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PROLOGUE

“Eliza…”

The deep, haunting voice echoes through the stone tunnel as I run faster, bare feet slapping against the cold slab underfoot. It’s so dark down here that I can barely make out anything in front of me, chest heaving with exertion and throat raw from my ragged breathing.

“Eliza…”

I skid to a stop as I hear my name called again, this time seemingly from somewhere ahead instead of behind.

Biting my lip to stifle a whimper, I run my palms over the damp stone walls surrounding me, desperately feeling around for an opening. They slip and slide against the rough surface, both from the moisture on the rock and the blood on my hands.

Blood that isn’t my own.

My fingers claw against the craggy wall as I frantically search for a way out. These tunnels are a labyrinth; a maze designed to disorient.A game.

The rock suddenly gives beneath my hands as I locate an opening in the roughly hewn stone, tripping forward into the space it creates. My knees bang against the floor as I go down hard, a pained cry escaping my lips on impact. I slap a hand overmy mouth to suppress the sound, mentally cursing myself for giving up my location by making a noise.

“There isn’t anywhere you can run to that I won’t find you,wife,” the disembodied voice mocks, echoing in the space around me like a death knell.

He sounds closer now.Too close.

I shove up to my feet, springing forward into the darkness at a full sprint. My panted breaths fog the air as they burst from my lips, my exposed arms covered with goosebumps. In the distance, there’s a hazy glow of light, and I can barely make out the rough edge of another opening– another turn.

I take it at full speed, immediately regretting my choice when I slam into a wall of stone, barely throwing my hands up in time to brace myself.

A fake opening.

A false hope.

As I stumble backwards, stunned and disoriented, a pair of strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist from behind, hauling me back against a muscular chest.

A scream tears from my throat as my feet scrabble for purchase against the cold floor, my fingernails digging into the flesh of the arms banded around my waist.

My captor leans down, his heavy breaths rustling my hair and his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Til death do us part, remember?”

1

“My son should be along any minute now,” Magnus says, tapping his index finger against the mahogany tabletop. It’s the only outward sign of his agitation at his son’s tardiness– his shoulders are relaxed, his lips drawn in an easy smile. Not a single gray hair is out of place atop his head. Nonetheless, that finger just keeps tap-tap-tapping, making my own anxiety spike.

My knee jumps beneath the table, falling into rhythm with the incessant tapping as I wring my hands nervously in my lap, glancing toward the closed door of the dining room for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We’re in no rush,” my father placates, beaming a friendly smile at the man seated across the table. His hand lands on my bouncing knee, squeezing it painfully in a signal for me to be still. I barely conceal my wince at the sting of his fingertips digging into my flesh, my back going ramrod straight against the antique dining chair.

All three of us perk up at the sound of footsteps against the hardwood floor in the hall, looking to the door as the knob turns with a creak before it’s thrust open and a man strides through.

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him– because he’s simultaneously the most handsome and terrifying person I’ve ever laid eyes on, both everything and nothing like I expected.

He’s in his late twenties or early thirties; tall and broad-shouldered, outfitted in a black suit that’s perfectly tailored to fit him like a second skin. The charcoal gray dress shirt beneath it is neatly pressed, the top button undone so a hint of his tanned chest peeks from the collar. Prominent cheekbones and a sharp jawline accentuate the symmetry of his frighteningly gorgeous face, and, like his father, not a single hair on his head is out of place. Though where Magnus’ is gray, his is thick and inky black.

A pair of striking green eyes meet my own as he saunters into the room with confidence, the soles of his dress shoes clipping against the hardwood floor. He comes to a stop at the chair across from me and immediately drops his gaze from my face to tour my body– or what he can see of it, from where I’m sitting.

“This is my son, Roman,” Magnus says by way of introduction, chest puffing out with pride as he gestures to the dashing stranger.

My father’s grip on my knee tightens in a silent signal for me to play my part. I flinch at the pain of his grasp, jolting to my feet to introduce myself.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, my throat so tight that my voice sounds shrill. “I’m Eliza.”

Roman swipes a hand over his chin as he continues his perusal, giving me a slow once-over and assessing me with scrutiny. The silence in the room hangs heavy, and I do my best not to squirm beneath the intensity of his cold, soulless stare.

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