The letter wasn't there yesterday.
She would've noticed it. She definitely would've noticed it. Especially in his room.
Aisling Marielle Rutherford blinked at the thin curl of parchment peeking out from beneath her father's ancient chest of unpaid dreams—also known as ledgers. Her knees dug into the splintering floorboards, skirts rumpled around her like the aftermath of a battle she didn't remember choosing to fight. Her blouse stuck to her arms from the dust gathering under the bed, and her elbow had just brushed something disturbingly sticky.
She winced. "If I die from this, it better be dramatic."
With a groan, she reached under the chest, fingers grazing the fragile edge. A paper cut sliced her knuckle as she pulled it free. Naturally. Because cursed paper is what I needed today.
She squinted at the envelope, heart ticking in a rhythm far too loud for her liking.
It wasn't addressed to her father. Not to Lord Rutherford, Debtor Supreme.
It was addressed to her.
Miss Aisling Marielle Rutherford.
Her full name, inked in a hand so spidery and ornate it looked like it had been dipped in grave dirt before being etched across the page by a corpse with excellent penmanship. The letters bled—yes, that was the word—bled like something wounded onto the paper.
Her lips twisted. "Dramatic much?"
Then she saw the seal.
Crimson. Not scarlet. Not wine. Not burgundy, thank you very much.
Crimson, like arterial blood on fresh snow.
The wax shimmered ominously in the dim light—shaped into the snarl of a wolf mid-lunge, its fangs bared in something between rage and hunger. It glistened. Glinted. Like it had been sealed just moments ago. Like it might still be warm.
She touched it with the pad of her thumb.
A shiver shot down her spine.
Cold. But not wax-cold. Cold like a whisper in an empty chapel. Like someone had walked over her grave and liked the way it felt.
"Probably one of Father's jilted lovers trying to haunt me with bad poetry," she muttered, half-hopeful, half-delirious.
She stood, smacking her head on the bed frame. "Ow—bloody hell, I am cursed."
Clutching the letter like it might explode, Aisling trudged out of the bedroom and into the desolate battlefield that was their sitting room—an elegant name for four crumbling walls, a half-dead fireplace, and furniture that smelled like desperation.
The drapes sagged like they'd given up on life.
The cracked leather armchair hissed when she sat.
She didn't care.
Her heart was a war drum in her chest.
She took a breath.
Another.
Then she cracked the seal.
The wax snapped like bone beneath her fingers.
A scent spilled out.
Dark roses and something sharp.
Her nose twitched. "What the hell… is that iron?"
Her stomach turned. "Who perfumes a letter? Who perfumes it with blood?!"
Of course it smelled like blood. Of course it did. Why not toss in some grave dirt and a single cursed pearl while we're at it?
She unfolded the parchment, every cell in her body screaming don't read it, which meant she was definitely going to read it.
Aloud, naturally. Because muttering to oneself in an empty room was far less pathetic than letting thoughts run wild in silence.
> To the Honored Miss Rutherford,
Your name stirs memory like a violin played on the edge of a blade.
I require your hand in marriage.
In return, I offer complete absolution of the debts your family has so carelessly accumulated.
No harm shall come to your father.
No illness shall trouble your brother.
You need only sign.
- Baron Kylian Hawkrige.
She stopped.
Blink.
Another blink.
And then—
She laughed.
Loud, sharp, unhinged laughter erupted from her lips like a cork from a cursed bottle. It bounced off the empty walls like a bad omen.
"Oh sure," she said between snorts. "Of course. Let's skip right over rationality and dive straight into unsolicited gothic proposals from shadowy undead barons. Perfect."
She stood, limbs shaking as the letter dangled from her hand like a dead thing.
"Has Father been selling my name to bored necromancers in taverns again?" she barked, pacing. "Or maybe this is his idea of matchmaking? 'Marry the brooding wolf-wax baron, darling, and we'll finally afford bread again!'"
Baron Kylian Hawkrige.
Even thinking the name made her teeth itch.
She knew it. Everyone knew it. That name came with rumors, like mud clinging to boots after a storm. The sort of stories that crept in through windows on cold nights.
Heir to a crumbling house. Disappeared after some unspeakable incident at Hawkrige Estate.
Whispers said he'd murdered his wife. Others said he drank blood. Some insisted he was cursed. All agreed on one thing—
No one who crossed paths with Baron Hawkrige came away unchanged.
Or alive.
"Absolutely not," she snapped.
Her hands trembled, but she clutched the letter like it might bite her. Which, frankly, would not have surprised her.
"Father!" she yelled, marching toward the hall. Silence answered her. Typical.
She leaned out. "Are you dead in there, or just conveniently unconscious?!"
No reply. Probably neck-deep in brandy and bad decisions.
Her gaze dropped back to the letter.
Its edges curled like old leaves. Like it breathed.
"Marriage," she whispered.
To a stranger. A cursed, blood-scented stranger.
She shook her head, already moving.
Her feet carried her to the fireplace, her pulse a snarl beneath her skin.
"To hell with your violin blades and absolution," she growled.
She crumpled the parchment.
Her fingers squeezed so tight her nails bit into her palm.
Then she threw it into the flames.
The fire hissed in response. Greedy. Hungry.
The paper curled. Blackened.
The seal shrieked as it melted.
Aisling crossed her arms, standing guard over the fire like a queen defending her sanity.
"That's that," she muttered.
---
It was not.
The next morning, Aisling woke with a gasp, breath catching in her throat like she'd surfaced from drowning. Her heart thundered wildly, beating against her ribs with the same frantic rhythm as a caged bird. Sweat clung to her skin. Her nightdress stuck to her back.
The sheets were a twisted mess around her legs, wrapped and tangled like a cursed spider's web. She kicked them off with a grunt, chest heaving as she sat upright, every nerve in her body vibrating with unease.
Her room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the comfortable silence of dawn slipping into the world like a whisper—but the type of quiet that presses on your ears, makes your skin itch, and your instincts scream that something is off.
She looked around, breath shallow.
The curtains were drawn.
The hearth was cold.
The fireplace tools hadn't moved.
Nothing had changed.
Except something had.
Aisling's gaze dropped to the nightstand—and there it was.
The letter.
Her blood turned to ice.
She blinked once. Twice.
No. No, that wasn't possible. She had burned it. She remembered the flames, the crackle of the parchment curling black in the fire, the satisfying hiss of wax melting into oblivion.
It should have been gone. Erased. Reduced to ash.
But it sat there now, pristine as the first time it had come—like a ghost, like a curse.
The envelope looked untouched.
Unburned.
Unblemished.
Smelling faintly—terrifyingly—of roses and rust.
That scent wrapped around her like a silk noose.
Her throat tightened.
She reached out with trembling fingers, pausing just before contact, as if it might bite. Or vanish. Or explode.
Her fingertips brushed the paper.
It was real. Too real. Thick and luxurious and horribly familiar.
She snatched it up, her hands cold and slick with sweat.
The handwriting hadn't changed. Same arrogant, sweeping strokes. Same confident pressure in the ink. The wax seal—crimson and mocking—still bore the same crest. Hawkrige.
But then her eyes caught on something else.
Something new.
Something added.
At the very bottom of the page, where before there had been only silence—
Now there was a line.
Not scratched. Not smudged. But freshly written, the ink still slightly wet, glistening like dark wine in the dim morning light.
Aisling's stomach dropped.
She read the words once. Twice. A third time, as if repetition would make them change.
It didn't.
> You will say yes.
We always come back to each other.
Her breath caught.
Something heavy pressed against her lungs.
Nope. Absolutely not. She wasn't going to panic. She was not the panicking type. She was the sarcastic, impulsive, insult-slinging type.
But this?
This was insanity.
She flung the letter across the room. It fluttered like a dead bird and landed with a sound far too soft.
What the hell was happening?
Was this magic?
Or madness?
She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. The morning sunlight filtered through the stained glass like blood in water.
---
That night, she didn't light a candle.
She didn't need one.
The moonlight poured in through her window, casting silver shapes that shifted with every breeze.
Sleep came reluctantly. Then fast. Then violently.
---
The dream was not a dream.
It felt too real.
She was in a grand hall, floor slick with blood. Candles dripped wax like tears. Shadows slithered between the pillars.
And she was there.
Herself—but not.
Clad in crimson silk. Throat slit. Smiling.
No, Aisling whispered. No, this isn't—
The other woman turned.
Her face was identical. But older. Sadder. Wiser.
And dead.
"He's come back for me," the woman said, her voice soft as falling ash.
"But I'm not me anymore, am I?
---
Aisling woke up screaming.
Sweat poured down her back.
The room was dark.
But something shimmered on the edge of her vision—just for a moment.
The crimson wax seal, glowing faintly in the moonlight.