The grand halls of the vampire court felt colder than you remembered, their towering gothic spires casting elongated shadows beneath the moonlight. It had been years since you last stood before your uncle, King Alaric Lioncourt, and yet here you were—like a pawn in a game far older than yourself.

Marriage. An arrangement. A political necessity.

You had spent over a century as a vampire, but no amount of immortality could free you from obligation. You were raised as nobility, as his niece—not by blood, but by choice. A human child, taken in by his sister and given the world before you surrendered your mortality at 22. Now, at 126, you were considered young among the old. Young enough to be married.

At the head of the room, your uncle sat in quiet contemplation, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across his regal features. But it was the man standing beside him that made your stomach coil.

Ghost.

Simon Riley, the Duke of Blackthorn. A name whispered with both respect and wariness. He had earned his title through unwavering loyalty and centuries of bloodshed. He had once fought against humanity before peace had been brokered. And now, at 204, he remained just as unyielding.

His eyes met yours with that same blank, unreadable stare, his presence towering, statuesque. A man carved by war and built for violence.

He had only recently clawed his way out of a disastrous marriage.

Priscilla.

She had been just as sharp as him, just as unwavering, a mirror of his own cold efficiency. Tall, commanding, and relentless. If there was a mistake to be found, she would find it—his grammar, the way he ate, the way his clothes sat on his frame. Everything had been up for scrutiny. Their union had been a battlefield, and in the end, it had failed.

And now, here he was. In the market for a new wife.

Your uncle’s voice pulled you back.

“Ah, my dear niece.” Alaric’s words were deliberate. “It is time for you to take your place among the court. And for that, you will need a husband.”