Sullivan drew a long breath, steeling himself like a man bracing for the first frost. The room still held the ghost of Evie’s theatrics—too bright and loud for the velvet hush that followed. Beneath the lingering sugar-dusted perfume, he could smell ozone and blackmarket miasma trailing her like smoke.

  Untamed and unapologetic, Evie had always been the wildfire in the family. At least… what was left of it. In the hollow grief between holidays, she’d learned to fill silence with mischief and money, flipping heirlooms for cash.

  He only hoped Aleiya understood. That the barbed wit was armor, playful banter, not cruelty. That teasing was the only way Evie knew how to say I see you, I like you.

  He turned toward Aleiya, bracing for offense, but there was none.

  She wore her stillness like a bridal veil—hands clasped, posture perfect. She kept her gaze on the door he had thrown his niece out of. She was calm but distant. As if being bartered over was so common she’d long since run out of indignation to spend on it.

  Even so, he couldn’t let it rest.

  “Don’t mind Evie,” he said, a quiet thread of apology in his tone. “She likes to play the conman when she’s bored.”

  She didn’t react to it, just settled her gaze on him. Absorbing his words. He searched for something else to say.

  After a beat, he offered, “Why don’t I show you around a bit? You’re probably wondering where you’ll be staying.”

  If she was going to call this place her home, she needed to know her way around. He could have a shadebound do it for him… but it felt disrespectful in a way. Like reducing her arrival, their marriage, to a delegated task instead of his duty.

  He didn’t want to do that to her. Not again. Not after everything he’d learned… and done.

  Aleiya tilted her head, caught off guard. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. No one had ever offered to show her anything. They ordered her. Moved her from place to place like a pawn on a board.

  But to be offered… a tour? As if the halls of her life might, for once, be walked—not dragged, or placed?

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Was this a trick?

  She nodded before her thoughts could betray her. Not eagerly—caution still reigned—but willingly. It was, perhaps, the closest thing to freedom she’d ever been given. Better yet, she’d be guided instead of “roam freely”.

  She didn’t like that phrase. Didn’t trust it.

  Sullivan, after debating with his guilt for a moment, extended a leather gloved hand. “Allow me to escort you then.”

  No threat, no command. It was inviting, not demanding.

  At least he hoped it was.

  Her eyebrows lifted in quiet recognition. She was expecting to follow from behind, not be guided like a guest. She almost wasn’t certain what to do next—except… perhaps… take his hand?

  The realization stamped itself across her face as her lips parted into a silent “oh.”

  Without a word, she placed her hand in his, sliding her new pen behind her ear. She wasn’t used to being so eager to go anywhere. But he had waited for her to take his hand, instead of taking it himself. Another novelty.

  She didn’t want to keep him waiting.

  Sullivan guided his new wife through the Inner Sanctum, her hand resting in the bend of his arm. Their steps echoed softly on the stone, muted by the red runner beneath their feet. The halls smelled faintly of old wood and older ink—memory preserved in dust.

  Aleiya noticed the halls were lit by those strange fireless bulbs—still alien, yet quietly enchanting. Like tiny suns, they lined the stone walls, their warm glow an unexpected comfort in such a foreign place.

  Sullivan found himself talking as they walked. How he and his brother had installed the first electrical wiring when knob-and-tube was still new. How they’d torn it out after a kitchen fire for the sleek and modern conduit wiring, only to replace it all again with levin runic structures.

  “Vincent always swore the fire wasn’t his fault,” Sullivan sighed, a wry tug at his mouth. “I can still smell the burnt hair.”

  That made three people within the Drakovich house: Oliver, Evie, Vincent. She wondered who else lived in such a vast manor. From what little she had already seen of the place, it was huge.

  “Do you like flowers?”

  A safe question, he hoped. One of the few he could think of.

  He hadn’t realized just how difficult it was to fully carry on a conversation like this. Aleiya could neither ask questions nor answer his in words.

  His gaze flicked to the pen Evie had given her, tucked behind her ear like an ornament. He should have at the very least accommodated her with a notebook. He was certain he had one extra tucked away somewhere. A problem for later, he supposed.

  Every moment with her seemed to underline what he already knew: he was not suitable to be her husband. He was only mimicking the part.

  Aleiya’s lashes fluttered as she considered his question. Then, with a small, almost shy nod, she answered him without sound.

  “I can show you the garden then,” he said, voice low but lighter now. “It’s Oliver’s pride and joy.”

  He brought her back up the stairs, through another corridor of memories and relics, to the back of the Inner Sanctum. The open archway to the garden breathed with the delicate scent of grass and flowers and sodden earth.

  It was overcast enough to step outside. Tidal Season, though dangerous, allowed even the most sun sensitive of vampires to wander during daylight hours. How lucky. He could at least show her something beautiful that wasn’t tainted by terrible memories.

  Besides, who didn’t like flowers?