The dress fell.
The soft whisper of fabric kissing the floor was the only sound in the grand, fire-lit parlor.
Mary stood utterly still, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She was bare before the flames—but even barer in courage.
Her fingers twitched, clasping and unclasping as if every motion had to be torn from deep within her. Her chest rose and fell in uneven waves, and she could almost hear her own breath mingling with the fire's low crackle.
Her eyes remained downcast, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks. She didn't dare look up—didn't even dare breathe too loudly.
This was her husband. This was his duty.
And yet, her knees felt too fragile to hold her.
She stood still, firelight glowing against her skin, waiting—for his hands, for his claim, for whatever came next.
For a moment, she thought they would simply stand in silence.
But then… cold hands touched her bare back, and a shiver crawled down her legs.
His hand trailed down the length of her back, grazing her spine—and her breath hitched.
It was too cold. Cold like the aftermath of a bitter winter or maybe it was just her body trembling.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered into her ear, his breath like rain whispering against a window—soft, startling. It made her recoil.
She could only nod. She didn't dare run. If she did, he might send her back to her parents, and who knew what would happen then?
So even though this was all new to her, even though fear gripped her. She had to endure it.
His hand suddenly roamed over her shoulders, sliding up to her neck, circling the hollow of her throat.
Then his lips grazed her ear— and she jolted, heat surging through her like she'd stepped into flame.
She gasped, jumped back, and instinctively covered her chest, her eyes wide as they locked onto his.
Now she faced away from the fire, but its faint glow lit his face, and the grim tension etched across it. His eyes burned with silent frustration, and she caught the twitch of his lips.
"Come here."
The command left no room for questions.
But she didn't move.
"Y-You…" Mary stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "You felt like fire… and cold."
She hadn't meant to say it aloud.
McKenna glanced at her briefly, then turned away, sinking into the mahogany chair. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long gulp of wine.
Just when Mary thought it was over, she reached for her dress, clutching it to cover her bare body— but his eyes snapped back to her, sharp and cold.
A chill ran down her spine.
"I want to look at you," he murmured.
"Let go of the dress."
But she shook her head. "I need to… I have to think this through. I don't think I'm ready."
His head tilted slightly. "Oh?" His voice was quiet—but biting. "Did you think it through when you came to me? At the club?"
She couldn't speak. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts.
"That's right," he said, voice low and firm. "So now, you'll do exactly as I say. Come here. Stand in front of me."
He raised a hand, waiting for her to take it—
and then, all at once, his lips curved into a smile. It made him ten times more handsome—and devilishly so.
She swallowed hard and dragged her feet forward, still clutching the dress to her chest.
"No," his voice dropped low. "Come naked."
Mary shut her eyes and exhaled sharply.
Then, with trembling hands, she let the white lace fall, baring herself before him once more.
"Good."
There was a wicked glint in his eyes—like a man savoring his favorite feast.
His gaze swept over her slowly, as if committing every inch of her to memory.
The way he looked at her made her toes curl.
Because deep down, she believed she was nothing worth looking at. Ugly. Ordinary. Bare.
"I want to know how many freckles you have on your body. Come, Mary," he said, voice low with insistence.
Mary moved, reaching for his hand— a mistake.
He pulled her straight into his chest, firm and unyielding. His face hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could hear his breathing.
"You sat on my lap the last time," he murmured. "I want you to do it again... naked."
Mary squeezed her eyes shut. Dear heavens, how could she?
"There's no need to be ashamed, Mary. I'm your husband. I have the right to your body."
Of course he did.
"So we're both going to do this naked."
Her eyes flew open. "Na… naked?"
"Hmm." He gripped her hand and pulled her to her feet, then rose as well. First, he shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing a white shirt that clung to the hard lines of his muscles.
His dark eyes never left hers as he undid the first button.
She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his long fingers moving over the fabric.
"You don't have to…" she whispered.
He paused. "Oh? Would you rather?"
"No… no."
"Come."
He stopped halfway, hands frozen at his buttons.
"Come take it off."
"Now, Mary!" he snapped.
She jolted and rushed forward, her fingers trembling as she reached for his shirt and began unfastening it.
Every little movement revealed more of his finely toned skin, and suddenly, all she could do was drink him in—how perfect he was.
"Stop."
His voice darkened, and he jerked back.
Mary stared at him, startled. What had gone wrong?
She caught his gaze, but something in it made her freeze. He wasn't looking at her like he wanted her—he was looking at her like she was… wrong. Strange. Dangerous.
She instinctively covered her chest with her palms, breath caught in her throat.
McKenna hissed. His muscles flexed, then his hand curled into a fist.
He could feel it now. The power. Stronger than before. That flicker of heat— It wasn't hers. Wasn't his either. It was something else. Something alive.
The black smoke had returned.
It hovered around her, slithering faintly over her shoulders like a collar of shadow.
Thin. Almost invisible. It curled once around her neck, then began to rise—coiling upward.
And for a second—just one second—it formed a silhouette around her, the shape of a woman, shifting like smoke caught in wind… and then it vanished.
McKenna staggered back, eyes wide, jaw clenched. He had seen things—things no mortal ever should—but this... this was different.
The black smoke was meant to cling to the dying, to the damned, but Mary's scent had changed, her soul no longer carried the stench of death like he once believed.
So what was this?
What was she?
Her body glowed in the light of the fire, warm like ember—like her amber eyes that now swept over him, her head tilted slightly, as if she sensed the shift in him, heard the breath he held still in his chest.
"Is something wrong?" she whispered
His eyes darkened, the words dragging from his throat, rough and low, "Get dressed"
Mary blinked, confused, "What?"