3

Elena sat rigidly on the edge of the massive four-poster bed. The cheap, wet fabric of her wedding dress clung cold against her skin, but she refused to lie down. She refused to look weak, even if there was no one in the room to see her.

A crack of thunder shook the heavy stone walls of the mansion, vibrating right through her bones. Elena squeezed her eyes shut, drawing a slow, shaking breath.

"Get a grip, Elena," she whispered to herself into the hollow quiet. "You survived Richard Hunt. You survived Cassandra. You can survive whatever is behind those doors."

She had spent the last three hours staring into the shadows, mentally bracing herself. She had pictured every horrific scenario. She imagined a man twisted by bitterness, his face scarred beyond recognition, bound to a motorized wheelchair, perhaps lashing out at her to vent his rage at the world. She had resolved to be patient. She would be his nursemaid if she had to, just to build her own strength and bide her time.

An old grandfather clock somewhere down the corridor struck midnight. The final chime faded into an eerie, suffocating silence.

Then, a sharp, metallic sound sliced through the dark.

Elena’s entire body went rigid. The heavy deadbolt on the double oak doors was turning.

She stood up instantly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hands balled into tight fists behind her back. "He’s here," she muttered, her eyes locking onto the center of the room.

She braced her ears for the mechanical whir of an electric wheelchair, or perhaps the scraping sound of tires against the hardwood floor. She prepared herself for the heavy, uneven breathing of a frail invalid.

Instead, the door handle clicked downward.

It was a footstep. Heavy. Direct. Perfectly balanced.

Elena’s breath hitched in her throat. The sound echoed with a chilling, terrifying confidence. These weren't the dragging steps of a crippled man. They weren't the hesitant movements of someone lacking strength. They were the slow, measured strides of a predator walking into its own territory.

"Who’s there?" Elena called out, her voice sharper and louder than she intended. "Is that... Adrian?"

The footsteps didn't stop. They moved past the threshold, stepping deeper into the pitch-black room.

"I asked you a question," Elena said, taking a involuntary step back until her calves hit the frame of the bed. "The guards said my husband was resting. If you are a trespasser, I will call for help."

A low, darkly amused chuckle vibrated through the darkness, sending a shiver straight down Elena's spine. It was a rich, baritone voice, dripping with absolute arrogance.

"Call for help?" the voice echoed, smooth as velvet and cold as ice. "In my own house? Tell me, little bride, who do you think those guards answer to? Your pathetic father, or me?"

Elena’s eyes widened. "Adrian? But... your legs..."

"What about my legs?" the voice drifted closer, the footsteps stopping just a few feet away from her. The scent of expensive cologne, rain, and tobacco washed over her. "Did your lovely family tell you I was a helpless, broken freak? Did they tell you I couldn't stand up to claim my prize?"

"They said you were paralyzed," Elena breathed, her mind racing, trying to piece together the reality shifting right in front of her. "They said the accident left you—"

"People say a lot of things when they believe what they are fed," Adrian interrupted coldly. "And my family loves to feed the world lies."

Elena swallowed hard, her defensive instincts kicking in. "Why the act? Why let the whole city think you’re a laughingstock? Why let them humiliate me at the altar today by leaving me standing there alone?"

"Because you are a Hunt," Adrian hissed, stepping even closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame. "And a Hunt is nothing but an enemy spy in my house. Why should I honor a transaction made by thieves?"

"I am not their spy!" Elena shot back, her anger momentarily eclipsing her fear. "They threw me away! They forced me into this!"

"We shall see," Adrian murmured.

Suddenly, the sky outside split open. A massive, blinding bolt of lightning tore through the storm, illuminating the entire bedroom with a stark, white glare that lasted for several agonizing seconds.

Elena’s breath caught completely. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in an involuntary gasp.

The light revealed a man standing over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and impeccably built under a tailored black silk shirt. But it was his face that made her heart stop. There were no hideous scars. There was no disfigurement.

His jawline was sharp and chiseled, his cheekbones high and flawless. Thick, dark hair fell perfectly across his forehead, framing a pair of piercing, icy-grey eyes that stared down at her with a lethal, mesmerizing intensity. He looked like a cold, dangerous movie star—a Greek god carved from marble, possessing a terrifyingly perfect beauty.

As the light faded back into the dark, Elena stood frozen, her mind spinning in chaos.

"What's the matter, little bride?" Adrian’s voice whispered through the renewed shadows, dangerously close to her ear. "Disappointed I'm not the monster you expected?"