The first golden rays of dawn were only just beginning to stretch across the sky, casting a soft, honeyed glow over the frost-kissed fields surrounding the Blackwood estate. Morning birds had not yet begun their song, and the world still slumbered in the quiet hush that lingered between night and day.
But that silence shattered as a lone figure sprinted up the gravel path that led to the estate's towering iron gates. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his priestly robes flared wildly behind him as he ran. Dust clung to his shoes and the hem of his vestments, evidence of a long and desperate ride. He looked almost spectral in the light—like a man chased by death itself.
The young priest skidded to a halt before the grand gates and banged the heavy brass knocker with frantic urgency. His knuckles were white, his chest heaving. The guards, initially alarmed, tensed at first, but upon seeing the seal of the central church dangling from his waist, they exchanged grave looks and moved quickly to let him through.
Without waiting for instruction, the priest rushed into the estate, his voice cracking with urgency. "I heard that the Grand Duke of Borgia is currently here. I must speak to her Grace and the Lady Vivianne—immediately! I bear orders from the Church... and the Emperor!"
Within minutes, he was escorted through the estate's candlelit halls and brought before a towering woman seated in the centre of the drawing room. Roxanne Borgia—the new Grand Duchess.
Dressed for the day, Roxanne wore dark leather gloves on her hands, her posture as regal and still as a stone sculpture. Only her eyes moved, already knowing what would happen, and her mate, the Grand Duchess of Borgia, stood besides her. Behind them, standing with the couple from Blackwood Viscounty, the viscount and viscountess, is the hostess.
The priest hadn't expected to face the Grand Duke this fast; he stopped short, swallowed hard, and forced himself to speak despite the dread curling in his stomach. "Y-Your Grace," he stammered, bowing deeply, "I-I've been sent on behalf of the central church. There is… an urgent matter regarding your union with Lady Vivianne."
Roxanne said nothing at first. Her jaw tightened, and her fingers curled into her gloves. The fire crackling in the hearth seemed to still with her silence.
The priest wrung his hands, his voice barely holding steady. "I've been ordered… to verify whether your marriage has been… consummated."
Roxanne's eyes narrowed slowly, dangerously. A tension built in the room, slow and suffocating, like the hush before a storm. "And if it hasn't?" she asked, her voice low—too calm.
The priest flinched. "Th-then I have been instructed to annul the union. The Emperor has expressed… an interest in Lady Rothschild. He's petitioned the Church directly. If there is no… marital bond…" He trailed off, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
A sharp breath left Roxanne's nose as she leant back in her chair. "So," she muttered under her breath, "my wife was right. Every word."
The priest blinked, confused. But then Roxanne walked closer, and the room shrank. She was taller than he'd imagined. Broad-shouldered. Imposing. She moved with the lethal grace of a predator. And when she stepped towards him, the priest felt every inch of that weight pressing into his chest.
"You're here to ask," she said slowly, deliberately, "if I've claimed my wife."
He nodded shakily. "Y-yes… Your Grace."
"And if I say no, what then? You'll rip her from my arms and drag her to the palace like a prise sow?" Roxanne asks.
"I… I was told to dissolve the union if the claim has not been… formally made." He swallowed. "The Emperor wants her."
Roxanne's lip curled. "Then let the Emperor come and ask me himself."
With that, she stepped forward, her voice lowering to a growl, every syllable laced with warning. "It has been consummated. My scent is on her. My mark is on her skin. Her body knows me. Her soul is bound to mine."
The priest took a shaky step back, his entire body trembling. "I-I was told… to bring her back if…"
"If what?" Roxanne snapped. "If I hadn't touched her? If we had slept in separate beds? If we were just playing house while the Emperor watched from afar like a spoiled child?" Her eyes blazed now. "Well, it's too late. She is mine. And I will burn down this empire before I let anyone take her."
The air turned suffocating. The room seemed to shrink around the priest, the walls tilting, the floor unsteady beneath his feet. He was pale as a sheet, sweat glistening at his brow. He had been prepared for anger—perhaps even protest—but not this.
Not this possessiveness. Not this power. Not this raw fury that radiated from the Grand Duchess like a storm poised to devour the heavens. "Yes, your Grace, I'll send the words to the church."
"You'll go back," Roxanne said coldly. "You'll tell the Church, and that Emperor, that they are too late. That Vivianne is no longer theirs to claim. That she is my wife. My mate. And that I will defend her with blood, bone, and blade. She's no longer Rothschild; she's Vivianne de Borgia."
The priest could only nod, his legs barely holding him upright. "Yes, your grace.
"And one more thing," she added as he turned to flee. "If you come here again with orders from that little boy in a crown… Don't bother knocking."
The priest all but ran from the grand foyer, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like the panicked heartbeats of a condemned man. He would rather face the Cardinals. He would even face the Emperor himself. But he would never face Roxanne de Borgia again.
The sudden arrival of the young, trembling priest had clearly unsettled the atmosphere within the Blackwood estate. Roxanne's grip on Vivianne's delicate hand tightened ever so slightly, a silent gesture of reassurance and possessiveness.
For his part, the viscount remained remarkably composed, his features a carefully crafted mask that betrayed none of the turbulent emotions surely raging within. "My apologies for the inconvenience, your Grace," he said, his tone measured and polite.
Roxanne's expression softened fractionally as she pulled Vivianne closer to her side. "It's fine," she rumbled, her voice low and honeyed. "We had it coming."
The viscountess offered the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess a soothing smile. "Let's have breakfast," she suggested, "before your journey back to the Borgia territory."
Vivianne's lips quirked in a faint smile, a silent acknowledgement of the Viscountess' intuitive gesture. "That would be most welcome," she acquiesced, falling into step besides Roxanne's as they made their way towards the dining hall.
-
The news struck the Imperial Court like a thunderclap. Consummated, that one word, whispered in the marbled corridors of the palace and carried through silk-draped halls, set off a storm no courtier dared to speak of too loudly—at least not within earshot of the Emperor.
Emperor Dietrich Erengrad's fury erupted the moment the report was delivered into his hands. His usually composed face twisted into something grotesque—his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed liable to snap, and a vein bulged along his temple as his eyes scanned the damning words: The marriage between Grand Duke Roxanne de Borgia and Vivianne de Rothschild has been consummated. It is legally and spiritually binding.
A sharp, guttural growl escaped his throat. The parchment crumpled beneath his trembling fingers. "She dared..." he hissed, his voice thick with rage. "That insufferable, arrogant—!"
Then his voice exploded across the throne room. "HOW DARE THAT OBNOXIOUS ALPHA WOMAN STEAL WHAT WAS MINE?!"
The echo of his roar bounced off the vaulted ceilings, scattering flocks of pigeons from the palace spires. Courtiers waiting in nearby chambers flinched, ears ringing from the bellow. He surged to his feet, golden robes swirling violently around him like storm clouds gathering.
"I've waited years!" he spat, pacing furiously in front of his throne. "I've orchestrated everything. The perfect alliance. The perfect claim. And now that woman—that monster—has ruined it all!"
With a roar, he struck the long marble table with his fist. The crystal goblets shuddered from the force. One tipped over and shattered against the floor, wine seeping like blood across the pristine surface. "Bring me the council!" he ordered through gritted teeth. "All of them. I want solutions. Now."
The chamber doors burst open, and his advisors—anxious, pale, already trembling—hurried inside and bowed. Every eye avoided his. They had seen the Emperor angry before. But this? This was wrath like a dragon unsheathed.
One advisor, Grand Chamberlain Elric, cleared his throat tentatively. "Your Majesty... the marriage has been sanctified. The Church has acknowledged the union. There is... little room to contest—"
"Then make room!" Dietrich snapped, rounding on him with burning eyes. "Rip it open if you have to! Tear the laws apart piece by piece! I want her!"
The other nobles stayed quiet, beads of sweat running down their necks, silently praying he would not choose one of them to target next. Some had seen what happened to messengers who failed him.
"She's the last of that blood! And she's the most beautiful omega in this empire; she should belong to me! The emperor of this empire!" The Emperor continued, his voice a harsh whisper now, as if saying her name aloud gave him pain. "Pure-blooded spirit used. A blood of power, of prestige, of beauty. She was bred for a throne. My throne. My heirs!"
"But Your Majesty..." one of the older advisors said hesitantly, "you speak as though Grand Duke Borgia is just another noble. She is not. You know what she is." The room fell deadly silent at the words.
Roxanne de Borgia. The only grand duke from the Borgia Principality, the commander of the Western Legion. Part demon, part human, still carrying the royal blood. A creature born of war and fire, of sacred bloodlines and ancient curses. Some said even demons feared her—because she was not just like them.
She is stronger than any alpha in the empire, far stronger. More human—and more monstrous. And above all else, Roxanne de Borgia was territorial. Once she claimed something, it would never be taken from her without blood being spilt.