At the midnight—
There was no wedding hall.No guests. No relatives. No music drifting through a crowd.
Only stone.
The place he brought me to stood far from the city, hidden behind layers of land that didn't appear on any map I'd ever seen. An old structure—older than the estate itself—half-buried in earth and ivy, like it had been waiting centuries for someone to remember it existed.
"This is enough," he said quietly when I hesitated at the entrance. "Two people are all that's required."
I looked at him. "No witnesses?"
"I hate crowds," he replied. "Especially for personal matters."
There was something final in his voice, something that told me this wasn't a whim. This was belief.
Inside, the air was cool and still. Torches lined the walls, their flames steady, unnatural in how little they flickered. Symbols carved into stone spiraled upward toward a domed ceiling—marks I didn't recognize, language older than anything I'd studied.
"A secret religion," he explained, almost casually. "Ancient. Forgotten. It survived because it learned to stay small."
I swallowed. "And… this is okay? Just us?"
His gaze held mine. "It's preferred."
The altar stood at the center—stone worn smooth by time, edges softened as if hands had rested there for generations. On it sat two simple glasses of wine. No rings. No vows written on paper.
Only intention.
We stood across from each other.
No priest. No mediator.
Just him and me—and something heavier in the air, watching.
He lifted one glass first. With practiced calm, he made a small mark against his skin, letting a few drops fall into the wine. Not dramatic. Not ceremonial in the way movies made it seem. Just deliberate.
He handed the glass to me.
My hand trembled slightly as I mirrored the act, my heart pounding loud enough that I was sure he could hear it. When the drops disappeared into the dark red liquid, it felt irreversible—as if something had already shifted.
We exchanged glasses.
"This is a contract," he said softly. "Not of ownership. Of eternity."
The word settled uncomfortably in my chest.
"You don't leave," he continued. "And I don't discard. That's the promise."
I searched his face. There was no madness there—only certainty. The kind that frightened me more than rage ever could.
I nodded.
We drank.
The wine was bitter, sharp, grounding. As it slid down my throat, a strange warmth followed—not comfort, not fear, but awareness. Like crossing a line you couldn't see until it was already behind you.
He reached out then—not to touch me, but to rest his forehead lightly against mine.
"From now on," he murmured, "the world may not recognize you as mine."
His breath brushed my skin.
"But what matters will."
The torches burned steadily. The altar remained silent.
And somewhere deep inside me, a truth took root—quiet, unsettling, and impossible to undo.
I hadn't married into a family.
I had married into a secret.
_______
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of bedside lamps and the faint spill of moonlight through the curtains. The house felt different at night—quieter, heavier, like it was holding its breath.
"Blindfold," he said softly.
The word made my chest tighten.
For a second, old memories surged up—darkness, masks, helplessness—but I forced myself to breathe through it. This isn't that, I told myself. This is different. I chose this.
"I'm okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
The fabric slipped over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. My other senses sharpened instantly—the sound of his breathing, the faint scent of soap and wine, the subtle shift of air as he moved behind me.
"I found someone who loves me," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Someone who didn't leave."
His hands paused for a fraction of a second.
Then I felt my wrists gently guided together. Not rough. Not hurried. The restraint clicked softly into place, firm but careful.
"I know," he murmured. "That's why I'm still here."
His touch traced slow, deliberate paths—along my arm, across my back—grounding rather than claiming. The kiss that followed was warm, unhurried, meant to soothe.
Then something changed.
A sharp, unexpected sensation made me gasp—not pain exactly, but surprise. A pinpoint spark that sent a shiver through me.
"What was that?" I asked, breath uneven.
"It will feel… different," he replied calmly. "Trust me."
Another sensation followed—brighter, more intense—making my body tense instinctively. My mind raced, confusion and awareness colliding. I should have been afraid.
Instead, I was hyperaware.
When the next strike landed—quick, controlled—I cried out despite myself. The sound shocked me as much as the sensation did. Heat rushed to my face, shame blooming immediately after.
"I—stop—" I started, then faltered.
He leaned close, his voice low and steady. "Breathe. You're safe. Tell me if it's too much."
I didn't answer.
Because somewhere between fear and surrender, I realized I wasn't breaking.
I was feeling.
That realization frightened me more than anything else.
The room blurred after that—sensations folding into one another, time stretching thin. When it was over, he untied my hands slowly, deliberately, grounding me again in the present.
He didn't touch me afterward. Just stayed close.
"You don't have to understand it tonight," he said quietly. "Or ever."
The blindfold came off.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, heart still racing, emotions tangled and raw.
I wasn't sure what I had agreed to.
I wasn't sure what I had awakened.
But one truth pressed heavy in my chest as sleep finally claimed me—
This marriage wasn't about love or fear anymore.
It was about control.
And whether I would keep it…
or slowly give it away.
_______________
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of bedside lamps and the faint spill of moonlight through the curtains. The house felt different at night—quieter, heavier, like it was holding its breath.
"Blindfold," he said softly.
The word made my chest tighten.
For a second, old memories surged up—darkness, masks, helplessness—but I forced myself to breathe through it. This isn't that, I told myself. This is different. I chose this.
"I'm okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
The fabric slipped over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. My other senses sharpened instantly—the sound of his breathing, the faint scent of soap and wine, the subtle shift of air as he moved behind me.
"I found someone who loves me," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Someone who didn't leave."
His hands paused for a fraction of a second.
Then I felt my wrists gently guided together. Not rough. Not hurried. The restraint clicked softly into place, firm but careful.
"I know," he murmured. "That's why I'm still here."
His touch traced slow, deliberate paths—along my arm, across my back—grounding rather than claiming. The kiss that followed was warm, unhurried, meant to soothe.
Then something changed.
A sharp, unexpected sensation made me gasp—not pain exactly, but surprise. A pinpoint spark that sent a shiver through me.
"What was that?" I asked, breath uneven.
"It will feel… different," he replied calmly. "Trust me."
Then—
A sharp crack split the air.
Pain flared across my back so suddenly that I screamed.
"What—what was that?!" Panic rushed up my throat.
He didn't answer.
Another sound—closer this time.
Then it hit me again.
It's definitely his belt or a whip.
The realization came after the pain, not before. My body jerked, breath tearing out of me in a cry I couldn't stop. Fear flooded my chest so fast my vision swam behind the blindfold.
"Stop," I gasped. "Why are you doing this?"
Another strike.
Measured. Controlled. Not wild.
That was what terrified me most.
My thoughts scattered. My heart hammered so violently I thought I might pass out. I wasn't prepared—hadn't agreed—hadn't even understood what he was planning.
"Aiden—please—"
He moved closer instead.
Warmth replaced distance. His lips brushed my skin, slow and deliberate, right where the pain still burned. The contrast made my body react before my mind could catch up.
And that—that was the worst part.
Shame crashed into me hard and fast.
I hated myself in that moment. Hated the way my breath hitched. Hated that my body responded at all when I was terrified. Hated that something inside me softened even as fear screamed that this was wrong.
"No," I whispered—not to him, but to myself.
Another strike landed.
I screamed again, raw and broken, tears spilling beneath the blindfold. I didn't understand what he wanted from me—obedience, fear, surrender—or why he needed to take it like this.
Then everything stopped.
The whip was gone. The air shifted.
He leaned close, his lips brushing my hair, his voice low and calm—as if nothing terrifying had just happened.
"You feel it," he said quietly. "And you hate that you do."
My body shook violently.
That wasn't comfort. That wasn't intimacy.
That was him proving something—to himself, or to me.
And lying there, bound, trembling, ashamed of my own reaction, I finally understood the truth I'd been avoiding since the beginning:
He wasn't crossing lines because he didn't see them.
He was crossing them to see how far I would let him go.