The Amtrak train groaned as it carved through Maplewood's autumnal tapestry, golden farmlands blurring beyond smudged windows. Ahead, Highland City's steel spires tore through the horizon—a jagged crown glinting under September's brittle light.
Luna Carter's spine pressed against the sleeper berth's frayed upholstery, her grandmother's leather-bound Complete Herbalist creaking in her grip. Nine years. Nine years of silence since they'd dumped her in that flyspeck town, branding her a curse after Mama's coffin sank into the earth. Now, the Carters wanted their sacrificial lamb—the proxy bride for a corpse groom.
The Thorn heir was dying. Or so the tabloids screeched. A "tragic wasting disease," they claimed. The Thorn daughters had balked at wedding death, so the family unearthed their discarded cousin—Luna, the bad-luck girl with witch's eyes.
Metal screeched as the train lurched. The compartment door exploded inward, hinges screaming. A frigid gust reeking of copper and violence slammed into her.
Thud.
A man collapsed at her feet, his charcoal suit shredded above a heaving chest. Stage-blood smeared his collar, too bright, too artful. Behind him, shadows thickened—five men crowding the threshold, switchblades catching the dying light.
"Boss—clear compartment. No witnesses," growled the lead thug, scar bisecting his cheek like a meat cleaver's work. His gaze crawled over Luna's veiled face, lingering where linen obscured all but her eyes. Amber irises, folks whispered, like a barn cat's. Unnatural.
The scarred man licked chapped lips. "Ain't you a sweet morsel? Seen nothin', yeah?" Bourbon breath fouled the air as he loomed over her. "Gonna make this quick—"
Luna's pulse hammered against her ribs. Her fingers brushed the satchel's worn leather—her only inheritance from Gran. Needles glinted inside, sterilized and waiting.
"P-please…" She let her voice fray, shoulders trembling. "I'll do anything—"
The thug's grin widened. Big mistake.
As his gloved hand fumbled for her veil, Luna struck—silver flashing. The needle pierced the mastoid process behind his ear. He gargled, knees buckling.
Chaos erupted.
The "dying" stranger on the floor moved like black ice. A blade appeared in his hand, stolen mid-swing from a goon. Steel kissed throats, tendons snapping like rotten twine. Luna gaped as bodies dropped—two, three—until only silence remained.
The stranger rose, stage-blood flaking from knuckles that could've sculpted marble. His gaze pinned her—midnight pupils rimmed with gunmetal gray, the kind of eyes that strip souls bare.
"Sir, perimeter secure." Black-suited men materialized, hauling away groaning forms.
The stranger accepted a monogrammed handkerchief, wiping crimson from his hands with surgical precision. When he spoke, his voice could've cut glass. "You imagine I'll let you stroll away, little mouse?"
Luna's chin lifted. She'd faced rabid hounds and drunken farmhands—this man's danger was cleaner, sharper, but no less lethal. "The Thorn heir's proxy bride goes missing hours before the wedding? Even you can't bury that scandal."
His laugh was a low rumble, tectonic. "Carter spine, eh? Pity it's wed to peasant garb." He stepped closer, sandalwood and gun oil enveloping her. "Look harder, mouse. Do I seem moribund to you?"
Realization iced her veins. "Caleb Thorn."
His thumb brushed her jawline—a mockery of a caress. "Brave or foolish? We'll learn which tonight."
…
Thorn Manor's spires clawed at the twilight, stained-glass eyes weeping crimson across limestone. In the bridal suite, lilies choked the air—funeral flowers for a living grave.
Claire Voss's reflection smirked in the vanity mirror, diamonds winking on talon-like nails. "Admit it—you're grateful." Her half-sister's voice dripped saccharine venom. "Without this farce, you'd still be delousing pigs."
Luna adjusted the veil's suffocating lace. "Funny. I'd have sworn I was talking to a pig just now."
Claire's porcelain mask cracked. "Those freakish eyes won't save you when he croaks. They'll toss you back to your hovel—if the curse doesn't eat you first."
The door burst open. Richard Carter's jowls quivered above his tuxedo collar. "Luna! The archbishop's ready. Margaret—check her posture."
Her stepmother's grip bit into her shoulders. "One stammer, one misplaced glance, and Gran's clinic becomes a parking lot."
Luna's nails scored her palms. The clinic—her only tether to the woman who'd raised her. They'd weaponized even that.
As the wedding march swelled, Claire hissed, "He'll be cold by dawn. Try not to scream when—"
"—when I outlive you?" Luna smiled, sweet as hemlock. "Don't fret. I'll send roses to your wake."
The grand hall yawned below—a maw of pearls and malice. Hundreds of eyes crawled over her, hungry for the cursed bride's stumbles.
And there, in the shadows—Caleb Thorn, lounging against a marble column like a panther savoring its kill. His gaze met hers, kindling something dark and exhilarating.
Luna stepped into the gauntlet, spine steeled.
Let them come. Let them all come.
The real curse, she thought as the crowd's whispers died, was being born into this den of vipers. But curses could be broken.
And she'd brought her own knives.
Margaret Carter's entrance into Thorn Estate's ballroom could've been choreographed by Hitchcock—all sweeping taffeta and calculated pauses. Her vintage Dior gown, a relic from her brief reign as 1980s B-movie royalty, dripped with enough Swarovski crystals to blind the paparazzi lingering at the doors. Tonight's masterpiece? The proxy bride's couture disaster.
"Darling, that lace!" A congressman's wife fawned over Luna's dress, fingers hovering near the bodice's botched embroidery. "Is this… Valentino?"
Margaret's laughter tinkled like broken chandelier glass. "Custom design, naturally. Our Luna required something… forgiving." Her manicured claws dug into Luna's veiled shoulder—a silent order: Play dumb, curse-brat.
Luna sat statue-still at the bridal table, veil gauzing the room into a Monet blur. For three excruciating hours, she'd sipped champagne that tasted of pennies and nodded at inbred cousins braying about "fertile hips." All while Margaret's perfume—Opium laced with malice—clung to her like a shroud.
A vodka-slurred uncle collapsed into the adjacent chair. "Where's Prince Charming, eh? Bedridden already?" Pickled onion breath wafted through her lace.
Luna tilted her head, voice honeyed with faux concern. "Aren't we visiting his sickbed? How… medieval."
Champagne flutes froze mid-sip.
Richard Carter materialized, his toupee quivering. "Tradition dictates the bride attends the groom privately! Luna's always been… dutiful."
Margaret's smile could've frostbitten hell. "Our girl's thrilled to comfort her husband."
As liveried staff ushered Luna out, the whispers metastasized: "Heard they're pumping formaldehyde through his veins—" "—last Carter girl croaked in childbirth, remember?"
…
Thorn Manor's gates screeched open, iron talons scraping moonlit gravel. The mansion hunched ahead—a gargoyle-studded monstrosity where even the ivy seemed carnivorous.
A butler with cadaverous pallor bowed at the entrance. "Madam. The master awaits in the nuptial chamber."
Luna's satchel weighed heavy with scalpels and wolfsbane tincture. She'd rehearsed this—check pulse, assess pupil dilation, maybe slip a sedative if the "dying" groom got handsy.
The chamber door groaned like a tortured soul.
Darkness.
Not the gentle dark of country nights, but a suffocating void that reeked of bergamot and menace. Luna's heel caught on an Oriental rug thicker than a coffin lid.
"Mr. Thorn?" Her voice barely dented the silence.
The four-poster bed loomed—a mahogany beast. A silhouette lay motionless atop black satin sheets.
Luna edged closer, fingers reaching for the wrist exposed by fallen cufflinks—
Steel bands locked around her arms. The world flipped. Her spine hit mattress, breath knocked raw.
"Eager little wife."
The voice—smoke and shattered glass—ignited every nerve. Luna bucked, knee aiming for groin, but the body pinning hers shifted fluidly. A calloused palm slid up her stockinged thigh.
"Still playing stabby nurse?" Caleb Thorn's breath warmed her veil. "Careful. I bite back."
Somewhere beyond the door, floorboards creaked.
He nipped her earlobe. "Scream. Now."
"Go to hell—"
Ripping silk drowned her retort. Cold air kissed her collarbone as pearl buttons scattered like hailstones.
"Louder," Caleb growled, mouth skimming her jugular. "Grandmother's listening."
Understanding dawned with icy clarity. Eleanor Thorn's spies infested every wall.
Luna arched, letting a whimper tear free. "N-no—please—"
Caleb's chuckle vibrated against her sternum. "Attagirl." The bedframe shrieked as he rocked them violently, headboard hammering the wall.
"God, yes!" Luna wailed, pitching her voice to carry. "Harder, darling!"
A muffled squeal pierced the door. Footsteps pattered away—elderly, frantic.
Caleb stilled. "She's gone. Nice lungs, by the way."
Luna kneed him in the ribs. He rolled aside, laughing as she scrambled upright.
Moonlight revealed the truth—no hospital bed, no IV drips. Just Caleb Thorn lounging like a satiated panther, dress shirt hanging open to reveal a chest that screamed "Olympian swimmer," not "consumptive heir."
"You're not dying." Luna yanked her bodice closed. "You're not even sick."
"Disappointed?" He lit a cigarette, match flare carving shadows across sharp cheekbones. "The 'terminal illness' was a feint. Weed out the vultures circling my empire."
Luna's medical satchel gaped open, scalpels glinting. "And me? What am I? Bait?"
"Bait?" Caleb blew a smoke ring that curled like a noose. "You're the scalpel, darling. Sharp, precise, and currently aimed at my enemies' throats."
He rose, prowling closer. Luna stood her ground, even as his scent—gunmetal and cedar—threatened to short-circuit her thoughts.
"The Carters think they've pawned off their curse," he murmured, tracing her veil's edge. "But I've studied you, Luna-from-the-sticks. The way you stitched up that drunkard's ax wound at fourteen. How you poisoned an entire wolf pack to save a lamb."
Her breath hitched. "Stalking's illegal."
"Observing." His thumb brushed the pulse rabbiting in her throat. "You're wasted on herbology. With me, you could gut empires."
The confession hung between them—an offer, a threat.
Luna swatted his hand away. "I want my grandmother's clinic funded. Full autonomy. No Carter oversight."
"Done."
"And Margaret's blackmail files—destroyed."
Caleb's grin turned feral. "Already ashes."
She hesitated. "Why?"
He caged her against the bedpost, mouth grazing her temple. "Because you didn't faint when I killed those goons. Because you threatened a Thorn heir with scandal. Because—" His teeth scraped her earlobe. "—I want to see how deep that spine of yours goes."
Luna's laugh surprised them both. "Careful, Mr. Thorn. Some spines are venomous."
He stepped back, cigarette ember winking like a predator's eye. "We'll discuss terms tomorrow. For now—" He tossed her a silk robe. "Try not to murder me in my sleep."
At the door, he paused. "Oh, and bride?"
"Hmm?"
"Next performance?" Caleb's gaze raked her torn bodice. "We won't need an audience."
…
Dawn found Luna in the solarium, scalpel dissecting a mutated belladonna sprig from Thorn gardens. The clinic's blueprints lay spread between poison manuals—Caleb's "gift," delivered by a tight-lipped valet at 5 AM.
A shadow bled across her notes.
"Early riser?" Caleb leaned against the doorframe, hair damp from showers, tailored shirt doing nothing to hide the shoulder holster's outline.
Luna didn't glance up. "Poisoners keep odd hours."
He appropriated her chair, long legs bracketing either side of her stool. "We need to sell the ruse. A romantic brunch, perhaps? Sunset horseback rides?"
"How about I stab you publicly? Very on-brand for us."
His chuckle died as she brandished a petri dish. "Your gardens are a biohazard. This strain could drop an elephant in six seconds."
"I know." Caleb pocketed the sample. "I engineered it."
The admission hung between them—a gauntlet thrown.
Luna met his gaze. "Teach me."
Outside, storm clouds brewed. Somewhere in the manor, a grandfather clock tolled—a death knell or a starting pistol, depending on the ear.
Caleb extended his hand. "Partners?"
She ignored it, packing her blades. "Until you bore me."
His smile promised worlds. "Darling, I'll never bore you."
As he vanished down the corridor, Luna pressed a scalpel to her palm. The bite of steel focused her racing thoughts.
This was no gilded cage.
It was an armory.
And she'd just been handed the keys.