My fingers brush the contract’s edge. Dom’s sharp intake of breath carries volumes of unspoken protest.
“Lovely.” Kian’s laugh fills the room. “I knew you’d see things my way. After all . . .” His eyes meet mine with knowing pleasure, “we both know you’re not really doing this for yourself, are you?”
The contract sprawls across my lap like a serpent coiled to strike. Page after page of legal jargon outlines the anatomy of my surrender and transformation into a Blackwood bride, meticulously documented. Public appearances, philanthropic obligations, sanctioned social circles. Every clause gilds the cage in the polished language of legacy and power.
Section 3.4:The Wife shall maintain appropriate decorum at all times, representing the Blackwood family interests with dignity and restraint.
Section 5.2:All business ventures, research projects, and professional endeavors must receive prior approval from the Family Head.
Section 7.1: Residence shall be maintained within authorized Blackwood properties, under active security surveillance at all times.
“Check clause twelve,” Dom’s voice cuts through my concentration. “Familial authority.”
I flip through the thick parchment, and my stomach pitches as the words stare back, inked in permanent damnation.
Section 12:The Wife acknowledges and accepts the absolute authority of the Family Head in all matters—personal, professional, and magical. Any attempt to circumvent or challenge said authority will result in immediate corrective measures, including but not limited to the forfeiture of all privileges, assets, and protections granted by this union.
“Dominic,” Kian warns.
“And clause fifteen,” Dom continues, eyes fixed on the paper I’m holding. “About binding ceremonies.”
My fingers shake as I read the lines.
Section 15:The Wife agrees to participate in all traditional Blackwood binding ceremonies as deemed necessary by the Family Head, including—but not limited to—blood rituals, magical bonds, and other measures ensuring permanent compliance with family interests. Such bonds, once performed, are irrevocable and supersede all other contractual obligations or personal rights.
The letters blur, but I don’t need clarity to understand. This isn’t a marriage. It’s ownership. Technically, Dom will inherit everything one day, including this contract’s authority over me. But looking at Kian’s eternally youthful face, the grace that defies his hundred and fifty-four years, I know thatone daymight as well be never. Death itself avoids him. He’ll drain me long before the power ever passes.
“The dissolution clause is void if certain conditions are met,” Dom adds quietly. “Including any binding ceremonies performed during the first year of marriage.”
“Such attention to detail, son.” Kian’s laughter shatters the air. “Though I don’t recall asking for your legal expertise. Unless you’re trying to sabotage our little negotiation?”
“Just ensuring transparency,” Dom replies. “Since honesty seems to be the game of the hour.”
Kian’s expression falters, a fracture in the charming facade, revealing something ancient and terrible beneath. His hand returns to the dagger on his desk, smile stretching wide enough to show too many teeth.
“You know what fascinates me about you, Dominic?” His tone softens into something poisonous. “This compulsive need to save everyone. Always the martyr. Always the fool.” He rises slowly, prowling closer. “Even now, bleeding out your warnings. Tell me, son, when has that ever worked out for you?”
“She deserves to know—”
The dagger slams through his hand.
An obscene sound follows. Flesh tearing against leather, the dull thud of metal punching through bone. Blood arcs across the deskin a graceful, arterial spray. I flinch too late, nausea clawing at my throat as Dom jerks in place.
“Oh! What a mess.” Kian’s gaze sparks with delighted wonder. “An artery—my bad! Daddy’s aim isn’t what it used to be.” He twists the blade, humming as Dom’s fingers spasm. Then he looks at me, savoring the fear tightening my face. “You see, children, this is the problem with playing games. Eventually, someone shows their hand.”
Dom’s eyes never leave mine, still trying to warn me even as his blood paints the pristine office. The puddle beneath him grows, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
“Now then.” Kian brushes nonexistent dust from his sleeves, voice bright. “Shall we return to business? Or do you need another demonstration of how terribly inefficient heroism is?”
“I am not signing this! You are insane if you think I will after only reading half of the clauses.”
Dom smiles through the pain at me. “Good girl.”
“Shh, shh. My beautiful, foolish boy.” Kian conjures a second dagger, spinning it with casual menace. “Daddy’s little heartbreaker, aren’t you?” The blade kisses Dom’s throat and my hands clutch the contract closer.
“Aria, don’t.” Dom grits the words through his teeth. “You promised.”
“I can’t just watch this—”
