Julia

The car engine purrs softly as we advance along the winding road. The silence inside the vehicle weighs like lead, broken only by the sound of tires on the asphalt. Blackwood's butler keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his posture rigid and impeccable, as if he were transporting something valuable – or perhaps, something condemned.

My stomach churns. All of this seems too surreal. Too bizarre.

My parents… if I can even call them that. They're nothing more than jailers disguised as family, cold people who raised me with rules and punishments instead of love.

"Having friends, Julia? No way. Going out and socializing? That's blasphemy against our principles!"

The words still echo in my mind, like chains that never broke. A trapped bird – that's how I've always felt. Only now, the cage is changing places.

And as for the damned old man they sold me to like a piece of merchandise? Let him wait.

If he thinks he's going to marry a docile and submissive wife, someone who bows her head and accepts this madness, he's sorely mistaken. You just wait, you disgusting pig.

— We're arriving, Miss Julia. — The butler's voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

I cross my arms, sinking into the car seat. At eighteen, I should be out there, living, enjoying… kissing random cute guys at some party. But instead, I'm here, being taken to the Beelzebub of hell.

Gradually, the enormous Blackwood estate reveals itself before me. The gate opens slowly, creaking as if it bears the weight of centuries of secrets. The dark garden is punctuated by stone wolf statues, so imposing they seem to watch anyone who dares to cross the entrance.

"This old man must be a sick sadist."

The night is cold, and the biting wind enters through the window, making my skin crawl. I slide my fingers over my wedding dress – because yes, this sicko demanded I come dressed like this. As if this farce needed to seem more theatrical than it already is.

I don't cry anymore.

I cried when I found out I would be sold.

I cried when I tried to run away and they brought me back.

I cried until all my tears dried up.

Now, all I have left is mockery.

And I hope he read my letters. Ah, the letters. I sent several, each worse than the last. But one in particular comes to mind, and I can't help but smirk maliciously as I remember the final passage:

"Dear and esteemed Mr. Blackwood, you goddamn shitty tyrant! I hope you have a heart attack reading this and go back to the hole you should never have crawled out of. Sincerely, your future wife."

Ah, if he really received that… If he survived reading it, of course.

The car slows down as it approaches the main entrance of the mansion. The entrance hall appears before me, illuminated only by the cold glow of cast-iron posts. The sound of the tires on the gravel makes my heart race, as if every meter covered pulls me further into this life sentence.

Then, finally, the car stops.

— Here we are, Mrs. Blackwood. — The butler's voice sounds firm, without any emotion.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My eyes scan the mansion before me. The place is grand, yes, but it also has something suffocating about it, as if it hides secrets that shouldn't be discovered.

The car door opens and the cold night wind envelops me. I hold the hem of my dress and get out slowly, feeling the icy stone floor beneath my feet. My future husband must be so senile he can't even walk anymore, that has to be it.

Considering our marriage papers were signed without him even bothering to see me in person, I married this nuisance in my own home.

Now, I'm just an offering being delivered to the monster. In the 21st century, and it seems we haven't evolved a damn bit.

— Mr. Blackwood awaits you. — The butler maintains his impassive expression. — Your dinner is already served.

I cough, almost choking on my own saliva.

First dinner as a couple?!

That's a good one. Considering my husband must be old enough to be my grandfather, the least I expect is for him to be so crazy he won't bother me.

I adjust my dress, lift my chin, and follow the butler into the mansion.

If this disgusting old man thinks I'll be a trinket decorating his house, he's sorely mistaken.

(...)

With every step I take into the mansion, I feel the air around me grow heavier. The silence is almost suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic sound of my heels echoing on the polished marble floor. Cold. Gigantic. Empty.

The Blackwood mansion is all that and more.

Immense chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their golden lights reflecting in antique mirrors, creating ghostly shadows on the dark stone walls. Old portraits watch me from their places, serious faces, piercing gazes – Blackwood's ancestors, no doubt. A lineage of powerful and, apparently, not very friendly men.

The butler walks ahead of me, his step firm and calculated. I follow him without question, without really wanting to know where I'm going. The smell of aged wood, candles, and something else – something earthy, perhaps moss or wet forest – invades my nostrils.

My mind boils with questions. Where the hell is my husband?

A man who demands a marriage without even meeting the bride, but who now doesn't even bother to receive me personally? Pathetic.

— Mr. Blackwood awaits you in the dining room. — The butler informs without emotion, stopping before a massive wooden door.

My stomach churns. So this is it.

My mind races, imagining what the disgusting old man who bought me as if I were a collector's item will look like. Will he be wrinkled, bald, and drooling on his own tie? Or will he be one of those old geezers who try to look young, dyeing their hair and wearing expensive suits to hide their decay?

Either way, I'm not ready.

But since there's no escape, I lift my chin, take a deep breath, and push the door open.

The dining room is as opulent as the rest of the mansion. A fireplace crackles at one end, illuminating the space with a warm, flickering light. The table is immense, made of dark mahogany, with hand-carved details – and empty, except for a single occupied chair at the head.

And then I see him.

Dante Blackwood.

And, to my surprise, he's not an old man.

In fact, he couldn't be further from it.

He is sitting with impeccable posture, a glass of wine between his fingers. Black hair falls over his forehead in a careless manner, as if he doesn't care about the perfection of his appearance – which only makes him more intimidating. The close-cropped, well-defined beard outlines his strong jaw, and his eyes…

His eyes.

They are a deep amber, shining in an unusual way in the firelight, as if hiding something wild within them.

He doesn't look away when I enter, doesn't stand up, doesn't bother to welcome me. He just watches me, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

It's nothing like I expected.

And, suddenly, I have the feeling that I've gotten myself into something much worse than I imagined.

Dante

Her scent invades the room even before her footsteps echo in it.

Something warm, feminine… and pure.

My muscles tense. Instinct throbs in my veins, something primitive and voracious roaring in my chest. My breathing becomes irregular. I try to maintain control, my usual pose – cold, unshakable – but everything inside me screams to possess her.

To mark her.

To fuck her as soon as possible.

My jaw clenches. I swallow hard. Damn it.

Ever since I knew I would have to take a wife, I imagined it would be something mechanical, necessary only to preserve my legacy. I am the last of my line. The only pure descendant of the Blackwoods. This means my duty is greater than myself. Greater than my desires, my wants.

I need heirs.

And she… Julia Mildren…

She is the one who will give me these children.

She is mine.

The thought hits me like a punch to the chest when I finally see her step into the room.

In a wedding dress, as I asked. Her hair loose, her face marked by contempt and revolt.

So young. So stubborn. And, damn it, so beautiful.

She stops at the entrance, hesitant. Her eyes stare at me, wide, full of defiance and confusion. She probably expected a decrepit old man as some of her letters said, a cachectic tyrant smelling of death.

What irony.

If she knew who I really am.

If she knew that beneath this civilized skin, a famished beast dwells...

But there's nowhere for her to run.

My voice comes out firm, sharp:

“Sit down and eat. I need you strong and healthy to give me children.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

Julia blinks a few times, as if trying to process my words. Her lips part, but no sound escapes at first. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace.

Then, finally, her voice echoes in the room.

“D-did you marry me just to get me pregnant? Is that it?!”

There is disbelief in her tone. Fury.

Her fingers tighten on the skirt of her dress, her shoulders tense as if ready to fight.

I stare at her, motionless.

Of course, this would be her reaction. Of course, she would feel outraged. But that doesn't change the facts. She was made for me.

And she will understand that. Sooner or later. She looks at me as if I were a monster.

Not that it's anything new.

Julia is still standing at the entrance of the dining room, her fists clenched, her breath short. Her eyes shine with indignation, and for a moment, I can almost hear the thoughts churning inside her head.

Disgust. Anger. Fear.

She feels all of this now. But above all, she feels revolt.

“You didn't answer.” She takes a step forward, chin up, defiant. “Am I just a womb to you?”

I smirk. Small, discreet.

This girl…

She is brave.

That pleases me.

But courage means nothing in the face of reality.

“Yes,” I say, bluntly.

The word hangs in the air like a blow. Direct. Raw. Without any effort to soften the truth.

I know I could lie. That I could use more delicate words, pretend this marriage is something more than a necessary agreement. But I see no point in that.

She needs to understand what we are to each other.

She is not my wife out of love.

She is my wife because I chose her to carry my lineage.

“You bastard,” she spits the words, taking another step forward. Her eyes burn with hatred, her chest heaving with the force of her emotion. “Do you think you can just… use me? Treat me like an object?”

My jaw clenches. Her foolish mistake.

I don't see her as an object.

I see her as a necessity.

She has no idea what's at stake here. Of what I am. Of what I carry.

She cannot comprehend that my species is on the brink of extinction. That I am the last pure wolf of the Blackwood line. That, without children, my race dies with me.

That my own curse will be my end.

“Don't pretend you didn't know, Julia,” my voice comes out low, but firm. “Your parents sold you to me. You were already mine before you even set foot here.”

She trembles.

Her body stiffens, as if my words had finally reached the depth they were meant to.

Reality weighs down on her.

But, instead of crying, of yielding, of retreating…

She laughs.

Low, dry, laden with bitterness.

“I already hated you without even knowing you,” she murmurs, her eyes fixed on mine. “But now? Now I despise you with all the strength I have.”

Something inside me stirs. A dark, primitive… dangerous part.

She's playing with fire. And she has no idea what that means.

Julia

My head seems to spin.

The room around me closes in, as if the walls were approaching, swallowing everything. His voice still echoes in my mind, cold, direct, without a hint of emotion.

"You were already mine before you even set foot here."

My stomach churns. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.

But I won't let him see that.

I won't falter.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk to the table with the greatest composure I can muster. If he wants to play the hot villain, then he'd better watch out.

My butt barely touches the chair before I grab the napkin, shaking it in the air as if I were shooing away a ghost. But not just any movement—I shake the cloth with absurd, unnecessary, theatrical force.

His gaze narrows.

Dante Blackwood observes me with an impassive expression, but I notice the subtle frown on his brow. He clearly doesn't understand what the hell I'm doing.

Great.

Confusion is a good start.

He keeps his eyes fixed on me. This man has a strange way of looking, as if he sees much more than he should, as if he were analyzing me, studying me.

Well, two can play at that game.

I calmly hold the cutlery, stroking the fork between my fingers as if it were a weapon. Then, before even touching the food, I fire:

"I just want to know… why me?" My voice comes out firm, but I can't hide the hint of acidity. My eyes challenge him. "Why did you choose me for this little horror show of yours?"

The silence stretches between us.

Dante doesn't answer immediately. He just stares at me, as if deciding how much it's worth telling me.

His hands rest on the table, large, strong, dangerous.

His long fingers slide slowly over the wood, as if feeling its texture, as if calculating something.

My chest tightens.

He just keeps watching me, his dark eyes studying me as if I were an enigma to be deciphered.

My fingers close around the fork.

I don't like this. This controlled calm, this way he has of looking at me as if he already knew all my answers before I even opened my mouth.

Finally, he leans slightly forward. Just a little, but enough for me to notice.

"Why you?" He repeats my question, his voice low, drawling. Lethal.

I stare at him, waiting.

"Because you were the most viable option."

My stomach lurches.

""Most viable option"?" I repeat, laughing humorlessly. "How nice, Mr. Blackwood. That was almost a compliment."

He doesn't react to my irony. He just keeps staring at me, expressionless.

"Your family carries ancient blood. Ancient enough to be compatible with mine."

I choke on my own air.

"What was that?"

He drums his fingers against the table.

"I needed a wife. You were chosen. Simple as that."

His words hit me like a slap.

Ancient blood? Compatibility? It sounds like I'm in the middle of a genetic experiment, not a marriage.

I feel a growing fury rise in my throat, hot and corrosive.

"You talk as if I were…" My voice trembles, but not with fear. With hatred. "As if I were an animal chosen for breeding!"

His eyes gleam for an instant. A strange gleam. Almost predatory.

"If I thought that… we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The meaning behind his words sends shivers down my spine.

The tension in the room becomes suffocating.

Dante brings the wine glass to his lips and drinks slowly, unhurriedly. As if my revolt were just an insignificant detail.

But I know he's enjoying this. The bastard knows he's in control.

And that just makes me want to provoke him even more.

"Good to know." I say, dropping the cutlery with a loud clatter against the plate. "Now all you have to do is tell me how many children you want and in how much time."

This time, a small, dangerous smile appears on his face.

"Many."

My heart skips a beat.

"And I don't usually wait."

I feel a shiver run down my spine. I should be terrified. But all I feel is anger.

And a fear that refuses to make me back down.