Samantha and Rexhard didn't speak until the cruiser.
In her room, Samantha stood in front of the floor-length mirror. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the high collar of her tailored coat, a deep onyx velvet lined with silver threading that caught the low lighting. Her boots clicking against the black marble floor.
Rexhard emerged in a dark overcoat, buttoned to the throat, obsidian rings gleaming on his fingers, the symbol of his birthright and perhaps a curse. His black hair was slicked back, his eyes unreadable.
They descended the curved staircase of their penthouse silently.
Outside stood the messenger, faceless behind black shades, a long coat draped with the precision of ritual. A silver crest gleaming at the hems of his collar.
Behind him, a charcoal-gray armored cruiser waited at the curb. It sat looking majestic, electric engines thrumming low, the family crest glowing faintly on its flanks. Flanking it were two others, an escort, not flashy but impossible to miss. It most definitely wasn't a polite invitation. It seemed more like a veiled order.
The door closed with a hiss. Inside the vehicle, the air was cool, laced faintly with vetiver and gunmetal, an unmistakable Black family scent. The seats were stitched with real black leather, the kind outlawed in most districts but allowed here.
The cruiser was upholstered in midnight leather and chrome. Minimalist opulence was the key. A real crystal decanter of whiskey sat on a mahogany console, untouched.
Neither of them spoke as the cruiser pulled away from the curb. Through the tinted glass, Vireloch district, which was where the richest of the rich stayed, passed in a blur, gothic shadows and neon veins threading through the bones of the district.
As they drove, the buildings grew taller, darker. The streets emptied. The district slowly gave way to forested isolation, where technology gave space to the old world stone statues, crumbling gargoyles, and glassless windows in dead chapels.
Then, it appeared.
The Black Mansion.
It wasn't just big, it was ancient and terrifyingly beautiful. Arched towers stretched into the clouds, lit from within by a soft, eerie red. The architecture was a mix of cathedral and citadel, vines crawling like veins across black stone, glass windows shaped like open mouths.
Samantha leaned forward, her hand involuntarily touching the cool glass of the cruiser window.
Her heart clenched.
The last time she'd been here, she was sixteen.
As distant memories crawled into her mind, she slipped into silence.
The Black Mansion. It was a place of torture and fear. The castle walls held an innate darkness which the inhabitants didn't seem to notice, carrying always the scent of vetiver and gunmetal.
It was always after the fights in the cell that she would be brought there for healing and tests. Until her marriage with Rexhard, she had never gone past the ground floors of the castle.
All of the inhabitants were cold to the touch as though they were vampires, their eyes empty and mechanical. No one liked the Black Mansion. No one.
Before she could fully recall the horrors of the past, a little shove from Rexhard startled her away from her reverie.
"We're there. Step up," Rexhard uttered.
Wondering if she was reading too much meaning into his off-putting tone, or perhaps she should lighten the atmosphere, she mused silently to herself. A few hours ago, they had just been head over heels on each other's bodies, or was it just a farce?
"Yeah… I can see that." She still couldn't get used to how unsettling the mansion was. Smiling gently, she turned to him, saying,
"One brownie point if you offer up your arms to comfort me. The eerie draft of your castle will be awfully stifling…"
Rexhard stared at her from the corners of his eyes, his gaze cold, before coldly uttering,
"Take your pretty eyes away from me, lady."
Huh? What was she supposed to do with that response? She had been feeling him out, trying to measure the balance between them, and he stared at her like a stranger and gave her… was that even a compliment? What? Why was he messing up her game? Where was the Samantha Delacroix who always wore a poker face? Why was he suddenly getting under her skin?
The cruiser slowed, the iron gates of the Black Mansion yawning open with a hiss. Samantha pressed her palms into her knees, steadying the sudden thrum of her heart.
The courtyard was dim, almost as if it were dark all year round, shrouded in the mist that clung low against the cobblestones. Between the great black doors stood two butlers, dressed in tailored livery, faces blank, eyes glassy.
The Black Mansion held strict standards for dress. While there was no official color code ban, brightly colored clothing was looked down upon.
Beside them, impossible to miss, stood a man with the same obsidian rings as Rexhard, his presence like a shadow drawn taller.
The oldest brother.
Samantha swallowed. Even after years, she remembered him. His posture was perfect, his hands clasped lightly behind his back.
He had the same black hair Rexhard sported, except his was curly. The Black family genes were exceptional. Despite being a complete prude and an asshole, he earned his worth in looks. Tall, rich, and handsome, every lady's cup of tea.
The cruiser halted. The butlers moved in unison, bowing stiffly.
"Welcome home, Master Rexhard. Lady Delacroix."
The elder brother stepped forward, lips curving in the faintest trace of amusement.
"How rare. The wanderer returns, and not alone this time." His gaze flicked to Samantha, slow and deliberate, like a blade being dragged across skin. "A Delacroix in Black walls… the housekeeper must be thrilled. A shame I couldn't bless your unique wedding ceremony. It seems the Black family had better things to do."
Samantha's breath caught. She forced her expression still, remembering her poker face, but something about his tone, so smooth, so scathing and offhand, dredged up the old shame she thought she'd buried.
Rexhard didn't move. He didn't speak. Almost as if he couldn't care less. Perhaps all he wanted was for the chatterbox ahead of him to finally be quiet so he could head off to his quarters.
The brother's smile sharpened, as if sensing Rexhard's impatience.
"Do come in. The Mansion has been restless. It's… eager for new company. The Elders await."
Samantha blinked, unsure if he was mocking her, or warning her, or both. She turned instinctively toward Rexhard, hoping for some anchor, but his eyes were already fixed on the looming doors. Detached. Cold. As if she weren't even beside him.
The butlers pulled the doors wide, the hinges groaning in ritual. The familiar scent of vetiver and gunmetal spilled into the courtyard, chilling Samantha's lungs as she walked into the building, her boots clicking against the cobblestones, too loud in the terrible silence.
The elder brother's gaze lingered on her for a second, unreadable, before he turned smoothly and walked inside. The butlers followed.
Rexhard moved at last, brushing past her without a word.
Confusion flared hot in her chest. Hours ago, she could still feel the memory of his hands, his breath, the way he had pulled her against him as though she belonged to him. Now? He looked at her like a stranger dragged along for duty.
Was that what this was? Duty?
Her heart clenched tighter. She inhaled, forced a smile onto her lips, and whispered under her breath, too low for anyone but herself,
"Some marriage indeed."
Unfortunately, it didn't sound half as cold in her mouth.
She followed him into the Black Mansion, each step sinking her deeper into uncertainty.