The congregation murmurs their agreement, voices rising into a hymn. The sound swells, holy and triumphant, rattling through the rafters until it feels like the church itself is alive and rejoicing.
Mine stays silent.
After the service, I’m led not out into the sunshine, not into the safety of the familiar pews, but down a narrow corridor into the vestry.
The air here is stale, damp, heavy with mildew. Stone walls sweat with moisture. A single candle burns on the table, its flame trembling in the draft. The door shuts with a dull click.
He is waiting.
Gideon Cross.
Older than father, hair black and slicked back, unnervingly perfect, like every strand had been trained to obey. His face is smooth, too smooth—marble polished until no imperfection, no warmth, dares remain. His dark suit clings to him like a shadow stitched to flesh, tailored sharp, posture straight as a blade. Hands clasped neatly in front of him, yet the control doesn’t make him safe—it makes him a predator.
His eyes. Black, endless, void-like. Looking into them is like staring into a darkness that swallows everything familiar, everything human. No flicker of empathy, no softness—just the coldcalculation of someone who measures people like objects. His smile stretches across his face, perfect, constant, carved there like a mask. It doesn’t reach the abyss behind his gaze. It’s a promise of control. A warning in disguise.
I don’t speak.
“You’re thinner than the last time I had you alone in your room, fiancée. Sickly. Unhealthy.” Gideon’s voice is calm, almost gentle—the kind of warmth a snake might use while whispering lullabies before it strikes. His lips curve, but his eyes never soften.
“That will make it easier. A wild horse breaks faster when it’s frail and starved.”
My stomach twists as he motions me to take the chair across from him.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, that carved smile stretching wider, too smooth, too certain. “I look forward to breaking your body,” he says softly, “right before I brutally rip away the innocence you cling to.”
The room tilts. His words slide through me like ice water, sinking deep, freezing everything they touch.
“You’ll scream, Seraphina.” His voice lowers further, almost tender in its cruelty. “But not loud enough to reach God. Not loud enough for anyone to hear while I remake you.”
He studies my face, my silence, and tilts his head. “Do you know why I wanted you?”
I say nothing.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Your father believes it’s because of your obedience. Your piety. He’s wrong.” His voicedrops even lower. “It’s because of your defiance. I can see it even now, flickering in your eyes. You don’t want this. That’s what excites me. To take something that resists and grind it into dust.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides.
He reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric covering my hair. My body locks, every muscle screaming.
My breath seizes. I jerk back so hard the chair legs scrape against the floor, heart slamming against my ribs. He only chuckles, rich and amused, as if my terror is the entertainment he paid for.
“Now, now,” he soothes, mock-gentle. “Don’t fret. I won’t touch more. Not until our marriage.” His smile widens, his teeth flashing like a predator about to feed. “Our union will be complete.” He rolls the word on his tongue, savoring it, before leaning in.
“Anticipation… oh, it is the sweetest torment. You’ll spend every night knowing what’s coming. Until you’re on your knees begging for it.”
A laugh escapes him—sharp, unholy. It coils around me like smoke, raising the hair along my neck and arms. My skin crawls.
“You were never meant for an ordinary life, Seraphina,” he says, voice calm as a sermon. “You were carved for purpose. A vessel. The mother of a legacy greater than you can comprehend.”
My pulse hammers. His words press against my skin like cold hands.
“I will unmake what you think you are,” he continues, eyes black and depthless. “Strip away the girl. Shape the Chosen.” His smile never wavers.
My nails dig crescents into my palms, but I can’t move, can’t speak. The candle between us flickers, shadows warping his face into something monstrous.
His hand falls back into his lap, relaxed, as if he’s merely finished commenting on the weather. The smile doesn’t falter. “You’ll learn,” he murmurs. “All wives do.”
The door creaks open. A guard stands there, silent, waiting.
