The Captive Bride Novels & Stories

Irma whispered. The makeup artist finished fixing her veil and stepped back. “You’re ready,” she said quietly. The room fell silent for a moment. Irma stood up, her gown falling elegantly to the floor, a perfect blend of silk and lace that caught the sunlight. Rosy covered her mouth, tears spilling freely now. “My little girl…” she whispered. “You’re a bride now finally...” Irma hugged her tightly. “This time, it’s real, Mom and I promise to cherish this moment forever.”

The darkness loomed around her as she fell. Roots whipped against her arms, binding her wrists. The air was thick with the scent of blood and damp soil. Camela felt her breath caught in her throat as she twisted, but each movement dragged her further down. “Vincent! Elias! Is anyone there…?” Her shout echoed back, swallowed by the pit. Then she heard a faint yet piercing voice carried through the roots—The First Bride “No one can hear you here, except for me. Just me,” the First Bride whispered.

Power draped itself over Matteo De Luca like a second skin—and tried to coil itself around her like a noose. She didn’t let it. Not in the three days since she’d woken up a captive bride, not even after Mara explained the legal trap she’d been signed into. Marriage documents. Fingerprints. Surveillance footage staged to show her walking into the private marriage suite under her own will. It was airtight. But Serena wasn’t stupid. There were holes in Matteo’s story. She could feel them. And tonight, she intended to find one. --- The library was easy enough to locate. The guards didn't follow her indoors—only watched from a distance. It was her only semblance of freedom in the massive stone fo

She yelps, terrified. “You don’t expect me to treat you well do you?” I scoff, crouching so I can stare into her eyes, “You don’t get it do you? You are a Mahonnas! You are not here to live your fucking best life, you are here as a captive. You are here as sweet revenge against your father and you expect to be treated like a fucking princess? Get this straight, I am doing you a favour not ending your life right this instant. You are fucking captive and I am your captor,” I sneer, “and a captive gets punished when she breaks the rules.” She shakes her head, “No. Nothing can be worse than marrying a Rossellini.”

Where did all your confidence go now, Marco? "Boys, bring in my baby and strap him in". As I finish speaking, Marco's eyes widen in terror, and he tries to struggle against the restraints again. However, his body is weak and battered, and he can barely muster the strength to move. The guards move swiftly to comply with my orders, and soon they return with her, my beautiful baby. She is called "Kop'yo iskupen'ya" and otherwise known as "The Spear of Atonement". The instrument look like a chair with restraints, but the most beautiful qualities are the drills. There are two drills for both knees, two at the chest and one for the stomach.

She didn’t even look at me. As the maid grabbed my arm, I realized something that made my heart sink even deeper— This wasn’t just a marriage. It was a prison. And I had just become its prisoner.

Beneath the illustration was a line of ancient text, which he translated in a trembling voice: "The blood of the First Bride shall open the Final Gate." I froze. The first bride... Rose. "Rose, aren't you—" But Lucien shook his head slowly, shutting down my theory. "No." Every eye in the room—including Rose’s—snapped to him. "Not Rose," Lucien said firmly. I frowned, completely bewildered. "Then who? History says Rose was the bride who was sacrificed!" Lucien smiled thinly, his gaze practically stripping my soul bare. "You are the real First Bride."

she asked. “No happy family nonsense?” I smiled. “I assure you, I have no desire to play happy families. I simply want an heir.” “An heir?” she said. “Are you royalty or something?” I ignored that too. “So,” I asked, “do we have a deal?” I sweetened the offer. Private housing. A car. Total privacy. She smiled. “Fine. Add it to the contract.” Then she asked, “Where are you from anyway?” “Upstate,” I said. “A place called Fell Village.”

"We got married at a small ceremony in the Hamptons. Just close friends and family. You said you didn't want anything too big." I look at the photo on the screen. It's me, but not me. The woman in the white dress was smiling, her arm linked with Damien's, looking at him like he hung the stars. She looked happy, in love. I didn't recognize her at all. I scroll through more photos. Christmas markets, holding hands. Candlelit dinners. A trip to Paris. Every picture showed a perfect couple living a perfect life. But something about them felt staged, like we're actors in a movie rather than people in a marriage.

Defiant, beautiful, and now a target painted in bright red by both the Rossis and quite possibly her own father. Inside the villa, Elena tried to lose herself in the art studio Enzo had prepared for her. The scent of oil paint and turpentine filled the sunlit room, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every distant engine sound made her flinch. She was no longer just a kidnapped bride. She was a symbol. A trophy. A traitor in the eyes of two powerful families. The first explosion came without warning. The ground trembled violently. Glass rattled in the windows. Elena dropped her brush, crimson paint splattering across the floor like fresh blood. Alarms blared throughout the villa.