Married to a Monster | 18+

The air in the Academy’s grand library always smelled of ancient paper and candle wax, a scent Aina found more comforting than the perfumed halls of her family’s manor. Here, surrounded by towering shelves of grimoires and histories, she was just another student, not the eldest daughter of House Verlac. Here, she could almost forget the constant, subtle pressure of her noble blood—the way it dictated her every breath, her every choice, her very future.

She was hunched over a table carved from obsidian and inlaid with silver, a single strand of her crimson-brown hair escaping its braid to trail across a dusty tome on fae battle magic. The afternoon light filtering through the stained-glass windows painted her in fractured colours—ruby, sapphire, emerald—highlighting the unnatural pallor of her porcelain skin, a legacy of her vampire father that made her appear perpetually moon-kissed, and the delicate, almost luminescent point of her ears, a gift from her fae mother. A beta, the unfortunate bridge between two powerful worlds, belonging fully to neither. Too cold for the sun-drenched fae courts, too warm-blooded for the shadowed vampire dynasties. Always caught in between. Her amber eyes, flecked with gold, moved across the text with the focused intensity that had earned her top marks in every subject—except those where Viggo Astrid stood in her way.

The text before her blurred as her mind wandered. She could hear her mother’s voice as clearly as if the woman stood beside her: “You must try harder, Aina. Your grades keep you competitive with the Astrid boy, but your temperament... you must learn to bend. An omega’s grace would serve you better than this constant striving.”

A sharp, familiar scent of wildflowers and morning dew cut through the library air—sweet and gentle, like spring rain—and a moment later, a small, warm hand slipped into hers.

“You’ve been here for hours,” Eira whispered, her wide, dove-soft eyes full of concern that furrowed her delicate brow. She was everything Aina was not: soft where Aina was sharp, warm where Aina ran cool, an omega whose very presence seemed to radiate a gentle, calming light that made even the dust motes dance more peacefully in the air around her. Their parents’ jewel, their pride, their hope for a powerful alliance. Her hair fell in honeyed waves of lighter brown than Aina’s deep crimson, her cheeks held the blush of life that Aina’s lacked, and her features—though similar—were softer, more fragile, as if she might break under the slightest pressure. When she smiled—which was often—the world smiled with her.

“History of the Meridian Wars,” Aina murmured, nodding toward the book. “Fascinating stuff. Did you know the Sea King once flooded the entire Amber Plains? Drowned seventeen cities in a single night because some mortal fisherman insulted his daughter’s pearls.”

Eira wrinkled her nose, a gesture so endearing it made Aina’s dead heart clench with fierce, protective affection. “I know you’re trying to distract me. It won’t work.” She bit her lower lip, a habit she had had since childhood that always signaled trouble. “Mother sent me to find you. They want to see us. Both of us. Tonight.”

The simple statement sent a chill down Aina’s spine that had nothing to do with her vampiric nature. In the Verlac household, private summons meant one thing: arrangements. Contracts. The careful, clinical business of marrying off daughters to strengthen political ties. She squeezed Eira’s hand, a silent promise of solidarity that she had made a thousand times since they were children sharing a nursery, since she had first held three-year-old Eira during a thunderstorm and whispered that no monster would ever touch her as long as Aina drew breath.

“Then we’ll go together,” Aina said, closing her book with more force than necessary. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a gunshot.

As she gathered her things—leather satchel, silver quill, the small obsidian mirror their mother insisted she carry at all times—the heavy oak door to the library swung open on silent hinges. The very air in the room seemed to curdle, to thicken like cream left too long in the sun. Aina didn’t need to look up to know who it was. She felt him—a wave of suffocating power, a cold that had nothing to do with temperature, a presence so vast and ancient it demanded every atom in the room acknowledge its dominance.

Viggo Astrid.

He moved with the predatory grace of his kind, a full-blooded vampire from a lineage that traced itself back to the First Blood, to the original seven houses that rose from the primordial darkness before the fae spun light from stars. His family made House Verlac look like newly landed gentry, parvenus playing at nobility while the true lords watched with cold, patient eyes. His brother, Leif, was a step behind him, his expression a careful mask of polite disinterest that didn’t quite reach his eyes—eyes that Aina noticed, with dawning horror, flickered immediately toward Eira with something achingly soft.

But Viggo’s gaze was a brand. It swept the room, dismissing the other students who instantly found their shoes fascinating, who shrank back into the shadows between shelves as if hoping the darkness might swallow them whole. Then it landed on them. On Eira.

Aina instinctively shifted, placing herself half in front of her sister. The memory of their last encounter burned in her mind with the vivid clarity of a brand. A month ago, in the dueling courts. She had been practicing a fae light-step maneuver, her body half-translucent as she moved between sunbeams, and he had materialized in her path like a nightmare given form. She had stumbled, her concentration shattering, nearly falling flat on her face. His hand had shot out, catching her arm with inhuman speed.

His grip had been like iron, his touch searingly cold through the fabric of her sleeve—so cold it burned, so cold it left marks like frostbite that took three days to fade.

“Clumsy little half-breed,” he had murmured, his voice a silken threat meant for her ears alone. His eyes, the colour of molten gold in sunlight, had held no heat, no mercy, only a terrifying, focused intensity that stripped her bare. “You should learn your place before you get hurt.” He had released her so abruptly she had fallen, the stone floor scraping her palms bloody, and he had simply walked away, leaving her humiliated and furious in front of a dozen onlookers who pretended not to have seen. The memory made her jaw tighten until her teeth ached.

Now, he stopped a few feet from their table. He didn’t look at her. His focus was solely on Eira, a slow, predatory assessment that made Aina’s blood run cold despite her vampiric heritage. He was cataloging her, measuring her, calculating her worth. The way his nostrils flared slightly, sampling her scent—omega, fertile, untouched—made Aina want to tear his throat out with her teeth.

“Verlac,” he said, the single word a dismissal of Aina’s existence. His voice was deep, resonant, the kind of voice that commanded armies and expected instant obedience.

“Astrid,” Aina replied, her voice steady despite the rapid, useless flutter of her human-half heart. She would not show fear. She would die before she showed fear.

His gaze finally slid to her, and a flicker of something—annoyance? amusement? interest?—crossed his androgynous features. He was devastatingly beautiful, in the way a perfectly forged blade was beautiful, in the way a winter storm was beautiful. His ash-blond hair fell in soft waves across his forehead, the bangs brushing just above eyebrows that arched with aristocratic disdain. His skin was porcelain pale, flawless, almost luminous in the dim library light. High cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a jaw that could have been carved by a sculptor in love with perfection, lips that seemed designed for cruelty and yet promised something else entirely. Slender where other vampires were bulky, ethereal where they were imposing, he moved like smoke and shadow—an otherworldly beauty that made him appear more spirit than flesh. He wore the Academy’s uniform—crimson and black—and on his lithe frame, it looked like royal regalia.

“Still breathing my air, I see,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I thought perhaps you had finally done us all a favor and expired from sheer mediocrity.”

Before Aina could formulate a retort sharp enough to draw blood, he turned and walked away, Leif trailing silently behind him. But not before Aina caught the barest glance Leif threw at Eira—a look so quick and soft it was almost imperceptible, laden with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion. Leif was slightly shorter than his brother, his silvery-blond hair catching the light like moonlight on water, his features equally androgynous but somehow gentler, his eyes—a shade lighter than Viggo’s gold—holding none of that predatory edge. And Eira’s fingers tightened on Aina’s arm in response, a secret telegraphy between sisters that confirmed everything Aina feared.

The tension in the room broke with their exit like a spell shattering. Other students began to breathe again, to move, to pretend they hadn’t been frozen in place by the mere presence of Viggo Astrid. Eira let out a shaky breath, her hand trembling violently in Aina’s.

“I can’t—” Eira whispered, then stopped herself, her eyes huge and haunted. “Aina, I can’t breathe when he’s near. It’s like the air itself is afraid of him.”

Aina pulled her sister close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She was still coiled tight as a spring, her gaze fixed on the door Viggo had just passed through. The top grades in every subject, the masters’ favourite, the heir to a power she couldn’t fathom. And now, he looked at Eira like she was a prize to be claimed, a territory to be conquered. The thought made Aina’s stomach churn with a protective fury so intense it felt like fire in her veins—fire, when she should feel nothing but cold.

That fury was a cold, hard knot in her chest as she and Eira stood before their parents in the formal drawing-room of Verlac Manor that evening. The room was designed to intimidate—ceilings vaulted high enough to lose stars in, walls hung with tapestries depicting Verlac victories in wars long forgotten, a fireplace large enough to roast an entire deer. Their mother, Seraphine, sat in a chair of carved moonwood, elegant and ethereal, her fae magic humming in the air around her like a second heartbeat. Their father, Marius, stood by the fire, his pale, ageless face giving nothing away. He looked exactly as he had a hundred years ago, exactly as he would a hundred years from now—a vampire’s curse and blessing both.

“The Astrid family has made an offer,” Marius stated without preamble. His voice carried the weight of centuries, of decisions made and lives arranged. “An alliance. Our house joined with theirs.” He paused, letting the weight of the words sink into the silence. “It is a tremendous honor. The highest honor our family has ever received. They have requested a bride for their eldest, Viggo.”

Aina’s blood turned to ice. She felt Eira stiffen beside her, felt her sister’s hand clench around hers with desperate strength.

“They have specifically requested Eira,” Seraphine continued, a pleased smile gracing her lips that made Aina want to scream. “Her nature... complements his. Her compassion, her grace, her gentle spirit. She will temper his harshness, soften his edges. She will make an exemplary Lady Astrid. The matriarch of the most powerful vampire family in existence.” Her mother’s eyes shone with ambition, with the glittering promise of what this union would mean for House Verlac.

The room spun. Aina looked at her sister. Eira’s face was ashen, her dove-soft eyes wide with stark, undisguised terror. Her lower lip trembled violently, and a small, choked sound escaped her throat—the sound of a trapped animal facing a predator.

“No,” Eira whispered, the word a fragile puff of air that seemed to die before it reached their parents. Then, louder, her voice cracking like ice under pressure, “No, please. Mother, Father, please. I can’t. I can’t marry him.”

Marius’s expression hardened, centuries-old authority settling over his features like a mask. “Eira, this is not a request. It is a duty. The Astrids are the most powerful family in the realm, perhaps in all of recorded history. This secures our future for generations. It secures your future, and your children’s future, and their children’s future. You will want for nothing.”

“He’s a monster!” Eira cried, tears finally spilling over, tracking silver paths down her cheeks. “Everyone knows it! He’s cruel and cold and he looks at me like I’m... like I’m property, like I’m nothing but a vessel for his heirs!” She was shaking now, great tremors that racked her entire body. “I’ve heard the stories. The servants who displeased him who simply vanished. The rivals who crossed his family and were found drained completely dry. He has no mercy, no warmth, no—”

“That’s enough,” Seraphine interrupted, but her voice had lost some of its certainty. She exchanged a glance with Marius that Aina couldn’t interpret.

Aina moved, wrapping her arms around her shuddering sister, pulling her close, pressing her lips to Eira’s hair. She could feel Eira’s tears soaking through her dress, could feel her sister’s heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. “Father, please. There has to be another way. Another arrangement. Someone else.”

“There is no other way,” Marius said, but his voice had softened almost imperceptibly. “The betrothal contract is being drawn up as we speak. Lord Astrid himself signed it this morning. The wedding will take place on your eighteenth birthday, Eira. It is done.”

That night, in the sanctuary of their shared chambers, Eira broke down completely. Their room was a haven of childhood memories—faded tapestries of stories their nurse used to tell, bookshelves crammed with dog-eared novels, the window seat where they had spent countless hours watching stars wheel across the sky. Now it felt like a prison.

Between sobs that wracked her slight frame, the truth came tumbling out. Her secret meetings with Leif in the moonlit gardens, hidden behind hedges of night-blooming jasmine. His gentle words, his shy smiles that transformed his ethereal features into something almost boyish. The way he looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world—the complete opposite of his terrifying brother. The poetry he left for her in hollow trees. The single kiss they had shared, chaste and trembling, that had made her feel like she was flying.

They loved each other. They loved each other with the desperate, all-consuming passion of the very young who have not yet learned that the world destroys such things on principle.

Aina held her, stroking her hair, murmuring nonsense words of comfort while her mind worked like a trap closing. It was impossible. It was reckless. It was the only thing to do.

The next morning, she requested a private audience with her parents. She stood before them in the same drawing-room, but this time she was alone, shoulders back, chin raised, a picture of the fierce, individualistic daughter they often found so... difficult. Her crimson-brown hair was pulled back severely, revealing the full points of her ears, the sharp angles of her face. She wore no jewelry, no softness, nothing to soften the blow she was about to deliver.

“Eira cannot marry Viggo Astrid,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering as a blade.

Marius sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of patience. “Aina, we have discussed this. The contract is signed. The announcement will be made at the end of the week.”

“She is in love with Leif,” Aina stated flatly, watching the color drain from her mother’s face. “And he with her. It’s not a childish infatuation, it’s real. If the Astrids find out—and they will, because these things always come out—the insult would be catastrophic. A jilted elder brother? Viggo, of all people? You know what he’s capable of. You know the stories are true because half of them come from Father’s own reports.”

Her parents exchanged a startled, worried glance. The political ramifications were immediate and clear, calculating behind their eyes like abacus beads sliding into place. A scandal. A blood feud. The complete annihilation of House Verlac.

“What would you have us do?” Seraphine asked, a thread of desperation creeping into her musical voice. “The contract is signed, Aina. We cannot simply refuse. Lord Astrid would see it as the deepest insult. He would demand blood for such a slight against his heir.”

“You won’t have to refuse,” Aina said, taking a deep breath that hurt her chest. The cold knot of fear and determination tightened, but she forced the words out. “Betroth me to him instead.”

Silence. Even the fire seemed to stop crackling.

“You?” Marius said, incredulity thick in his ancient voice. “Aina, you are a beta. Viggo is an alpha of the most ancient line, heir to power you cannot begin to comprehend. They asked for Eira for a reason—her omega nature, her capacity for submission, her ability to balance his dominance. You are...” He seemed to search for words that wouldn’t offend. “You are headstrong. Argumentative. You have a public history of hostility with the boy that half the Academy has witnessed. You challenge him in classes, you compete with him for top marks, you refuse to yield to his presence. You would be a disaster as his wife. A catastrophe.”

“He wants an alliance with our house. He gets that with me,” Aina countered, her heart hammering so violently she was surprised they couldn’t hear it. “We tell them that upon reflection, we feel the more mature sister is a better match, better equipped to support him in his duties as heir, to manage his household, to bear the responsibilities of Lady Astrid. It’s plausible. It saves face for everyone, and it protects Eira.”

Seraphine studied her for a long, agonizing moment. Her fae magic pulsed in the air between them, perhaps seeking truth, perhaps seeking lies. “You would do this? For her?”

Aina thought of Eira’s tear-streaked face, of her fragile happiness, of the way she had whispered Leif’s name in her sleep. She thought of Viggo’s golden eyes and the possessive way he had looked at her sister, like a wolf selecting the weakest lamb. Over my dead body, she had thought then. Now, it seemed, that might be the price.

“Yes,” she said simply. “She’s my sister. She’s found something worth dying for. The least I can do is live for her.”