siren song, whispering promises of comfort and affection. I shook the feeling away.
“We’ll tell you inside the castle,” Death replied, ever-calm. “But until we’re inside, Nightmare can still find us.”
“Us,” she echoed, a knot in her brow. “She’s hunting you, too?”
Misery flinched. The bride didn’t notice.
“Unfortunately,” Death agreed, sweeping his arm at the castle towering above us, onyx and glossy and threatening. “Will you join us inside?”
She laughed softly, the sound full of fear. “Yeah, sure, I’ll join you in your ominous Transylvanian castle.”
I smirked, trailing my eyes over her in a different way to when I assessed her for injuries. The royal blue shirt she wore was scuffed with dirt from the fall, but no less alluring; the way it hugged her chest and waist made me want to fall at her feet and beg her to keep me for all eternity. Even her denim cargo pants enticed me; what did she keep in her pockets, what secrets did she have tucked away? And god, her face. Sweet and round, her skin pink and flushed darker at her cheeks, her eyebrows strong. There was an innocence in her beauty, but one look in her steely eyes and I saw suffering, a delicate language I was fluent in.
