The forest was dark and deep, the trees so tall their tops disappeared into mist.
Ancient pines stretched toward a sky she couldn’t see, their bark rough and black in the darkness.
Kat stood at the edge of a clearing, her gray dress replaced by something white and flowing, like a wedding dress made of moonlight and spider silk.
The air smelled of pine resin and wood smoke and something wild she couldn’t name—animal musk, perhaps, or the rich scent of earth after rain.
Mist clung to her skin, cold and damp, making her shiver.
The ground beneath her bare feet was soft with moss and fallen needles, and somewhere in the distance, she could hear water running over stones.
Wind moved through the trees with a sound like breathing, like whispers, like voices speaking words she couldn’t quite understand.
“Come forward.”
The voice rolled through the clearing like thunder, deep and commanding, resonating in her chest.
Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it hurt, but her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her toward the center of the clearing where a figure waited in shadow.
Each step felt like walking through water, slow and dreamlike, inevitable.
As she drew closer, the shadows peeled away like layers of cloth falling.
He was massive—taller than her father by half a head, broader than Marcus by twice, built like the warriors in the old tapestries that hung in the manor’s great hall.
His shoulders were wide enough to block out the firelight behind him, his chest deep and powerful beneath dark leather and fur.
His presence filled the space until there was room for nothing else, until the air itself seemed to bend around him.
His hands were large, scarred across the knuckles, capable of terrible violence or terrible gentleness—she couldn’t tell which.
His face…
The dream shifted, flickering like a candle flame in wind.
In one moment, his face was a ruin—scars crisscrossing his features in angry red lines, some thick as her finger, others thin as thread.
They pulled at his mouth, dragging the left corner down into a permanent grimace.
One scar ran from his temple down through his eye, which was milky white and blind, then continued across his cheek to his jaw.
His nose had been broken multiple times and healed crooked, listing to one side.
His jaw was misaligned, giving his face an asymmetrical, unsettling quality.
Another scar split his upper lip, and when he spoke, she could see where teeth were missing.
He was monstrous, terrifying, the stuff of nightmares mothers used to frighten children into obedience.
“You’re the cursed one,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust, rough as gravel.
“Red hair.
Freckles like disease spots.
They sent me their broken daughter, their damaged goods.”
Kat tried to speak, to defend herself, but her stutter locked her throat.
Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came.
Her tongue felt thick and useless.
He turned away from her, his broad back dismissive, and she saw more scars there—long ones that looked like claw marks, crossing from shoulder to hip.
“My first wife was beautiful,” he said, his voice cold as winter wind.
“Golden-haired and graceful.
She knew how to run a household, how to stand beside a lord, how to speak without stammering like a fool.
What are you compared to her?
A pale shadow.
A poor replacement. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
An insult.”
He gestured to the darkness around them, and suddenly Kat could see a woman there—golden-haired, perfect, smiling.
She wore a gown of deep blue silk that made Kat’s white dress look like a burial shroud.
She moved with fluid grace, her hands folded demurely, her posture impeccable.
“Elara could embroider,” Theron continued, still not looking at Kat.
“She could play the harp and sing like a bird.
She could manage servants and plan feasts and entertain guests with wit and charm.
She was educated, well-read, accomplished in every way a lady should be.”
The golden-haired woman smiled, and it was kind but pitying.
“You’ll never be what she was,” Theron said, his voice flat and final.
“Don’t expect me to pretend otherwise.
You’ll warm my bed when I want it and produce my sons.
That’s all I require from you.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Don’t embarrass me in front of my people.
Stay out of my way.”
The dream rippled like water disturbed by a stone.
Now his face was different.
Still scarred, yes—a thick line ran from his temple down across his cheek, puckered and silvered with age.
Another cut through his eyebrow, leaving a gap in the dark hair.
A third traced his jaw from ear to chin, and a fourth crossed his throat, just above his collar.
But they were old scars, healed and faded, silvered with time.
They didn’t disfigure him so much as mark him, like a map of battles survived, of pain endured and overcome.
His features were strong beneath them: a straight nose, a firm jaw, high cheekbones that spoke of northern blood.
His mouth was full, his brow heavy.
His hair was dark, almost black, pulled back from his face to reveal the scars without shame.
His eyes were gray, like storm clouds, like steel, like the sea before a tempest.
They studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch, made her feel seen in a way she’d never been seen before.
“Katriana,” he said, and her name in his deep voice sounded different than it ever had before.
Not like a curse.
Not like a burden.
Not like something to be ashamed of.
Just…
her name.
“You’re smaller than I expected,” he continued, stepping closer.
She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, and she could smell him now—leather and steel and pine smoke and something warm and male that made her stomach flutter strangely.
“Delicate.
Like you might break if I touched you too roughly.”
He reached out slowly, giving her time to flinch away, but she didn’t.
Couldn’t.
His hand was warm when it touched her hair, his fingers careful as they lifted a strand and let it curl around his finger.
His hands were scarred too, she noticed—old burns on the backs, cuts across the palms, calluses from sword work. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“Like fire,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
“Like autumn leaves burning.
Like copper catching sunlight.
The old gods favored red hair—the color of life’s blood, of sacred flames, of the sunset that promises dawn will come again.”
His thumb brushed her cheek, tracing the path of her freckles.
“They marked you as special,” he said.
“Not cursed.
Special.”
The dream shifted again, faster now, images bleeding into one another like watercolors in rain.
She was in a great hall, stone walls rising high above her, banners hanging from the rafters—black and silver, bearing the sigil of a wolf’s head.
A fire roared in a hearth large enough to stand in, throwing dancing shadows across the floor.
The ceiling was vaulted, supported by massive wooden beams carved with intricate knotwork.
Theron sat in a carved chair that might have been a throne, elevated on a dais, and she stood before him like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
Servants lined the walls, watching.
Judging.
“You’ll keep to your chambers,” he said, his voice cold and flat, echoing in the vast space.
“You’ll appear when required for formal occasions.
Beyond that, I don’t care what you do.
Stay out of my way.
Don’t interfere with the running of my household.”
He waved a dismissive hand, and she saw the scars on his knuckles, the thickness of his wrists.
“My first wife knew her place.
She understood what was expected.
She never questioned me, never challenged me, never made demands.
I doubt you’ll manage even that much.”
A woman appeared beside his chair—Elara, golden and perfect.
She placed her hand on his shoulder with easy familiarity, and he covered it with his own, his expression softening in a way it never had for Kat.
“She knew how to please me,” he said, looking at Elara with something like longing.
“In every way.”
Servants appeared to lead Kat away to some dark corner of the castle where she’d be forgotten, just as she’d been forgotten at home.
She tried to protest, but her stutter locked her throat, and no one was listening anyway—
No.
The dream twisted, reformed.
She was in the same hall, but now Theron rose from his chair and descended the steps toward her, his movements fluid despite his size.
His boots made no sound on the stone floor.
His expression was unreadable; those gray eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her want to look away but couldn’t.
“They told me you were cursed,” he said, stopping just in front of her.
He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
“That your red hair marked you as unlucky.
That you were…
damaged.
Broken.
Worthless.”