When the Devil Married Me

The heavy oak doors of the Drax estate clicked shut with a finality that sounded like a prison bolt.

Galaxy stood in the center of the grand foyer, her fingers digging into the silk of her wedding dress—a dress that felt more like a shroud. She was nineteen, and an hour ago, she had traded her soul to the devil to pay off a father who hadn’t even hugged her goodbye.

The devil in question was currently unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket, his movements fluid and chillingly calm. Vincent Drax didn’t look like a man who had just gotten married. He looked like a man who had just finished a tedious board meeting.

“This is the west wing,” Vincent said. His voice was deep, devoid of any warmth, cutting through the silence of the marble hall. He didn’t look at her. He was looking at his watch. “The housekeeper, Maren, has placed your things in the third room on the right. Sleep. Someone will be here at eight to show you the grounds.”

Galaxy swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was lined with glass. “Is that it?”

Vincent stopped. He turned slowly, his grey eyes finally landing on her. They were beautiful and terrifying—like the surface of a frozen lake. He looked at her small, trembling frame, the way her chestnut hair spilled over her pale shoulders, and the ‘Galaxy’ constellation tattoo just visible behind her ear.

For a split second, his jaw tightened. Then, the mask returned.

“What else were you expecting, Galaxy?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave. “A honeymoon? A speech?”

“A conversation,” she whispered, her hazel eyes searching his for a spark of humanity. “I’m your wife. I don’t even know your middle name. I don’t know what you like for breakfast. I don’t know why you look at me like I’m a debt you regret collecting.”

Vincent took a step toward her. He was tall—towering—and he smelled of expensive cedarwood and cold rain. He stopped just inches away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, though his expression remained sub-zero.

“You are here because your father is a gambler and I am a businessman,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “You are a Drax now because it was the only currency your family had left. Don’t confuse a contract with a marriage.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. Galaxy flinched, her eyes fluttering shut. She expected a blow, or perhaps a rough grip. Instead, she felt the cool, calloused tips of his fingers graze her jawline, tilting her head up.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She opened her eyes.

“I don’t do ’conversations,’” Vincent said. “I don’t do ‘breakfast.’ And I don’t sleep in this wing. You have the house, you have the name, and you have my protection. That is all you will ever have from me. Do not go looking for more.”

He let go of her jaw as if she had burned him.

“Go to bed, Galaxy. Lock the door if it makes you feel safer. It won’t matter—I have the master key, but I have no intention of using it.”

He turned on his heel, his black silk tie loosened, and walked toward the shadows of the east wing without a backward glance.

Galaxy stood alone in the vast, echoing foyer. The silence of the house was heavy, pressing against her ears. She looked down at her left hand, where a diamond the size of a marble sat heavy on her finger.

She wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a Drax.

Slowly, she gathered the skirts of her white dress and began the long walk toward the west wing. When she reached her room, she didn’t lock the door. She sat on the edge of the massive, cold bed and pulled out her journal.

Dear Mom, she wrote, her hand shaking so hard the ink smeared. I think I’ve been buried alive.

Across the house, in the dark of his study, Vincent Drax stood by the window, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He watched the reflection of the moon on the glass, his mind replaying the way her skin had felt under his fingers.

He took a long, burning swallow of the drink and cursed under his breath. He had told her she was just a debt. He had told her he didn’t care.

After some time, Galaxy sat at the vanity, brushing her hair with rhythmic, shaking strokes. She looked at herself in the mirror—Galaxy Drax. It felt like a lie. She felt like a ghost haunting a house that didn’t want her.

She looked around the room, searching for some sign of comfort, but the room was too perfect. Too curated. She reached up to adjust a small, decorative vent near the ceiling that seemed to be humming too loudly.

As her fingers brushed the metal slats, she felt something cold and hard.

She frowned, pulling a small stool over to stand on. She peered into the vent, and her heart stopped. Hidden behind the grate was the unmistakable tiny, glass eye of a high-definition camera. The red power light was a tiny, bleeding dot in the darkness.

She stepped back, her stomach churning. He was watching her.

She ran to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtains shut, but as she turned, she noticed another one hidden in the corner of the crown molding. And another in the smoke detector.

She wasn’t his wife. She was his exhibit.

Panic surged through her. She ran to the door, determined to find him, to scream, to demand privacy. She threw the door open and collided straight into a wall of solid muscle.

Vincent was standing there, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate, dark tattoos. He didn’t look surprised to see her. He looked bored.

“I don’t like being watched,” she hissed, her voice cracking. “The cameras, Vincent. Take them out.”

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his scent of tobacco and expensive cologne filling her senses. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t apologize.

“The cameras aren’t for my pleaure, Galaxy,” he whispered, his hand coming up to grip the doorframe beside her head, effectively trapping her. “There are three families in this city who want you dead simply because you carry my name. I watch you so I know where to send the cleaners when you stop breathing.”

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her throat—right over her pulse point. “Currently, your heart is beating too fast. Go to sleep. If I wanted to see you naked, I wouldn’t need a camera. I’d just take what I bought.”

He stepped back into the shadows, leaving her trembling in the doorway, realizing that in this house, even her thoughts weren’t her own.