Three days.
Three damn days of silence thick enough to choke on. It seeped through the corridors of Rutherford Manor like rot, curling under doors, clinging to curtains, making the very walls shiver.
The air was colder now. The shadows longer, twitching like they were waiting for something. Even the portraits on the walls—those stuffy old ancestors with their sour eyes—seemed to be watching her. Waiting.
Aisling paced. Again.
Her slippers had worn a threadbare track across the rug. Her palms stung from gripping the bedpost too tightly, fingernails digging half-moons into the wood like she could anchor herself there.
Liam's coughing hadn't stopped.
He sounded worse. Like something inside him was tearing. The healer had said it was wasting fever—one that consumed the body slowly, cruelly. The same fever that had taken their mother years ago. Her mother's breath had come in sharp, wet wheezes before the end, her eyes wide and afraid. Liam was going the same way.
And her father?
He'd started praying again. Not the quiet kind. No. The desperate, crumbling kind that made her want to scream. Like prayer had ever saved anyone in this cursed house.
Then—
Knock.
Three raps. Not loud. Deliberate. Precise.
The kind of knock that said I have all the time in the world. And none for you.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Until she heard Finch's voice rise from the foyer:
"Baron Hawkrige has returned."
Her heart slammed against her ribs, a traitor in her chest.
No. No, no, no.
Not him.
She hated the way her body moved before her mind caught up, like she'd been summoned. Hated how her legs carried her toward the staircase, down the steps—like some swooning heroine in a gothic tragedy.
But there he was.
Kylian.
Baron Kylian Hawkrige.
Again.
Tall as sin, leaning against the grand black piano in the drawing room like he'd been carved into the damn furniture. A glass vial glinted between his fingers, catching the slant of late sun.
His hair was down this time.
Long, black strands, smooth and ink-dark, fell around his face like a wicked halo. His blue eyes—cold and glacial and maddening—locked onto hers.
Calm. Always so damn calm.
Like nothing could shake him. Like nothing mattered. Like she didn't matter.
"You came back," she said.
Her voice cracked—dry, raw, an edge of something wild in it.
His lips curved just slightly. That insufferable smirk. The kind that made her want to slap him and kiss him and scream all at once.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
She bared her teeth. "I was hoping."
He chuckled. Of course he did. A low, husky sound that slid down her spine like a threat.
"How tragically optimistic of you," he murmured.
Aisling stepped into the room like it cost her something. It did. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears.
"If you're here to gloat—"
"I'm not."
He cut her off like slicing silk. Smooth. Final.
He raised the vial.
It shimmered—soft gold with a touch of rose.
Her breath snagged.
No. No, it couldn't be—
She knew that color.
The tales whispered in late-night corners spoke of such elixirs. Cold-forged magic sealed in crystal, brewed by witches of the old North. Forbidden. Precious. Dangerous.
Lifesaving.
"You're bluffing," she said, but her voice trembled, slipping out thinner than she meant. "That can't be real."
He twirled it lazily between two fingers. Elegant. Effortless. Mocking.
"I never bluff," he said. "I find it... inefficient."
Gods, she hated him.
She hated the way he looked like he'd stepped out of some wicked fairytale. Marble skin, lips like sin, and eyes like they'd seen the end of the world and hadn't been impressed.
She hated that he never raised his voice. That he didn't have to. That he stood there like he owned the air in this house.
That her family's fate was just… a game to him. A coin to flip.
"You think you can buy me?" she spat.
Kylian tilted his head. Just a fraction.
"Not buy," he said. "Bargain."
"Oh, well that makes it so much better," she snapped, voice sharp as shattered glass.
His eyes glittered, that cruel amusement dancing there again. "Sarcasm suits you, Rutherford."
She wanted to throw something at his head. Preferably something heavy. Like a chair. Or the bloody piano.
Instead, she gritted her teeth. "So that's it? My brother's life for mine?"
Kylian straightened. Boots soft against the floor. Each step quiet. Purposeful.
He didn't touch her.
Of course not.
But gods, the man loomed.
Like he was made of storms and hunger and dark, delicious promises.
"He has weeks," he said. "Days, perhaps. With this," he lifted the vial, "he could live a full life. Healthy. Free of pain."
Then, from inside his coat—
The parchment.
That parchment.
She could already see the blood-red ink curling across its surface like veins.
"All I ask," he said softly, "is your signature."
Aisling stared.
At the contract.
At her hands.
Her fingers were trembling.
"Why me?" she whispered. "You could have anyone. You're a vampire. You're rich. You're… whatever the hell you are."
Something flickered in his gaze. Brief. Unreadable.
"I don't want anyone," he said.
It knocked the breath from her.
Silence again. Heavy. Waiting.
Her throat closed.
"You want control," she said. "That's all this is."
Kylian's voice dropped, like a shadow curling around her feet.
"Control is earned," he said, "not stolen. I don't want a puppet."
He stepped closer.
"I want you."
Her stomach dropped.
"Your will. Your fire. Your venom."
He leaned in just enough for her to smell his cologne—something dark, spiced, and ancient.
"But I also want your surrender." His smile sharpened. "And I will have it."
She swallowed hard.
"You're insane," she whispered.
He smiled wider. "Possibly."
She should have slapped him.
Should have screamed and torn up the contract and smashed the vial against the floor.
But—
Liam.
Liam, whose coughs now came with flecks of blood. Whose bones jutted too sharply through skin. Whose eyes looked too much like their mother's had—dull and tired and fading.
She couldn't lose him.
Not Liam.
"Fine," she said, barely more than breath. "I'll do it."
His expression didn't change. Just a slight tilt of the head. Like he already knew she would.
"But," she added, stepping forward, "on one condition."
Kylian raised a brow. "I'm listening."
"You don't touch me," she said. "Not unless I say so. Not unless I invite it."
The pause that followed felt like it could split the earth.
Then—
His grin.
Slow. Wicked. Beautiful. Terrible.
"Deal," he said. "But be careful what you invite, little witch."
Her breath caught.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pin. Offered it to her like a gentleman at a masquerade ball.
"A prick of your finger should suffice."
"Of course it should," she muttered, snatching the pin.
Her hands trembled.
She stared at the parchment.
Liam coughed. Faintly. Upstairs.
She didn't hesitate anymore.
She stabbed the tip of her finger.
Blood welled, crimson and hot.
She pressed it to the contract.
It sizzled.
The air pulsed. The parchment glowed crimson—then turned to ash.
A burning pain laced through her wrist.
She gasped.
The skin throbbed.
A sigil. A crescent thorn, faint and scarred.
She looked up—
But Kylian was already gone.
The vial sat alone in her hand, warm and humming with magic.
—
Aisling didn't wait. There was no time for thinking, no time for the dread clawing up her spine or the pounding in her ears.
She flew up the staircase like a storm in red silk, skirts tangling around her ankles, boots slamming against polished wood. The torches lining the hallway flickered in protest, as if even the shadows sensed her desperation.
Her heart battered her ribs like it was trying to break out of her chest. She didn't knock. She didn't breathe.
Crash.
Liam's door slammed open with a force that echoed down the hall. The scent hit her first—blood, sweat, and sickness.
Her stomach turned.
Liam lay there, limp as a doll, his skin pale enough to rival the snow-covered fields outside. His chest heaved in shallow, ragged gasps. Eyes half-lidded. Lips chapped and dry. The cough that racked his frame was vicious, violent—like his lungs were trying to claw their way out.
"No, no, no—" her voice trembled as she fell to her knees beside his bed, fumbling the bottle from her sleeve with shaking fingers. The elixir nearly slipped. Her hands were slick with sweat.
"Please work," she whispered. "Don't you dare die on me, you idiot."
She tilted his head back gently, forcing herself to stay calm—though her nerves were anything but. Liam's mouth was slightly parted. She poured the glowing liquid between his lips.
One drop.
Two.
Three.
He didn't stir.
For one terrible, soul-crushing second—
Nothing.
Her vision blurred. The bottle slipped from her hand, bouncing soundlessly onto the carpet. Her hands hovered over his chest, not knowing whether to shake him or scream.
And then—
A shudder rolled through him.
A harsh inhale.
His body jerked.
Another cough—but this one was different. Less hollow. Less cruel. The violent tremors slowed, softened into hoarse breaths. His lashes fluttered. His chest rose and fell. Rose and fell.
"Liam?"
Her voice broke around his name.
She leaned closer. She could barely see through the tears stinging her eyes. His cheeks had color again. Not much, but enough to make her throat close.
"Liam, it's me—can you hear me?"
He groaned.
And then—he smiled.
It was weak, crooked, but it was him.
"Hey, Ash..." he rasped, voice hoarse like gravel. "Did you... dye your hair again?"
Aisling let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Her vision shattered entirely. Her knees gave out and she collapsed beside him, clutching his arm, forehead pressing to the mattress as relief punched the air from her lungs.
"You absolute bastard," she choked out, still crying. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought—I thought you—"
"You cry pretty ugly, you know that?" Liam muttered, his grin wider now.
"Shut up," she hissed, wiping her cheeks furiously. "You're lucky you're not dead or I'd have murdered you myself."
"That... makes no sense."
"You make no sense!"
He wheezed a laugh. "Still dramatic. Still loud."
"Still breathing." Her voice cracked again, but softer now. Her fingers wrapped around his. "That's all that matters."
Liam blinked at her, brows pulling together as if trying to focus. "Did you really dye it?"
She blinked, confused. "What?"
"Your hair. It's... brighter."
Aisling blinked at him through wet lashes, then gave a short, incredulous laugh. "You're literally half-dead and the first thing you say is about my hair?"
"It's very red," he mumbled, eyes drooping. "You look like a pissed-off tomato."
She smacked his arm—gently. "I'm going to smother you with a pillow."
"Love you too."
She swallowed hard. "Don't... don't scare me like that again, Liam."
He was fading again, but his fingers curled weakly around hers.
"No promises... but I'll try."
She didn't move.
She stayed there, heart pounding against his now-steady pulse, too terrified to let go, too relieved to speak. The world narrowed until it was just the two of them and the echo of near-death still ringing in the air.
---
Hours later, when the manor was quiet again and Liam slept peacefully, she stood at the window in her nightgown, arms wrapped around herself.
The wind was howling.
The sky dark and full.
And then—
Movement.
There.
By the tree line.
A woman in a crimson gown stood beneath the silvered moonlight. Pale skin. Dark hair. Bleeding eyes.
The same ghost from her dreams.
Only this time… she didn't speak.
She simply smiled.
And bled.
And vanished.