Kat’s throat tightened.
Here it came.
The rejection.
The disgust.
The confirmation of everything she’d always been told.
But Theron only tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
“I don’t believe in their god or their superstitions.
The old gods don’t fear red hair.
They revered it.
They saw it as a sign of favor, of fire in the blood, of strength.”
He gestured to the hall around them, to the banners and the fire and the carved beams.
“This will be your home now.
All of it.
The castle, the lands, the people.
You’re the Lady of Blackwood.
I won’t keep you locked away like some shameful secret.
I won’t hide you or diminish you or pretend you don’t exist.”
His hand reached out, and she thought he might touch her face, but he stopped just short, his fingers hovering near her cheek.
“You’re my wife,” he said quietly.
“That means something here.”
The dream shimmered and changed, the hall dissolving into mist.
She was walking through corridors now, endless stone corridors lit by torches.
Servants passed her, and they whispered—always whispered.
“The second wife,” one murmured, not quite quietly enough.
“Poor thing.
Doesn’t know what she’s walking into.”
“Lady Elara’s rooms are still untouched,” another said.
“He keeps them locked.
Won’t let anyone in.
Five years, and he still can’t let her go.”
“I heard he goes there sometimes,” a third voice added.
“Late at night.
Just sits in her chair and stares at her things.”
Kat followed the whispers, her feet carrying her through the maze of corridors until she stood before a door.
It was different from the others—carved with roses and vines, beautiful and delicate.
Her hand reached for the handle, and it opened silently.
The room beyond was frozen in time.
A lady’s chamber perfectly preserved.
The bed was made with silk coverlets in shades of blue and gold.
A harp stood in the corner; its strings still taut.
Embroidery hoops sat on a table by the window, needle and thread still attached, as if Elara had just stepped away and would return any moment.
Gowns hung in the wardrobe—she could see them through the open door, beautiful things in jewel tones that would never fit Kat’s smaller frame.
A hairbrush lay on the vanity, golden strands still caught in its bristles.
Books were stacked beside the bed—poetry, philosophy, histories.
All in languages Kat couldn’t read.
“She was accomplished,” a voice said behind her, and Kat turned to find Theron standing in the doorway.
His face was in shadow, but she could feel his gaze on her.
“Educated.
Everything a lady should be.”
He stepped into the room, and his hand trailed over the harp strings, drawing out a soft, mournful note.
“You’ll never fill this room the way she did,” he said quietly.
“You’ll never be what she was.”
The dream fractured.
Now she was in a bedroom—different from Elara’s, smaller, darker.
A marriage bed dominated the space, and Theron stood beside it, his massive form casting shadows across the floor.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.
Kat’s feet moved, carrying her forward even though every instinct screamed at her to run.
Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might burst.
Her hands trembled.
When she reached him, he caught her wrist—not roughly, but firmly.
His hand was so large it encircled her wrist completely, his thumb and fingers overlapping.
“You’re afraid of me,” he observed, his voice flat.
“Good.
You should be.”
He pulled her closer, and she could smell wine on his breath, could see the way his pupils had dilated in the dim light.
“Elara wasn’t afraid,” he continued, his other hand coming up to grip her shoulder.
“She came to my bed willingly.
Eagerly, even.
She knew how to please a man.”
His grip tightened, just slightly, just enough to hurt.
“Do you know how to please a man, Katriana?
Or will I have to teach you everything?”
She tried to answer, tried to say something, anything, but her stutter locked her throat and all that came out was a strangled sound.
His expression darkened.
“Can’t even speak properly,” he muttered.
“What use are you?”
No—
The dream wavered, shifted.
Same bedroom, same bed, but now Theron’s expression was different concerned, not cruel.
He released her wrist immediately when he felt her trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back to give her space.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.
I forget how…
intimidating I can be.”
He ran a hand through his hair, and she saw the gesture was uncertain, almost nervous.
“We don’t have to…
I mean, there’s no rush.
We can take our time.
Get to know each other first.”
But even as he spoke, she could see Elara’s ghost standing in the corner, golden and perfect, watching with sad eyes.
The dream splintered again.
A woman appeared beside Theron—beautiful, with golden hair that fell in perfect waves to her waist.
She wore a gown of deep blue silk that hugged her curves, and she moved with the kind of grace that came from years of training.
Her skin was flawless porcelain, her eyes bright blue, her smile serene and knowing.
“My first wife,” Theron said, and his voice was soft with memory, tender in a way it had never been when speaking to Kat.
“Elara.
She died five years ago.”
His hand reached out to touch the golden-haired woman’s face, and she leaned into his palm like a cat seeking affection.
“She was everything,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly.
“Beautiful, accomplished, perfect in every way.
When she laughed, it was like music.
When she touched me…”
He trailed off, but the longing in his expression said everything.
But the dream flickered, and suddenly the woman’s smile turned sad, knowing.
Her perfect face became translucent, ghostly.
“They say he killed me,” Elara whispered, her voice like wind through dead leaves, like water over stones, like the last breath before death.
“That’s what they whisper in the villages, in the taverns, in the servants’ quarters.
That the Shadow Lord murdered his beautiful wife.”
Kat’s blood turned to ice.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Did he?” she tried to ask, but no sound came out.
Her lips moved, but her voice had abandoned her.
Elara’s form began to fade, becoming translucent, until Kat could see through her to the wall beyond.
“Does it matter?
If he could kill a wife he loved, what would he do to one he doesn’t?
One he never wanted.
One forced upon him by politics and duty?”
Her voice faded to nothing, and she was gone, leaving only the scent of roses and something else—something metallic and wrong.
Blood.
The dream splintered like glass.
Now she stood in a dark corridor, pressed against the wall, invisible.
Servants passed, carrying linens and trays, and they whispered as they walked.
“The first Lady,” one murmured, an older woman with gray hair.
“Found her at the bottom of the tower stairs, they did.
Neck broken clean through.
Head twisted at an angle that wasn’t natural.”
“Accident, they said,” another replied, younger, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“But the master had been in a rage that day.
Everyone heard them arguing.
Shouting, they were, loud enough to shake the walls.”
“What were they arguing about?” a third asked, a girl barely older than Kat.
“No one knows for certain,” the first woman said, lowering her voice.
“Some say she’d discovered something she shouldn’t have.
Others say she’d defied him, questioned his authority.
Still others say she’d taken a lover, and he found out.”
“I heard,” the younger servant said, “that she was trying to leave him.
That she’d packed her things and was planning to flee in the night.
That he caught her on the stairs and…”
She made a pushing motion with her hands.
“Hush,” the older woman hissed.
“Don’t speak such things.
The walls have ears.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” the girl pressed.
“He killed her.
And now he’s bringing another wife here.
Poor thing.
Wonder how long she’ll last.
Wonder what she’ll do to anger him.”
“Maybe she’ll be smarter,” the younger servant said.
“Maybe she’ll know to keep her head down, her mouth shut, her eyes on the floor.
Maybe she’ll survive.”
“Or maybe,” the older woman said darkly, “she’ll end up at the bottom of those same stairs.”