The scent of thyme and woodsmoke lingered in the old stone halls of Rutherford Manor like a ghost that refused to leave. It was a familiar perfume—comforting, nostalgic even. The kind of scent that wrapped around you like a mother's shawl in winter.
But it wasn't the scent that made Aisling stop dead halfway down the stairs.
It was laughter.
And not just anyone's.
Liam.
Her breath caught mid-step, fingers tightening on the polished railing as the sound curled upward from the parlor.
It was light. Whole.
The kind of laugh that tumbled out like sunlight after months of rain.
The kind of laugh he hadn't made in over a year.
It sliced through her like a broken blade, beautiful and cruel.
Her legs were suddenly weak. She leaned into the banister as if it could hold her upright, steady her against the impossible.
He shouldn't be laughing.
Not like that. Not when the last time she'd heard him sound that alive, he hadn't needed help to sit up, let alone breathe.
Back then, his smile still had teeth in it. Before the sickness. Before the coughing up blood in the middle of the night. Before the fevers and prayers and whispers that maybe, maybe he wouldn't make it to spring.
Before Kylian Hawkrige.
Before the Baron with the glacier eyes and bloodstained promises. Before he'd come to collect her like property owed and chained her fate with crimson wax and an unspoken contract carved into her very soul.
"Miss Aisling?"
She flinched.
A maid, young and bright-eyed, passed her on the stairs, practically vibrating with delight. Her apron fluttered with each hurried step, cheeks flushed with excitement.
"He ate porridge this morning," the girl whispered, as if sharing a secret with the wind. "On his own. Isn't it a miracle?"
A miracle.
A miracle?
Aisling's lips parted. The word curled on her tongue like ash.
No.
Not a miracle.
It was a transaction.
A blood pact.
A devil's deal sealed under a dead moon and bought with something she couldn't name yet.
She descended the last steps slowly, as if wading through water. The kind of water that dragged at your bones and whispered lies in your ear. Her slippers barely made a sound against the worn stone, but everything inside her was screaming.
The front door creaked open behind her with a groan that always reminded her of old ghosts stretching.
Her father stepped in, brushing the last tendrils of winter from his coat, his scarf crooked and his boots dusted with frost. There was something strange about the way his face softened—almost a smile, hesitant and weary.
That was rare. Her father did not smile unless the wine was older than she was or Parliament had collapsed.
"Where is he?"
His voice was tight. Eager.
Aisling didn't answer.
She didn't trust her voice.
She must've looked like a disaster—hair in a rebellious tumble down her back, skin pale like parchment, and eyes stormy with too many unshed emotions.
Her father paused, brows drawing together. Something passed between them—something jagged. A question he didn't yet know how to ask.
"In the parlor," she murmured, her tone dry, brittle, like cracked glass.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
But said nothing.
Not yet.
Then he moved.
And she followed.
Silent. Watchful. A shadow trailing after consequence.
The hearth was lit, casting a warm orange glow that flickered across the parlor walls, chasing away the ever-present chill of Rutherford Manor.
And there he was.
Liam.
Propped up in his chair, legs wrapped in a blanket that looked too big for him.
He held a spoon in one trembling hand, eyes narrowed with fierce concentration as he lifted it to his lips. A tiny victory—but he grinned like he'd just conquered a kingdom.
Color bloomed in his cheeks, a pink flush that didn't belong to fever. It was real. Alive.
And her heart—her poor, exhausted, traitorous heart—cracked sideways at the sight.
Her father froze. He hadn't even crossed the threshold before his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor beside the boy like a man falling to prayer.
"Liam," he breathed.
Liam's grin widened. "Father!"
It was bright. Whole. Unshattered.
The old man reached out, hands shaking as he gripped his son's shoulders like he was afraid to let go. "Look at you. You look— You're…"
"Hungry," Liam said with a shy laugh. "And I don't feel like dying anymore."
The sound of it—his laugh—punched the air from Aisling's lungs.
She stood there. Rooted. Drowning in it.
Her father turned slowly, as if his body had only just remembered she existed.
His eyes found hers.
And what she saw there—
Not joy.
Not gratitude.
Fear.
A dawning, slow-building dread.
Like he was piecing together a puzzle he never wanted to finish.
"What happened?" he asked, voice low, hoarse. "How?"
Aisling folded her arms tightly across her chest. It wasn't a hug. It was armor.
"Dinner first," she said, her voice a strained whisper laced with something brittle and burning. "Then I'll tell you everything."
—
The clatter of silver against porcelain was the only sound left in the dining room—sharp and final, like a blade thrown carelessly onto cold stone.
Aisling sat still, her back straight, arms wound so tightly in her lap she could feel her nails biting into her gloves. Across from her, her father stared at the untouched pheasant on his plate, his expression as blank as the ledger she'd burned last week.
His wine glass, though—empty.
Of course it was.
"You said you hadn't accepted his offer." His voice rasped out, low and rough, sanded down by disappointment—or drink.
Her emerald eyes flicked up to meet his.
Unblinking. Unapologetic.
"I lied," she said.
The words dropped like stones.
There was a beat. Then another. The weight of it settled in the air like the thick fog of the moors just before a storm.
"You… signed it?" he asked finally, voice hollow.
She nodded once.
His hands tensed against the table.
"With your blood?" The words were almost a whisper, as if speaking them too loud would summon something from the shadows.
"Yes."
A sharp inhale. The kind people take when they've been punched in the gut.
He pushed back from the table suddenly. The chair scraped wood like claws against flesh.
Then he sat back down just as quickly, as if the weight of it all had driven him back into his seat.
His fingers dug into his graying hair, like he was trying to tear out the shame from his scalp.
"Gods above—Aisling, do you even know what that means?" His voice cracked under the pressure. "That's not some paper you burn if things go wrong—"
"I know exactly what it means." Her voice was ice, sharp enough to cut skin. "I read every clause. Every word. Every drop of blood."
"And you still—!"
"Yes!" she snapped, the word exploding from her like a thunderclap.
She shoved her chair back and stood so quickly the fabric of her dress whispered angrily around her legs. The sound was sharper than the silence.
Her heart pounded like a warning drum in her chest, but she ignored it. She was too far in now. Too far to run.
"You weren't there," she spat. "You didn't see Liam coughing up blood while we sold off our heirlooms to buy herbs that didn't even work. You didn't read the ledger. I did. I read every damn line while the numbers twisted into nooses."
Her father stared at her like he didn't recognize her.
Like the daughter he once had—the girl who used to sing to the horses and steal plum tarts from the kitchen—was gone.
She was.
Aisling of House Rutherford had been buried the day Liam bled on the nursery floor.
"I made the choice," she said, voice quieter now, but no less fierce. "And it's done."
He pressed his hand over his face, dragging it down as if the skin on his bones might peel away under the weight of what she'd just confessed. Then, with a broken sort of resignation, he let it fall to the table.
"I should've found another way," he said hoarsely. "I should've—"
"You couldn't," she said.
Her eyes narrowed. The truth tasted bitter in her mouth, but she forced it down. "You didn't. I did."
Something flickered behind his eyes then—something raw and jagged. A flash of emotion she couldn't place.
Pride? Shame? Gratitude?
All of it?
None of it?
"You saved him," he whispered. The words sounded like a confession.
"I did."
There was a pause, thick as dusk.
"Thank you," he said, voice thick, full of things unspoken.
She flinched.
And before she could stop herself, the words came out colder than she meant.
"Don't. I didn't do it for you."
—
She sat on her windowsill that night, bathed in the ghost-pale light of the moon.
Aisling could hear the wind whispering through the trees, the same way it used to whisper secrets to her mother.
Below, the manor was quiet. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Her finger traced the outline of the ring on her hand—the silver band once worn by her mother. Now, it pulsed faintly, as if sensing the contract bound to her soul.
A rustle.
Her eyes snapped to the window.
There, on the sill beside her elbow, lay an envelope.
Black.
The seal was crimson wax, shaped like a rose pressed beneath a vampire's fang.
She didn't need to open it to know who it was from.
Still, her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up.
The wax bore his sigil—an ornate 'H' crowned with thorns.
She cracked the seal.
Inside, only one line in looping calligraphy. Scented faintly of iron and crushed roses.
"Your engagement shall be made public by the stroke of midnight."
She stared at the words.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Engagement.
It felt like a noose dressed in silk.
A laugh escaped her lips. Shaky. Bitter. Hysterical.
"Of course," she muttered. "Of course you wouldn't even let me breathe before dragging me into your circus."
She could picture him now—Baron Kylian Hawkrige, in all his sharp arrogance and unreadable expression. Probably swirling bloodwine in some obsidian goblet, amused as he watched her unravel one letter at a time.
"Bastard," she whispered.
But she couldn't stop the shiver that ran down her spine.
Not from fear.
From memory.
From the way he'd looked at her in the drawing room when she signed that wretched thing. How his fingers brushed hers just long enough to make her wonder if she imagined the warmth. How his voice, velvet and cruel, murmured, "I know your name. I know your blood. I know the house you haunt and the dreams you try to forget."
She hated him.
She hated that her body reacted when his eyes lingered too long.
She hated that his voice haunted her dreams like a phantom lover.
She hated that, for a moment, she'd felt alive when he smirked at her.
Aisling pressed the letter to her lips.
And then she tore it in half.
The wind carried the pieces away.
But even as they scattered like black petals, she knew the damage had already been done.
Midnight was coming.
And with it, the world would know she was to marry the most dangerous vampire in the realm.
And that she'd signed her name in blood to do it.