Chapter 3

After a day of aimless drifting, trapped in a suffocating fog, Odalys was violently jolted into the living world, thrown into a perilous situation. The memory left her trembling, her nails digging into her palms as her jaw set with cold determination.

A dark car rolled to a stop in front of a sprawling, gothic mansion; its grandeur weighed down by an eerie stillness. A butler emerged.

“Mr. Percival is waiting for you upstairs,” the butler, Dorian Hurley, said as he stepped aside. His tone was carefully neutral, a calculated politeness designed to disarm.

Odalys took a deep breath and stepped into the courtyard; the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on her like a physical weight. Everything felt fully, almost painfully, arranged. In the living room, she climbed the polished wood stairs, each step reverberating with a sense of foreboding.

At the top, she paused. A tall figure, Percival Stewart, sat with his back to her, framed by sunlight filtering through a large window. The light scattered, obscuring his face, but his presence was unmistakable: commanding, unsettling, and suffocating.

She spoke, her voice steady but low, her eyes cold, bottomless.

The man turned slowly, deliberately. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to cease. Those eyes were completely detached, like looking into a frozen void. He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary before finally looking away, the indifference in his expression chillingly apparent.

Heavy silence settled before he spoke.

“This marriage? It’s just my grandfather’s dying wish,” he said, his voice deep and rough, each word laced with disdain. “Don't waste your time thinking it means anything. There won’t be a ceremony, no legal documents, nothing.”

The bluntness of his words caught her off guard, but she didn’t flinch. She stared at him, taking in the man who had been a shadow in her past. Secretly, she knew the truth: Percival Stewart’s grandfather had died before the marriage was ever to happen. All that remained was theatrics—the prestige of the Stewart family, and a lie perpetuated for some unknown reason.

Beyond that, he was a mystery—a figure hidden behind the impenetrable walls of the Stewart dynasty. He was like an exiled king, ruling from the shadows, unchallenged but utterly alone.

Her frame trembled slightly, and a sharp, metallic tang of blood filled her senses.

Before she could respond, a violent, acrid cough broke the silence. The stench of blood cut through the faint scent of scented candles burning in the corner.

“Mrs. Stewart, perhaps you should retire to your room,” Dorian said, stepping forward quickly. His voice was polite, but the urgency in his tone was unmistakable.

Odalys didn’t move. Her sharp gaze remained locked on Percival, ignoring the butler completely. She took a step forward, her eyes narrowing as the scent of blood intensified; it was thick, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.

Percival felt her approach and shot her a warning glare, his expression hardening. “Go back to your room,” he said, his voice rough and harsh.

He turned abruptly, his steps hurried and uneven, as if trying to escape her scrutiny. But just as he passed her, Odalys reached out and grabbed his arm. He tensed instantly under her touch. He tried to pull away, but she was faster. Twisting her grip, she held him in place, then reached up and grabbed his collar without hesitation.

The sound of fabric tearing cut through the room like a slap. Percival’s shirt split open, revealing a chest sculpted like marble, his bronze skin catching the fractured sunlight pouring in from the window.

The room fell silent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. Dorian stood frozen, his jaw slack with shock, his gaze darting between his employer and the woman who had just ripped his shirt open as if it were nothing.

Chapter 3

No one saw it coming. Odalys, without hesitation, tore open Percival’s shirt with a single, fluid motion. No one had ever dared to get this close to him before—let alone touch him. The speed and boldness of her actions left everyone in the room frozen, mouths agape.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Percival growled, his hand shooting up to clamp around her wrist with an iron grip.

Her wrist was locked in his grasp, but Odalys didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on his chest, unwavering, studying his skin with laser focus.

Beneath the smooth surface, something was moving—twitching, writhing, almost alive. It looked ready to burst through at any second. His veins bulged unnaturally, pushing against his flesh as though ready to explode. The air grew thick, the metallic tang of blood sharp enough to taste.

Percival’s body was a battleground, wracked with excruciating pain. It felt like shards of glass were tearing through him, breaking him apart piece by piece. His skin stretched taut, veins pulsating beneath it as if threatening to burst, and every nerve in his body screamed for relief.

“Shit,” he hissed through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down his temples. His face had gone pale, his jaw tight as he tried to suppress the pain.

With great effort, he turned his icy glare on Dorian, who was frozen in the doorway, and the bodyguards lingering nearby, too stunned to move. “Take her back to her room,” he ordered, his voice rough but unwavering despite the agony gripping him.

“Yes, sir!” Dorian stammered, snapping into action and rushing toward Odalys, his face pale with fear.

But before Dorian could reach her, Odalys made her move. She ignored the butler completely, her free hand lifting to press lightly against Percival’s chest.

The touch was almost playful; her fingertips tracing slow, deliberate patterns on his skin. Then, without warning, she squeezed.

Percival froze, his entire body locking up. The moment her hand made contact, it sent a shockwave through him, like a current of electricity surging through his veins.

The chaos beneath his skin—veins ready to rupture, blood cells fighting a violent war—suddenly stilled. The energy that had been raging inside him recoiled, like a storm abruptly silenced.

His blood, moments away from tearing through his flesh, began to reverse its course. Thickened, frozen, and pushed back as though retreating from an unseen force. His heart seized painfully in his chest.

“Ugh!” The sound ripped from his throat as dark blood spewed from his lips, splattering onto the floor.

The black, foul-smelling liquid dripped from the corner of his mouth, its acrid stench filling the room. He staggered back a step, his pupils dilated, his body trembling like it was ready to break apart. And then, suddenly, everything stopped.

The agony gripping him moments ago faded to a dull ache. The sharp, relentless pressure vanished. His breathing steadied; his chest no longer heaving in pain.

Slowly, cautiously, he glanced down at his body, expecting to see the usual horrors: split skin, torn veins, blood pouring from open wounds.

But his skin was intact. No ruptures. No shredded flesh. No rivers of blood pooling at his feet. Aside from the dark blood he’d coughed up, he was fine. Whole.

The pain, the chaos, the destruction that had always followed these episodes—it was gone.

Percival’s eyes snapped back to Odalys, shock flickering across his normally stoic face.

She stepped back, her hand falling away as she regarded him with a calm, almost clinical detachment. Her gaze swept over him like she was piecing together a puzzle. “So the rumors are true,” she said, her tone flat and disinterested. “You really are knocking on death’s door.”

As she spoke, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and began wiping her fingers clean. “But since you already made it clear this marriage is just your grandfather’s idea to ward off bad luck, and you don’t actually want to marry me, that works out perfectly. I wasn’t planning on getting married anyway.”

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes sharp and calculating as they locked onto his. “Let me guess. Your doctors told you you’ve got less than a month to live, didn’t they?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. Odalys smirked faintly, the corner of her mouth curving upward in a way that was both confident and infuriating. “So, here’s the deal. I’ll keep you alive for the next month. In return, you let me walk away when it’s over. No strings attached.”

Percival’s eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with disbelief. “You’re saying you can keep me alive for a month?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she replied, her tone as steady as her gaze.

She stepped closer, reaching out again. This time, her fingers brushed against the corner of his mouth, wiping away the blood that still lingered there.

She brought her fingers to her nose, sniffing lightly before speaking again. “You’re not dying as fast as they think. You’re poisoned—badly—but it’s not terminal yet. I can stabilize you. Give you some time.”

With that, she wiped her fingers clean on the handkerchief and tossed it into a nearby trash can, her movements smooth and deliberate. She met his gaze again, her expression unreadable but unshakable. “Clock’s ticking, Stewart. Your move.”