Transmigrated: Saving My Villain Husband

The smell of bitter almonds and burning incense hit my lungs before my eyes even opened.

I stumbled backward, my breath catching in my throat as heavy silver-embroidered silk dragged against my legs. I was no longer sitting in my cramped apartment reading the latest update of *The Prince's Holy Crown*.

I was standing inside a vast stone chamber built from dark volcanic rock. Tall arched windows looked out over jagged snow-covered peaks, and a massive iron fireplace cast flickering orange shadows across the room.

Sitting in a high-backed leather chair near the hearth was a man.

He wore a high-collared black military coat lined with silver fur. Dark hair framed a sharp jawline, and eyes as cold as northern ice tracked my every movement. Black veins crawled subtly up the right side of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

Duke Grim Cavendish. The novel's feared tragic final boss. And right now, according to the wedding ring on my finger, my brand-new husband.

"You have been standing there staring for five minutes, Elodie," Grim said, his voice deep and smooth, yet laced with a dangerous edge. "Are you reconsidering your vows?"

Before I could answer, a young maid stepped forward from the shadows, her hands trembling as she held a silver tray with a goblet of dark red wine.

"Your Grace," the maid squeaked, bowing low. "The Duchess prepared this wine herself to celebrate your union. Please, accept her token of devotion."

Memory flooded my brain like ice water.

This was chapter one of the novel's tragic backstory. In the original plot, Duchess Elodie was a helpless pawn planted by Crown Prince Jamie St. James. Tonight, the maid was supposed to hand Grim a goblet laced with Nightshade Root. The poison wouldn't kill him immediately, but it would react with his underlying blood curse, slowly crippling his magical core until Prince Jamie's knights marched north to finish him off.

If Grim drank that wine, he was dead within three months. And when he fell, the entire northern duchy would burn.

Grim reached out his gloved hand to take the goblet.

"Stop!" I shouted.

The room froze. The maid flinched, her knuckles turning white around the silver tray.

Grim paused, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as his fingers hovered an inch above the silver goblet. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Do not touch that glass," I said, stepping forward and kicking the heavy train of my wedding gown behind me.

"Your Grace!" the maid gasped, her voice shrill with fake panic. "The Duchess is overwhelmed by the wedding feast! She does not know what she is saying!"

"I know exactly what I am saying," I replied, walking straight up to the maid. I reached down, grabbed the silver goblet, and swirled the deep red liquid. A faint smell of crushed almond blossom wafted up.

"It is a fine vintage," Grim observed calmly, leaning back in his chair, though his muscles were visibly tense. "Gifted directly from the royal cellars by Prince Jamie."

"That explains why it smells like murder," I said smoothly.

The maid backed away a step. "Duchess! How can you accuse His Highness the Crown Prince of such a terrible thing?"

I turned to the maid, letting out a short, cold laugh. "You told Prince Jamie I would pour this wine for my husband, didn't you? Tell hint his poison is cheap and his assassin is sloppier."

Without hesitation, I tipped the goblet sideways. The red wine splashed across the stone floor, hissing softly as it touched the heated stone near the fireplace. A faint wispy steam rose into the cold air.

The maid let out a terrified shriek and bolted toward the heavy oak doors.

"Waylon," Grim said softly.

Before the maid could even touch the brass iron handle, the massive oak doors burst open. A giant knight in full northern plate armor stepped into the room, grabbing the maid by her collar with one hand and lifting her clean off her feet.

"Take her to the dungeon," Grim ordered, his eyes never leaving mine. "And find out who paid her."

Waylon dragged the screaming maid down the stone corridor, shutting the heavy oak doors behind him with a deafening thud.

Silence fell over the bridal chamber.

I let out a slow breath, setting the empty goblet down on the side table. My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I forced my chin up, refusing to show weakness.

Grim stood up from his leather chair. He was toweringly tall, his presence completely filling the room. He stepped across the stone floor with the effortless grace of a predator.

"You saved my life," Grim murmured, stopping less than an inch away from me.

"I saved my own future," I corrected him plainly. "Widows of traitors do not live very long in the capital."

A dark, dangerous smile touched the corner of his lips. In one swift motion, his gloved hand moved to the hilt at his side. A metallic shring echoed through the silent room.

Before I could even blink, the cold, razor-sharp edge of a dark steel blade rested directly against the side of my throat.

"A very clever speech, my bride," Grim whispered, leaning down until his ice-blue eyes burned into mine. "Now tell me the truth. How did a pampered capital noblewoman know about the poison before it even touched my lips?"