Three

Bella’s heart was a frantic, trapped thing, beating a wild rhythm against her ribs. Two minutes, Andre’s voice had echoed, and the clock was already ticking.

  

 She snatched a shawl from the desk, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders, trying to cover the evidence of the heat that still throbbed beneath her skin.

  

 The man who had stood by the fireplace moments before was an entirely different organism from the one who was now gone. 

He was possessive and loud, a predator who didn't care about the chase, only the kill. The man who had just touched her.

  

 "Are you incapable of following a simple instruction?" Andre demanded, turning to look at her, his eyes cold and devoid of the startling intensity she had just witnessed. "Fix yourself, wife. We have appearances to keep."

  

 He didn't notice the disarray of her dress. He didn't notice the slickness between her thighs. He only saw a slow, stupid woman.

  

 Bella forced herself to breathe. She had to get away from him, or she would shatter. Her body was still too raw, too tender, too confused from the recent ecstasy.

  

 "I need a moment," she said, her voice barely a tremor. "The ceremony... my father insisted I take a sedative earlier. It's making me nauseous. I need to lie down."

  

 It was a flimsy lie, but a perfect one. Her father, a man obsessed with appearances, would absolutely have forced pills on her.

  

 Andre’s eyes narrowed, searching Bella’s face. She held his gaze, her fear battling with the urgent need to survive this moment.

  

 "A sedative?" he scoffed. "Rossi's weakness. Fine. Be quick about it. I have no patience for dramatics, Bella." He moved toward the door, not waiting for her. "If you are not downstairs in ten minutes, I will come and fetch you myself. And I won't be gentle."

  

 He slammed out of the library, leaving silence and the heavy, metallic scent of his presence behind him.

  

 Bella waited until she heard the faint echo of his footsteps fade down the marble hall before collapsing onto the desk where she had just lost her mind.

  

 There are two of them.

  

 Twins. One who demanded ownership, and one who demanded response. 

  

 She scrambled off the desk and fled the room, heading toward the staircase and the promised sanctuary of the bridal suite.

  

 The suite was big, a dizzying collection of dark velvet, antique gold, and soaring windows overlooking the misty mountains. Her maids were gone, having laid out a robe and a delicate lace nightgown on the bed.

  

 Her fingers flew to the buttons of her dress, tearing at the lace until she could slip free of the satin cage. She stepped out of the gown, feeling the cold air hit her overheated skin.

  

 As she reached for the silk robe, her eyes caught on the pillows.

  

 The maids had meticulously fluffed them into perfect peaks. Yet, resting in the small indentation left by the maids’ hands, was a tiny, dark object.

  

 She walked over and picked it up.

  

 It was a cufflink. 

It wasn't the sparkling diamond cufflink Andre had been wearing at the altar. 

This one was crafted from matte black metal, the center inlaid with a single, highly polished piece of black onyx.

  

  

 She flipped it over. Engraved on the back, so fine she had to hold it up to the light, was a single, stylized mark: a perfect, unblinking wolf’s eye.

  

 It was a sign. A confirmation. A challenge.

  

 He was here. He had been waiting for her, or perhaps watching her, confirming his claim before Andre even had a chance. 

The stranger had left his brand on her bed.

  

 She tucked the cufflink deep into the pocket of her discarded robe. It felt hot, a forbidden, wicked secret burning through the clothes.

  

   

 She dressed quickly in the white robe, tying the sash tightly. She couldn't stay here, hiding. Andre would assume she was trying to escape, and that would bring his wrath down on her instantly.

  

 She had to face the music. She had to look at every dark-haired man in the reception hall and try to find the one who wasn't Andre.

  

 The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of high society and low morality. The music had swelled, and the volume of conversation was deafening. Bella descended the grand staircase, forcing a pale imitation of a smile onto her lips.

  

 She scanned the room immediately. Andre was easy to spot. He was holding court near the massive ice sculpture, laughing a loud, boisterous laugh that carried over the music. He was extroverted, drawing attention like a gravitational pull.

  

 She watched him. His gestures were were confident, almost arrogant. She looked for the silence, the stillness that had captivated her in the library.

  

 She found nothing. No other man with his exact profile lingered in the room. Had he already left the estate? Or was he so good at blending in that he was indistinguishable?

  

 "Look at you," a cold voice purred beside her.

  

 Bella turned. Standing next to her was a woman in a tailored black gown.

 She was elegant, in her late fifties. Her hair was pulled back in a tight knot, revealing how high her cheekbones were .

 "Aunt Elinora," Bella murmured, forcing a polite dip of her head. She was Andre’s father’s sister, the family Consigliere, and rumored to be the true political backbone of the Volkov empire.

  

 "Don't call me Aunt," Elinora said, her voice dry as parchment. "I am Elinora. I don't deal in sentimentality."

  

 "Forgive me, Elinora."

  

 Elinora looked Bella up and down, a assessment that made Bella want to pull her robe tighter.

  

 "You look distressed, child," Elinora noted, her gaze lingering on Bella’s lips, which were still slightly swollen from the kisses she had received. "I heard about the trouble earlier. Such a pity to have assassins at a wedding."

  

 "Andre handled it," Bella said, trying to sound proud, not terrified.

  

 Elinora gave a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Of course, Andre handled it. He is predictable in his brutality, which makes him useful."

  

 She paused, taking a slow sip of her champagne, her eyes fixed on Bella over the rim of the glass.

  

 "Tell me, Bella," she continued, her voice dropping, "what do you know about the Volkov bloodline?"

  

 The question was so jarring, so far removed from polite conversation, that Bella stumbled. "Only that you are powerful, Elinora."

  

 "We are powerful because we are divided," Elinora stated, her eyes flicking toward Andre across the room. "We split the energy. One wolf carries the fire, and one carries the earth. One is the symbol, and one is the executioner."

  

 Bella’s blood ran cold. Elinora knew. She had to.

  

 "I don't understand," Bella managed to whisper, hoping her mask of confusion held steady.

  

 Elinora leaned in conspiratorially, her perfume heavy and complex. "The Volkovs have two faces, Bella. You must learn which one to trust and which one to fear. And sometimes," she paused, her eyes like chips of flint, "the wolf you marry is not the one who protects you."

  

 Elinora straightened, her expression instantly blanking. "Enjoy the reception, dear. Try not to make a fool of yourself. The world is watching."

  

 She walked away, leaving Bella reeling in the wake of her cryptic, terrifying warning.

  

 One carries the fire, one carries the earth. One is the symbol, one is the executioner. Was she telling Bella that the man who claimed her in the library was the one she should trust? The executioner?

  

 Bella looked across the ballroom at Andre, whose booming laugh had just peaked. He saw her, raised his glass in a possessive salute, and then turned back to his guests.

  

 He was the fire. The symbol. The loud one.

  

 That meant the other one—the silent, ruthless man who hid in the shadows was the earth. The executioner.

  

 Later that night, the bridal suite was cold and silent.

 Andre had been detained downstairs, caught up in a business call, leaving Bella alone with the crushing weight of her new reality.

  

 She changed into the lace nightgown, feeling hopelessly exposed. She retrieved the black onyx cufflink from the pocket of her robe and placed it carefully on the nightstand. 

It was her anchor. Her proof.

  

 She climbed into the massive bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin, staring out at the inky blackness of the mountain view.

 She was trapped. Bound to a monster, and claimed by his equally monstrous brother.

  

 The wind howled outside, rattling the glass.

  

 Her eyes drifted closed, exhaustion finally winning.

  

 Tap. Tap. Tap.

  

 Her eyes snapped open. The sound was faint, insistent. 

She looked around

It wasn't the wind. It was coming from the window.

  

 Bella sat up slowly, her heart pounding a familiar rhythm. She crept out of bed and walked to the window, pulling aside the velvet curtain.

  

 It was snowing heavily now, the flakes swirling in the strong updraft.

  

 And there, scratched faintly into the steamed glass right at eye level, was a message.

  

 It was written with something pointy.,   

 The message was brief, and utterly paralyzing.

  

 Don't look for me at the room. Look for me in the dark.

  

 Bella pressed her fingers to the cold glass, blurring the words. Before she could process the impossibility of the silent twin being on the second-story ledge of a mountain castle in a snowstorm, another line appeared beneath the first.

  

 You taste like rain.

  

 A shiver of intense heat raced through her.

 It was him. He was out there. He knew exactly what had transpired.

  

 And then, just as quickly, the final, heart-stopping line appeared.

  

 Wear the cufflink tomorrow, Bella. It’s time they know who you belong to.