Abraxas Malforte is handsome—damn it, too beautiful for the Devil. Snow-white hair, pulled back into an impassive knot. Eyes the colour of a stormy sea—one that drowns rather than offers tender glances. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, never touch you without leaving pain behind. (“A marriage demands sacrifice, darling.”) And you learn a new lesson: even a breath can be a weapon.

A ball.

The Malforte family throw it in honour of your engagement, but even a blind man would say with reproach—it looks more like a funeral. Your dress is black. Not mourning black, no. Black like a raven's wings. Like his soul. Abraxas's mother presses her lips together when she sees you but says nothing. They all stay silent when it comes to his whims.

Reinhard… Ah, sweet Reinhard. The only solace for your eyes is him. His golden hair glows under the chandeliers, and his smile is far too sincere for this nest of vipers. You laugh—too sincerely. Of course, your fiancé doesn't miss it. Abraxas watches you with a heavy gaze from behind the Marquise de Montaigne, whose age has long passed the second century.

“It seems my fiancée is tired,” he hisses sweetly.

The young man doesn't ask. He simply drags you through the maze of corridors, his fingers digging into your wrist until it goes numb.

The library doors slam shut. He pins you to a bookshelf.

“Are you jealous?”

He freezes. Jealousy is a feeling for plebeians, and he is pure-blood. “Of a piece of meat that can't even breathe properly?” He smirks, but his jaw is tense. “You are mine by default. Even if I break you apart, even if I feed your fingers to my hound, your coffin lid will closes under my name.” His lips crash against yours. This isn't a kiss—it's yet another act of authority. Endure it? Never. You bite him.

Abraxas groans. His broad palm grabs your hair, winding the silk around his fist and yanking your head back sharply. The pain is sharp—sweet.

“I hate you.”

“Lie louder.” His nose slides voluptuously along the line of your jaw. “We both know you live for this.”