Page 1 of His Ruthless Match
1
EVA
Istood stiffly among Vivian’s bridesmaids, clutching the pastel bouquet. The tiny buds trembled slightly in my grip, though I told myself it was from the chill seeping through the grand hall, not nerves. My palms itched, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the sweat or the sheer, suffocating wrongness of being here.
The Below was not my scene. It never had been, and I’d worked hard to keep it that way. For years, Raffaele had insisted it was too dangerous for me to be part of his world. Not that I’d ever truly wanted to be a part of it, especially after my mother had been treated like a disposable, dirty secret. Today, apparently, was an exception. Because nothing said “safe” like a hall packed with the worst magical creatures you could imagine, all dressed to impress and whispering like they had something better to do.
I tried to blend into the pastel sea of bridesmaids, even though I knew I stuck out like a sore thumb. The strapless pink dress Vivian had saddled me with—a crime against humanity if there ever was one—clung too tight, refusing to cooperate with my movements. No pockets, of course. I itched to cross my armsbut settled for locking my hands around the bouquet like it might save me from this whole ordeal.
The hall stretched around us like a cathedral plucked out of some fever dream. Gargoyles perched at the edges of the arched windows, their stone features frozen mid-snarl. Shifters with glowing irises murmured to each other in a language I didn’t recognize. A fae couple passed a flask between them, their pointed ears twitching with each sip.
My skin crawled.
It wasn’t fear, exactly, but more of a bone-deep wrongness, the kind that settled in your marrow and made you want to unzip your own skin and step out of it. It was like I was a misfit puzzle piece shoved into the wrong box, carved from the wrong wood. Everything in me screamed to get out of here and scrub my hands raw with bleach and hot water until the memory of this place peeled away with my skin.
I wasn’t used to magic. Not when it was thrumming in the walls, hanging from the ceiling like rot, pressing into my lungs with every breath I took. Raffaele had always kept it tamped down when he was in the human world. He knew what it did to me.
Magic had killed my mother.
I’d watched the magic twist around her throat like an invisible garrote and squeeze until her body went limp. Until her heels dragged across the marble floor and her head lolled unnaturally to the side. Until her last breath left her. And no one, especially not her daughter, could do a damn thing to stop it.
Lord Thorne hadn’t even blinked.
There’d been no rage in his expression. No remorse. Nothing but disdain. He had been cleaning up the stain on his name.
I had been a teenager peeking around the corner, shaking so hard I thought my bones would splinter. I hadn’t cried. Not then. Not even when her body hit the ground with a sound I stilldreamed about. I had gone still, and small, and quiet. Because if I’d made a noise, maybe he would have remembered I existed. Maybe he would’ve erased me too.
But Raffaele had found me.
He’d wrapped me in his coat and veilstepped us out before Thorne even noticed I was missing.
He’d been my protector ever since.
That was the thing about Raffaele… He hadn’t just saved me. He had chosen me. Even when he could’ve walked away, even when he should have walked away, he’d chosen me.
So yeah. I wasn’t used to magic, because every time it prickled across my skin, I remembered my mother’s body hitting cold stone.
And now, standing here, wrapped in it again?
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I forced my feet to stay planted. I clenched my jaw. And I remembered what Raffaele always told me:“He didn’t get to destroy all of you.”
I focused on Raffaele, standing tall at the altar. His back was straight, his suit as impeccable as always. His voice, usually so cold and calculating, had softened as he looked at Vivian. It was a rare vulnerability—one he only let slip around her. I was happy for them. Really, I was. Vivian was everything he needed: sharp, grounded, and, most importantly, someone who could put him in his place when he needed it.
But love? Romance? That wasn’t for me. Keeping people at arm’s length was safer, simpler. No mess, no risk.
I adjusted my grip on the bouquet. My gaze darted across the crowd, careful not to linger. I didn’t want to draw attention. But then my phone chose that exact moment to blare its utterly obnoxious bubblegum-pop ringtone.
Every head turned. Gargoyle stares had nothing on the sea of horrified, incredulous expressions now fixed on me. My stomach dropped, heat racing up my neck and flooding my cheeks.
“Really?” Raffaele’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp enough to cleave steel. His gaze pinned me in place. “You couldn’t put your phone on silent for fifteen minutes?”
“I—uh—” I mouthed a string of apologies, useless and unheard.
Vivian’s expression—equal parts disbelief and secondhand embarrassment—burned a hole into my resolve as I scrambled to silence the infernal thing. I shoved my bouquet into the crook of my elbow and dug into the only place I could store anything in this ridiculous dress: my bra.
The phone slipped through my fingers as I fumbled it out, nearly crashing to the floor before I caught it. A few guests stifled their laughter, while others muttered under their breath. I managed to jab the silence button and sagged in relief, but the damage was done.
