It was raining.
Not the tempest, violent storm that threatened to rip the sky in half. Just the kind of rain that settled into your bones and whispered that no sun was coming anyti soon.
The church had disappeared behind them half an hour ago. The Montclair carriage creaked along the stone-laid path toward the Montclair estate, toward the place Marcella had sworn never to return to, not after what it made her.
Inside the velvet-draped cabin, silence reigned. The kind of silence that had teeth.
Marcella sat rigidly, spine straight despite the ache in her lower back. Her wedding dress clung damply to her skin in places the rain had managed to reach. The cursed red pendant burned against her collarbone, warm despite everything. Like it rembered too.
Berith sat across from her, legs casually crossed, elbows on his knees, his gloved hands interlaced like he had all the ti in the world. His eyes were fixed on the glass window to her right, where water streaked down in silver trails. But Marcella knew he wasn’t really looking outside.
He was listening. To her breathing. To the ruffle of fabric.
Marcella hated the soft rustle of her wedding dress, filling the space, louder than it should have been. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable as if the silk and lace were mocking her for pretending to be sothing she wasn’t—a willing bride.
She studied Berith from the corner of her eye. The storm light caught his profile—chiseled jawlines, unruly black hair dampened from the earlier walk to the carriage. He looked like a man carved out of obsidian and regret.
He hadn’t said a word since they left the church. He hadn’t even touched her, not even to help her into the carriage.
But gods, the way Berith looked at her. That should’ve been illegal. It was too raw. Too real. It made her feel like he could see through her gown, her skin, right into the secrets she’d buried deeper into her soul.
That look undid her more than touch ever could.
"So," Berith cleared his throat like trying to involve in idle conversation, "how does it feel?"
Marcella blinked, "How does what feel?"
Berith turned his head now, eting her eyes. "To be married to ." His words weren’t teasing. There was no smirk behind them, as if he was already dissecting her answer before she gave it.
Then a short laugh slipped out of her, sharp and mirthless. "You’re asking that now? In a moving carriage? With the ink still wet on the vows?"
Berith tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, not quite a smile. "It seed polite."
His response made her laugh more, but it was empty, cold. "You don’t strike as a man burdened by politeness."
"I’m rusty," He clicked his tongue. "But I try when I rember how."
The carriage swayed again. A bump in the road, just enough to knock their knees into each other. Marcella flinched but Berith didn’t.
They sat too close.
It wasn’t the carriage’s fault. It was large enough. But sohow, their bodies still found ways to breach the distance. Like gravity was tired of pretending they weren’t married.
Forced proximity, that’s what this was. Two souls who once burned are now trapped together.
Marcella turned to the window, biting the inside of her cheek. She needed to breathe. But even the air slled like him.
"We’ll leave for Ashenholt tomorrow," Berith expressed as though picking up a conversation they’d never had.
Her fingers froze on the hem of her skirt. "Ashenholt?"
"My ho. In the North." He didn’t elaborate. "You’ll et my family there."
Of course, Marcella knew where it was. Even in her past life, Ashenholt had been the first place Berith had taken her after the wedding. The place with too many eyes and too many secrets.
Her mouth tasted of rust just thinking of it.
Marcella had already walked into that Dukedom and learned what it ant to be welcod by the Montclairs. They kept their arm’s length away from the capital, not even appearing at council etings or royal events.
The patriarch, the forr Duke Montclair. She still rembered his eyes like shards of winter, the way he had stared at her like she was just a piece of property.
"You didn’t invite them to the wedding?" Marcella asked, keeping her voice light, knowing it wasn’t.
"No, it’s tradition."
Marcella lifted her arched brows. "Not attending the wedding of your heir is tradition?"
Berith didn’t blink, turning his gaze to her fully. "The bride must greet the family on the first day of the wedding. That is what they honor. Presence matters. Attendance ans nothing."
She scoffed. "That’s one way to say intimidation."
Presence. Berith’s family had always unnerved her. The stares, the judgnt so thick it seeped through her skin.
The cold that clung to her bones for months after.
She drew in a breath, "Is it truly necessary?"
His eyes were unreadable. "More than you know."
Berith still hadn’t drawn closer and yet... the cabin felt too small. His scent was everywhere—woodsmoke, myrrh, and sothing unnamable. The kind of scent that didn’t fade, only settled deep into her bones.
Marcella shifted, brushing against his leg again. "Do you think this will work?"
"What?"
"This." She gestured vaguely. The marriage, the pact and the carriage ride. "You and ."
Then, "No." ca his response. "But we don’t have the luxury of what works," Berith added. "Only what lasts."
Marcella turned to look at him, heart stuttering. "You speak like a man who’s already lost."
"I am a man who’s already lost," Berith repeated. The words fell like a match in a dry forest.
Oh heaven, he’s so annoying. She wanted to throw him out of the carriage. But the Fla inside her pulsed, ached and wanted to curl toward him. It wanted him near.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Berith leaned back, closing his eyes as if she weren’t watching him fall apart inch by inch.
Marcella turned back to the window.
********
Stepping into the Duke’s estate as a bride felt different.
The Montclair manor greeted her like a mausoleum. Even the marble under her heels felt colder now, as if it rembered the last ti she’d walked it as a bride — and how that story ended.
And yet, sothing had changed.
Marcella had.
They reached the base of the grand staircase that branched like a forked path — east and west. Berith paused. For a second, Marcella thought he might say sothing, might even look at her.
But he didn’t.
"Silas," Berith called, without sparing any glance to her, "show the Duchess to her chambers."
Duchess. Marcella flinched inwardly.That was the first ti he’d called her that. Not sweet. Not victorious. Just... official.
She waited for sothing else. A glance or a word, anything.
Berith was already walking away, down the west corridor, toward the wing that had always been his.
He left her there, just like that.
Marcella swallowed the bitter heat in her chest.
Silas, ever the discreet butler, inclined his head. "Your Grace," he said with practiced elegance, "this way, if you please."
She followed him, confusion clung to her thoughts like a second skin. Her loud, chaotic, desperate thoughts throbbed to make sense of what had just happened. They were supposed to consummate tonight, that had been the calling of the pact.
A lifeti ago in her past life, Berith had claid her the mont the vows were sealed. A night of violent, binding passion. A binding sealed through flesh.
This ti? Nothing. Not even a graze of fingers.
Was that dark-eyed creature already aware she’d sealed the Ashen Fla alone?
Marcella couldn’t tell and Berith wasn’t offering any answers.
"Your Grace," Silas’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, "this is Lira. She’s been assigned as your handmaid."
A small figure stepped forward, hands tightly clutching a bundle of fresh linens. Lira looked young. Sixteen, perhaps. Her dark curls were tucked under her cap, with warm brown skin, and wide honey-colored eyes.
"I’m honored to serve you, Your Grace," Lira greeted, lowering her head.
Marcella nodded, offering a small, kind smile. "Thank you, Lira."
They reached the doors to her bridal chambers — massive, carved wood with golden inlays.
Silas opened them, revealing a room fit for a Duchess: tall ceilings, sconces glowing warm, velvet drapes tied back with gold cords, a canopied pristine bed. Rich. Royal. Cold.
The scent of night jasmine drifted in the air. Her scent.
Marcella walked to the center of the room, looking around. No fire burned in the hearth. She shivered from everything that pressed against her skin at once.
She rembered this room from her past life. Back then, she had craved his closeness, his love — a foolish girl still clinging to the belief that marriage with Berith ant everything. Now, all she wanted was to understand the ga he was playing.
Silas bowed again. "If you require anything, Your Grace, ring the bell on the nightstand."
Marcella nodded. "Thank you. Good night, Silas."
"Goodnight, Your Grace." Berith dipped his head and left.
Lira lit a few candles near the vanity, laid out a nightgown, and gestured toward the curtained bathing area. "If it pleases you, my lady," she said gently, "the bath is ready."
Marcella walked behind the curtain and slipped into the warm water. Rose oil scented the steam. It soaked into her skin, chasing the chill from her bones. But the fla’s ache in her chest didn’t ease.
She leaned back, letting her head rest against the rim of the tub. Why did Berith walk away? He didn’t even look at her.
Was that... rcy? Or had she simply not understood him at all?
After drying off, Marcella stood in the alcove window, clad in her nightgown. The breeze had picked up. She pulled the curtains aside and leaned against the fra, gazing at the moon in the sky.
She crossed her arms, hugging herself loosely. Her fingers brushed against her collarbone, then drifted to her chest.
The Fla.
It throbbed beneath her skin. She could feel it — curling, coiled like a serpent. It hadn’t roared since she sealed it, but it was still there. Waiting. Sensing.
"Did you feel it?" Marcella whispered aloud, as if the night might carry her words to him.
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