THE BISHOP'S IMPOSTER BRIDE.

Trigger Warning: This is a dark romance novel, featuring themes of extreme violence, drug abuse, and explicit sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

LYRA

I decided to walk home to get my steps in instead of taking the usual bus. I am deeply regretting it.

The wind keeps whipping the hem up, and I am fairly certain an elderly couple I passed two minutes ago got an eyeful of my red underwear. The old man couldn’t stop grinning, while his old lady looked ready to scratch my eyes out.

I clamp a hand over my skirt, pin it flat against my thighs, and quicken my pace. Thankfully, my apartment building is only a block away.

The local catholic school closed for spring break this afternoon, leaving me with a rare week of freedom.

Being a fifth-grade teacher is more exhausting than it looks, mostly because ten-year-olds are at a phase where they think they are smarter than you. Getting a break from them, even for a few days, is a small blessing.

I reach my building, push through the heavy glass doors, and take the stairs two at a time. When I get to my floor, muffled shouting and a sickening sound of something heavy crashing against the wall stop me dead in my tracks.

My chest tightens, and I squeeze the strap of my leather purse until my knuckles turn white.

"Don’t tell me he has those losers over again." The anxiety in my chest morphs into white-hot rage.

I swear to God, I am throwing them and those beer bottles out the window this time. He cannot keep turning my apartment into a frat house.

Declan and I have been together for two years. When we met, he was the sharpest, most driven man I knew. His ambition was the thing that drew me to him, but then he lost his job nine months ago.

Like a supportive, loving girlfriend, I asked him to move into my place so he wouldn’t have to stress about rent. Weeks turned into months, and now, his daily routine consists of rotting on the couch, playing video games, and disappearing to get drunk with his buddies.

At first, I excused it as a coping mechanism, but watching my teacher's salary stretch to feed two adults, while his friends trudge through my living room twice a week, has been kicking my ass.

I don't knock. I shove the door open, ready to unleash every ounce of rage built up over the last few months.

"Declan, I swear to…" The words die in my throat, and my purse slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

My living room is trashed. The coffee table is splintered in half, my books are scattered on the floor, and the metallic, copper smell of fresh blood hangs heavy in the air.

My gaze drops to the center of the rug, where Declan sprawls face down, his face barely recognizable. One eye is swollen shut, his nose is bent at a sickening, crooked angle, and blood bubbles from his lips every time he wheezes, pooling thick and crimson into my beige carpet.

He isn't fighting back. He’s shivering, clutching his ribs, making tiny, painful gurgling sounds as a massive leather boot presses directly onto the back of his neck, grinding his cheek into the floorboards.

I open my mouth to scream, a wave of cold nausea washing over my stomach, but the man standing over Declan tilts his head up. He wears a heavy, scuffed leather vest over a grey hoodie, thick silver skull rings on his fingers, and a folded black bandana tied tightly around his shaved head.

He raises a single, scarred finger to his lips and shakes his head.

Terror spikes through my veins and my knees shake so violently I can barely stand. Instinctively, I  tilt my head back toward the open hallway, calculating.

I can run. I can hit the stairs and scream for the neighbors.

“It won’t work, sweetheart,” a low voice purrs from the corner.

I turn toward the sound, and a second giant stands by my small dining setup, bearded, heavily tattooed across his throat, and wearing the same heavy leather cut. He grins at me with yellowish teeth, looking at me the way a wolf looks at a trapped rabbit. Like he wants me to run just so he can hunt me down.

My heart hammers against my ribs, creating a deafening roar in my ears, and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.

Realizing I’m completely outmatched, I slowly step across the threshold, my fingers trembling as I reach back to pull the door shut.

A cold, heavy shadow falls over me. A third man stands right behind the door.

I gasp, spinning around, and this one towers over me like a brick wall. His head is shaved clean, and a terrifying black spider tattoo stretches across his left cheekbone, its legs creeping up toward his eye. His expression isn't angry. It’s completely blank. Dead. The face of a man who kills people before breakfast.

"What is..." My voice comes out as a strained, terrified whisper, my eyes darting back to Declan. His chest hitches in a ragged, shallow breath, and a small, hysterical sob escapes my throat.

He’s still breathing.

The man in the bandana, whom I assume is the ringleader, gestures with his chin toward Spidey, and he grabs one of my wooden dining chairs, drags it across the floor with a screech that makes me jump, and shoves it behind my knees.

“Sit,” he orders.

My legs give out, and I collapse onto the hard seat, slamming my hands onto my thighs and clutching the fabric of my dress to hide how violently my fingers are shaking. My eyes remain fixed on Declan's limp body.

They are going to kill him. And then they are going to kill me because I saw their faces.

“You’re... you’re hurting him,” I choke out, trying to draw on whatever authority I use in the classroom, but it breaks into a trembling whimpering. “He’s barely breathing. Please.”

The leader smirks, then taps the brute's shoulder, who slowly lifts his heavy leather boot off Declan’s neck. Declan lets out a wet, agonizing gasp, coughing up a spatter of dark blood onto the floor.

“Judging from that shocked pretty little face of yours, you don’t have a clue who we are,” the leader says, stepping closer. The heavy scent of stale tobacco, leather, and copper blood rolls off him.

I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper, and shake my head once. “I... I don’t.”

He narrows his dark eyes, scanning my face for any sign of a lie. Satisfied, he lets out a low chuckle.

“Alright. Allow me to introduce us.” He pulls back his foot and drives a brutal, heavy kick directly into Declan’s exposed ribs.

An agonizing crack echoes through the room, and Declan groans, a high, wet, painful sound, and curls into a tight ball, vomiting blood.

"Declan!" I scream, jumping up from the chair purely on instinct to reach him, but a massive, iron-hard grip slams down on my shoulder, shoving me violently back into the seat.

“Did he say you could move, little girl?” Spidey growls from behind me, grabbing my ponytail in his massive fist and yanking my head back until my neck is stretched tight, forced to stare up at the ceiling.

A sharp wince escapes me, and tears burst past my eyelids, blurring my vision as the skin on my scalp pulls violently.

“Let go,” I sob, my hands flying up to clutch at his wrist. “Please!”

He releases my hair with a grunt, letting my head snap forward. I drop my chin, hyperventilating as I stare down at Declan, who is now shivering in a puddle of his own blood, clutching his chest.

The man grips my shoulder again and pins me against the wooden backrest, forcing me to face the ringleader, who steps right into my personal space, his smirk fading into something dark, sharp, and predatory.

“Your little boyfriend here owes us a lot of money,” he says, leaning in until I can see the red veins in his eyes.

I stare at him, my brain stuttering as I try to process the words through the haze of terror. “What do you mean, he owes you money? He...he doesn't... he doesn't have money.”

He scoffs, sharing an amused glance with his men. “Oh? So you don’t know the love of your life has a nasty little gambling habit?”

My breath hitches.

Declan barely leaves the couch. Where would he even get the credit to gamble? It makes no sense. But staring at the blood on my carpet and the heavy leather cuts these men are wearing, I know I don't have the luxury of asking questions. I just need these men out of my home.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and dig deep into my chest to pull out every shred of teacher composure I possess. Before I open my eyes, I force my chin up, even as a tear spills down my cheek.

“How much?” I ask, my voice trembling but clear.

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

“How much does he owe you? I’ll get my savings. I’ll give you everything I have right now if you just leave my house. How much is it?”

The three men exchange a look, and the one in front of me bursts into a dark, mocking laugh before slowly lowering himself into a squat, bringing his face level with mine. His grin makes my skin crawl.

“So you want to pay his debt? How sweet…”

He reaches into his leather vest and pulls out a small, razor-sharp hunting knife. He raises the cold flat of the steel to my face, pressing it gently against my burning cheek, and slides it down toward my neck.

My stomach knots in pure, paralyzed horror. I stop breathing entirely, and stare straight into his dark eyes, terrified that a single flinch will cause the blade to slice my throat.

“How much?” I whisper through locked teeth.

He hums softly, the blade resting right over my pulse point. “Ten million dollars.”