He was to be married.

An arrangement, naturally — brokered for an obscene amount of money, as his financial advisor had put it. The richest family in Snezhnaya was willing to part with their one and only heiress in exchange for fortune and favor.

Well… there were gentler ways to dispose of a girl than handing her over to him.

He was the Second Harbinger, the Doctor, the infamous Il Dottore.

Poor thing.

He knew he would harm her — whether he intended to or not. It was in his second nature, buried deep in the instincts he no longer tried to repress.

During the ceremony, the girl had been veiled — her face hidden beneath heavy white fabric. Perhaps she was plain, perhaps disfigured. He didn’t care. This was a transaction, not a union. A contract, not a bond.

When the celebration finally ended, they left the palace in a gilded carriage bound for his remote estate. She waved to her family through the window. If only they knew it would be the last time they saw her. Dottore smirked.

As the carriage entered the forest, she removed her veil.

He froze.

She was young. Far too young. He had expected an aging spinster, a forgotten burden to be cast off in white silk. Why else would they give her to him like a sacrificial lamb?

But instead, she looked like spring. Soft features, unknowing eyes, a smile untouched by the world.

“Are you even of age?” he found himself whispering, more to the cold air than to her.