But my uncle Arthur didn't care about betrayal--he cared about money. Within an hour, he ambushed me with his attorney, waving my late grandfather's will in my face. The terms were brutally clear: I had until my twenty-fourth birthday--which was exactly three days away--to enter a legal marriage. If I failed, the entire family trust fund and my beloved antique restoration studio would default directly into Uncle Arthur's greedy hands.
"Liam is marrying Ruby now, Joseline," Uncle Arthur had sneered, his eyes gleaming with triumphant greed. "You're all out of options. Sign the handover papers, or leave town with nothing."
Standing before the weathered headstone of my grandmother, Eleanor Kensington Goodwin, I felt an icy, resolute fire burn in my veins. I was a Goodwin; my blood carried the legacy of stubborn purifiers and independent restorers. I would rather marry a stray dog off the street than surrender my grandfather's life work to the parasites who had spent years trying to bleed me dry.
"I need a miracle, Grandma," I muttered aloud, wiping the freezing rainwater from my lashes. "Or just an idiot with a valid ID and a pulse."
"You shouldn't ask the dead for things that belong to the living."
The voice cut through the sound of rain like a silver blade.
I spun around, my instincts flaring. Less than ten feet away, emerging silently from the thick coastal fog, stood a man. He was tall--easily six-foot-three--draped in a tailored charcoal overcoat, holding a plain black umbrella. His skin was pale as polished alabaster, his jawline carved from dark granite, and his eyes--a deep, obsidian black--were locked onto mine with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
Yet, strangely, my pulse remained steady. The natural mental barrier I'd had since childhood, that quiet sanctuary in the back of my mind, absorbed the sheer, suffocating pressure rolling off him.
He was standing before another headstone, an ancient, unmarked slab also bearing the name Eleanor. His chest wasn't moving, and his gloved fingers gripped the umbrella handle so tightly that the leather strained. He looked less like a mourner and more like a predator restraining itself from a kill.
"You don't look like you're here to pay respects," I said, my voice steady, cutting through the damp chill. "You look like you're hunting."
The man's obsidian eyes flickered. A faint, razor-thin smile touched his lips, though it carried no warmth. "And you look like prey that doesn't know it should run."
"I don't run from strangers in broad daylight," I countered, stepping toward him. "I'm running out of time. There's a difference."
I took in his immaculate tailoring, the faint air of aristocratic detachment, and the sheer, raw power radiating from him. He was dangerous, unquestionably so, but he had an aura of authority that no petty thug could mimic.
"Let me ask you something, Sir," I said, catching the initials C.S. engraved on the silver clasp of his coat. "Do you happen to need a wife?"
The man froze. For a split second, the air between us dropped five degrees, a frost-like chill prickling the back of my neck.
"Excuse me?" his baritone rumbled, low and rough.
"A civil contract," I explained rapidly, laying out my cards with calculated calm. "No emotional entanglements. No shared finances. I need a marriage certificate stamped by the town hall before Friday to secure an inheritance from my manipulative relatives. In return, I can compensate you generously, or offer you legal cover if you have family breathing down your neck."
He stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, lingering on the hollow of my throat where my pulse beat rhythmically. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in what seemed like intense, suppressed hunger.
"I don't need your money, Miss Goodwin," he said quietly, his voice vibrating with something ancient and heavy.
"You know my name?" I narrowed my eyes.
"You said your grandmother is Eleanor Kensington. It wasn't hard to piece together," he replied without missing a beat, his expression reverting to a mask of polite indifference. "As it happens, my elders have been... excessively demanding regarding my bachelorhood. A quiet civil marriage suits my schedule perfectly."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled off my damp wool glove and extended my hand. "Joseline Goodwin. Deal?"
Cyril removed his leather glove. When his bare fingers wrapped around mine, a shock of pure, arctic cold shot up my arm. His skin was freezing--like raw marble submerged in a glacial river.
"Cyril Sweeney," he said softly, his thumb brushing the side of my palm. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
I stood motionless in the rain long after her footsteps faded into the mist.
I raised the hand that had touched hers, bringing my palm toward my lips. The scent lingering on my skin was intoxicating--pure, holy freesia, mixed with the electric, purifying warmth of ancient witch-blood.
My fangs lengthened, pressing painfully against the inside of my lower lip, and my vision tinted crimson.
Ten years.
Ten long years of searching every corner of the mortal realm since the night by the Ancient Frost-Fir when she had saved my dying soul with her blood, only for her memory to be shattered by the trauma. And now, she had walked right back into my grasp, demanding a contract.
"A civil marriage, my little witch?" I whispered into the howling wind, feeling the ancient covenant hum beneath my flesh. "You have no idea what you've just signed."