Page 4 of Monster's Pretty Bride

The truth is an iron weight between us. There was never peace, never a union forged in sincerity. This woman stands before me because the purna and the dark elves wish to see my throat slit open while my own kin, fractured and desperate, watch from the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike.

The woman at the center of it all stares at me like she already knows this.

Not yet an enemy. Not yet an ally.

I turn without another word, the movement sending a shift of heat through my wings. “Follow.”

She hesitates only a moment before stepping into the stronghold behind me.

The stone halls are dark, cool, a stark contrast to the brutal sun outside. Faint lines of molten light trace along the walls, illuminating the ancient sigils that pulse with my people’s magic. The fortress was built for creatures like me, towering ceilings, vast chambers, jagged edges carved into every doorway to ward against intruders. To humans, it must seem like the throat of a beast waiting to swallow them whole.

She does not ask where I’m taking her.

A test.

She passes.

The guards that line the halls do not bow as I pass. They stand like statues, eyes forward, hands gripping their weapons. Their silence speaks louder than words. The bride’s arrival will not be celebrated.

She will find no allies here.

I stop before a heavy stone archway, the doors flanked by twin braziers burning low with charred embers. I gesture inside.

She does not move.

“This is your chamber,” I tell her.

Eryss tilts her head slightly. “Not yours?”

A slow, indulgent smirk pulls at my mouth. “Disappointed?”

Her gaze flickers down my chest, past the ridged stone fractures cutting through my skin. She meets my eyes again, unfazed. “No.”

I chuckle, low and rough. “Liar.”

The doors swing open, revealing a vast room draped in deep black and crimson, the furs and silks stark against the dark stone. A bed fit for a king looms at the center, its heavy wooden posts carved with ancient sigils meant to bind, to claim. The smell of embers lingers in the air, woven with something darker.

I watch her take it all in, gaze lingering on the runes carved into the headboard. She does not ask what they mean.

Another test.

Another pass.

“You will remain here,” I tell her. “You will not leave without my permission.”

She lifts her chin. “A prisoner, then.”

The word curls through the space between us, rich with challenge.

I step forward, watching the way her breath hitches ever so slightly, the way her fingers tighten at her sides. “You are whatever I decide you to be.”

A flash of something dark flickers in those storm-colored eyes. Not fear.

Amusement.

“You mistake me for a woman who bends easily,” she murmurs.

I exhale a slow, dangerous breath. “You mistake me for a man who has patience.”

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