The Dead Bride Novels & Stories

Inside the limousine sat a bride. She was dressed in an elegant white wedding gown, her head resting against the window, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wasn't sleeping. She was dead. Lorrie slowly walked closer despite Lorenzo's warning. The moment she saw the woman's face, she gasped. The bride looked almost her age—beautiful, peaceful, as though she had simply fallen asleep. Around her neck hung a silver placard. Three words had been engraved into it: > **Contract Brides Die.**>

He looked exactly like Alessio. Same face. Same grey eyes. Same proud posture. But he wore medieval armor instead of an Italian suit. Across from him… A beautiful bride smiled through tears. She looked exactly like Seraphina. Only her dress was black instead of white. A priest whispered, “You may kiss your bride.” The young man smiled. “I waited a lifetime for this.” Their lips met. For one perfect heartbeat… The world stood still. Then… Blood exploded from his mouth. The bride screamed. The cathedral doors burst open.

“I do.” Bianca’s shoulders relaxed. She offered him her hand. The wedding band had originally been commissioned for me. Matteo took it from the velvet box and began sliding it onto her finger. Before it reached the base, voices rose outside. “This is a private ceremony.” “We have already contacted both families.” “No one enters without an invitation.” Then an unfamiliar voice carried through the doors. “This concerns the death of Isabella Caruso.” The chapel fell silent. Matteo’s hand remained around Bianca’s fingers, the ring still caught at her knuckle.

The deception. She drew in a shaky breath, killed the sob rising in her throat, and lifted the heavy skirts. The grand staircase loomed before her like the mouth of a grave. Each step down echoed with finality. Distant music and laughter drifted from the ballroom below—hundreds of wolves and allied packs celebrating a union that would seal a fragile alliance. No one cared that the bride was a fraud. No one would save her.

"Breaking news! Bride loses her mind at billionaire wedding!" "Guess she wasn't meant for the high life. So close to marrying into money, and she snaps." Below the stage, guests in tailored suits crowded together. Some pulled out hidden cameras and started snapping photos nonstop, while others crouched in corners, clutching their heads and whispering prayers. All because, while Malcom Blair and I were exchanging vows just moments ago, I slapped him across the face, then dragged over a filthy man from the entrance who looked like a homeless drifter and kissed him in front of everyone.

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."

“What?” Vincent’s eyes widened sharply. Inside the evidence bag was a phone, its screen already shattered. A police officer helped unlock it and pulled up the last recorded video. Christine’s face appeared on the screen. She was wearing a white dress, faded from too many washes, with light makeup on her face. The background was the rooftop of the Empire State Building, and the strong wind lifted her hair. “Vincent, congratulations to you and Elena on your wedding today. I’m sorry I can’t attend. It’s because I’ve decided to leave this world.”

Still, I wasn't taking chances. I lit a thick black candle and set it burning slowly, and then flipped on a signal jammer. Soon, the room was filled with haze. Even if there was something I missed, no one would be seeing anything clearly now. To complete the setup, I changed into a black wedding dress. This was the Spirit Bride Rite, after all. When everything was ready, I turned toward the bed. Max lay there, perfectly still, without the faintest sign of life. The water had left its mark, but it hadn't ruined him.

He was beside her in an instant. “Did I hurt you, Lia? Are you injured?” “Nay, husband.” She peeked out at him from the edge of the counterpane, “I used a trick my mother told me before she died.” “What trick is that?” “She told me that English men like a woman to bleed on the wedding night, but many lasses don’t, even if they have not been with a man. She told me that lasses put a leach in their channel for a bit a day or two before the wedding to make a weak spot so coupling will shed some blood. I had thought that all the emissary would need was a bloody sheet and mother's trick would provide that for us.”

Don muttered almost growing impatient with the priest unending words as he stared at the tip of his bride's gown. The priest repeated the same vow to Lillian and she looked at her father for a moment in the small congregation that gathered. She took her gaze back to the man in front of her and closed her eyes for a while. Remembering her promise, she opened her eyes and sighed. "Yes." She said simply. They both exchanged rings. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride." The priest said. Don unveiled her even before the priest could finish as he moved his face closer to hers making Lillian move hers backward. Was he trying to kiss her? Over her dead body would she all