Welcome to Hell, Darling

Kaelith's words hung in the vast, silent hall like a death sentence delivered with a smirk. He's going to ruin you. The staff remained frozen, their faces impassive masks, but Aisling could feel the shift in their attention, the subtle lean-in of a hungry audience at a gladiatorial match.

Aisling felt a chill that had nothing to do with the manor's oppressive cold. It was the chill of a truth spoken aloud. But fear was a luxury, and pride was her only shield. She met Kaelith's pitying, golden gaze and let a slow, deliberate smile touch her own lips.

"Ruin is a matter of perspective, my lady," Aisling said, her voice cool and even, a stark contrast to the tempest inside her. "Some of us find our strength in the ruins. Perhaps you should be more concerned with whether or not I'll ruin him."

Kaelith's perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. The pity in her eyes was replaced by a flash of genuine surprise, then a flicker of sharp, appreciative delight. She let out a short, musical laugh.

"Oh, I like her," she declared to the room at large. She turned her fiery gaze on her brother. "Honestly, Kylian, where did you find this one? Not in the usual kennels of simpering debutantes, I hope."

"Kaelith," Kylian warned, his voice laced with weary exasperation. "Must you always be the thunderclap at the garden party? We have a guest."

"We have your fiancée!" Kaelith shot back, stepping toward him, her velvet dress whispering over the stone floor. "You drag this beautiful, flammable creature into our nest of vipers and expect me to what? Offer her a cup of tea and lie about how lovely it is to have her?" She gestured dramatically around the hall. "Welcome to hell, darling. The décor is ancient, the company is cursed, and the patriarch is a monster. Do try the scones."

"She is exaggerating," Kylian said to Aisling, though he didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on his sister, a familiar, long-suffering expression on his face. "Slightly."

"Am I?" Kaelith challenged, her voice dropping. "Father will be thrilled. Another pretty bird to add to his collection, and this one has claws. He'll find that novel, for a time."

The mention of their father sent another ripple of unease through Aisling. She was beginning to understand that Kylian, for all his predatory power, was not the apex predator in this house.

Before the argument could escalate, a new presence made itself known. It wasn't a grand entrance like Kaelith's, but a gentle drift of movement from a shadowy corridor. A woman glided into the hall, her movements so quiet she seemed to float. She was tall and slender, with a timeless, fragile beauty, her hair the color of spun silver and her eyes a soft, misty gray. She wore a simple gown of dove-gray silk that made her look ethereal, almost translucent. A ghost.

"That is quite enough, Kaelith," the woman said, her voice soft as moth wings, yet it cut through the tension with surprising authority.

Kaelith's aggressive posture softened instantly. "Mother," she said, her tone losing its sharp edge.

Kylian turned, and for a fleeting instant, the cynical mask fell from his face. Aisling saw a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in his eyes as he looked at the woman—a deep, aching affection.

Lady Celene Hawkrige, Kylian's mother, ignored her children. Her gentle, sad eyes found Aisling's, and she offered a small, kind smile that seemed entirely out of place in this cold, sharp-edged family.

"You must be Aisling," she said, her voice a balm after Kaelith's fire. "My dear, you look exhausted. Please, pay my daughter no mind. Her heart is kind, but her manners are feral."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hawkrige," Aisling managed, offering a small curtsy. The simple, human kindness from this woman was more disarming than any threat.

"Celene, please," she insisted. She glided closer, and Aisling could see the fine, sorrowful lines around her eyes. "Welcome to our home. I hope… I hope you will find some peace here. Despite everything." The way she said it, a quiet acknowledgment of the horror of Aisling's situation, was a profound comfort.

Kylian cleared his throat, his composure restored. "Mother is right. You need to rest." He nodded curtly to the sour-faced housekeeper. "Martha. Show Lady Aisling to her chambers."

The use of the title—Lady Aisling—was a deliberate statement to the staff, to his family. It was a shield he was giving her, whether she wanted it or not.

Martha Dane's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course, my lord." She turned to Aisling, her expression a careful blank slate that didn't quite hide her resentment. "This way, my lady."

Aisling gave a nod to Lady Celene and a wary glance at Kaelith, who was now watching her with an unreadable, calculating expression. Then she followed the housekeeper away from the fraught family tableau and into the depths of the breathing house.

The walk was a journey through a beautiful nightmare. They moved down long, echoing corridors lined with towering portraits of Hawkrige ancestors. Their painted eyes, rendered with unnerving realism, seemed to follow her every step, their expressions ranging from haughty disdain to cold amusement. The low, pulsing heartbeat of the manor was stronger here, away from the open space of the hall. It felt like it was coming from the walls themselves, a slow, deep thrum that vibrated in Aisling's bones.

The air was a living thing, shifting from icy cold to strangely warm as they passed closed doors. Shadows danced in the corners, just at the edge of her vision, and the silence was broken only by the whisper of her own dress and the sharp, disapproving tap of Martha's shoes on the marble floor.

"The family wing is to the east," Martha said, her voice clipped, pointing down a dark corridor. "The master's study is at the end of the hall. You are not to enter without his express permission."

"I assure you, I have no interest in your master's study," Aisling replied coolly.

Martha led her up a second, winding staircase, this one carpeted in a runner so thick it swallowed the sound of their footsteps. They finally stopped before a set of double doors carved from dark, polished wood.

Martha opened the doors and stood aside. "Your chambers, my lady."

Aisling stepped inside, and her breath caught in her throat. It was not a room; it was a suite of rooms larger than the entire ground floor of her cottage. A spacious sitting room was before her, furnished with velvet couches, a polished desk, and a fireplace where a low fire already crackled merrily. To the left was an archway leading to a bedroom dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in emerald green velvet. To the right, another door stood slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of a dressing room and a large, claw-footed bathtub.

It was the most beautiful prison she had ever seen.

She walked to the tall, arched windows. They were made of thick, leaded glass and looked out over a sprawling, neglected garden, a riot of dark roses and twisted, ivy-choked statues. The ornate ironwork that scrolled across the glass was beautiful, but it was still ironwork. Bars, by another name.

"I trust the accommodations are to your satisfaction," Martha said from the doorway. Her tone suggested it was impossible they could be otherwise.

Aisling turned from the window, her gaze sweeping over the oppressive luxury. She saw her reflection in a tall, gilded mirror—a girl in a simple traveling dress looking utterly out of place, a wildflower transplanted into a hothouse. "They are… sufficient."

The housekeeper's nostrils flared at the mild insult. "Dinner is at the ninth hour. The master expects you to be punctual. I will send one of the maids to assist you in dressing." The offer was steeped in condescension, a clear insinuation that Aisling was a provincial savage who wouldn't know which fork to use.

Aisling met the woman's hostile gaze with a cool smile. "That won't be necessary, Martha. I have been dressing myself for quite some time. I believe I can manage." She paused, letting the dismissal hang in the air. "You may go."

For a moment, Martha looked as if she might argue, but the command in Aisling's voice, the unexpected steel, seemed to give her pause. With a stiff, resentful curtsy, she turned and pulled the heavy doors closed, leaving Aisling in silence.

The only sound was the soft sigh of the fire and the low, ever-present thrum of the house.

Aisling stood alone in the center of the vast, opulent room. She was Lady Aisling, fiancée to a lord, mistress of a castle. She was surrounded by wealth beyond imagining.

And she had never been more terrifyingly, utterly trapped in her entire life.