★AZRAEL★
The maidservants took great care to avoid touching my skin as they prepared me for the day.
It was an unspoken yet iron rule within the castle: from the moment they entered my service, they were never to allow their hands to graze my bare skin—or even rise too high along the surface of my clothing—lest they provoke my wrath.
"I hear she is a cultured woman. Perfect etiquette and all."
My grandmother spoke from somewhere behind me.
I had no intention of responding.
The maidservants finished adjusting my suit and trousers, stepping away the moment their task was done. I studied my reflection in the mirror in silence.
From my slicked-back obsidian hair to my mismatched eyes.
My gaze lingered on them for a moment longer than necessary.
It was those very eyes that gave the elders reason to whisper and judge. An Alpha with two different coloured eyes was bound to invite questions.
Questions I had no intention of answering.
What they did not know was that I was far stronger at keeping my silence than they were at asking their foolish questions.
"She has a graceful figure, they said. Though I have never seen her myself."
Again came my grandmother's rambling voice—old, croaky, and endlessly persistent.
I often wondered how a werewolf well past eighty years of age still possessed such boundless energy.
"What do you think she looks like?" she continued. "Blonde? Black-haired? What is your type—"
"Grandmother, can you stop?"
I turned to face her, my gaze carrying the same cold irritation it always did.
Grandmother Isolde frowned faintly, her eyes narrowing as though she truly had no understanding of what I meant.
"Stop what?" she asked. "I have only been talking."
"You know very well what I mean," I growled lowly.
Her expression hardened with stubborn resolve.
"I will not stop, Azrael boy," she said firmly. "Not until we find the woman who will cure you of your curse."
My lips twisted into open disgust as I stared down at her.
We were currently in my chambers—she seated at the edge of my bed while I stood before her.
It was rather pitiful that someone as old as she still lacked wisdom.
"Grandmother, do you even hear yourself?" My voice echoed harshly against the walls, perhaps far too severe for a frail woman like her. But on certain occasions—such as now—she needed harsh reality forced back into her thick skull.
"So you mean to tell me that you will continue sending brides to me, knowing perfectly well what becomes of them? Knowing how their lives will end in my hands?"
I laughed bitterly.
"All because you believe in some ridiculous prophecy that claims one day 'the one' will appear and cure me of my curse?"
The words tasted as distasteful as they sounded.
Grandmother Isolde slowly rose to her feet, her hand finding the handle of her cane for support.
"Yes, Azrael. Yes."
Her voice did not waver.
"I will continue sacrificing those women—or however you wish to phrase it—until we find the one who will break your curse."
She lifted her chin stubbornly.
"And yes, the prophecy is real. You may not believe in it, but I do."
I scoffed quietly.
I resisted the urge to rake a hand through my perfectly styled hair in frustration.
The time for her arranged lunch with the Stormrider family was fast approaching.
"Grandmother," I said through clenched teeth, "I have been married to six women."
I let the number hang in the air.
"Six."
My voice grew sharper.
"Not a single one survived longer than two days, Isolde. Two fucking days."
I stepped closer to her.
Her eyes widened briefly in alarm, though I had no intention of striking her. Even so, she held my gaze stubbornly with her hard amber eyes.
"And now you sit here wondering whether the next one will be blonde or black-haired… how cultured she is… how graceful she might be."
I leaned down slightly, my voice lowering.
"But tell me something, Grandmother."
"What does any of that matter when she will not even live long enough to prove it?"
She said nothing.
Because she could not.
After a moment, I stepped away and drew in a slow breath before turning toward the door.
★
The Stormrider family had arrived.
Lunch was served with precise grace along the long polished dining table that stretched the full length of the grand room. Twenty high-backed chairs lined its sides—nine on either flank and one at each end—each upholstered in deep crimson velvet that caught the light with every subtle movement.
The table itself gleamed with a reddish-gold sheen, its surface reflecting the brilliance of ornate silverware and delicate china arranged with meticulous care.
Above us hung a grand chandelier whose countless crystals scattered light throughout the room, causing the golden accents along the walls to shimmer like liquid fire.
The air carried the faint scent of polished wood and beeswax.
The entire hall radiated both authority and warmth, a perfect stage for formal ceremony or intimate conversation alike.
Only I was quite certain we would be having neither.
I had already taken my seat at the head of the dining table while Grandmother Isolde went to welcome our guests.
I schooled my face into its usual expressionless mask, though my heart beat louder than usual in my chest.
Too loudly.
Why was my heart beating so strangely?
Moments later, Grandmother Isolde returned with three figures walking behind her.
The first two were easily identifiable as the bride's parents.
Then the bride herself stepped into the room.
My breath caught in my throat.
Our gazes collided instantly.
Blue and red met emerald green.
Her eyes widened before she quickly lowered them, while I remained perfectly still in my chair, forcing myself not to react.
I had seen beautiful brides before.
Every woman my grandmother had chosen had been beautiful in her own way.
Yet something about this one…
Something about her presence was different.
"We appreciate your warm welcome, Matriarch Isolde," the elderly woman said politely.
But I was not looking at her.
My gaze remained fixed upon the bride.
I slowly let my eyes travel down her form.
She wore a satin red dress that clung elegantly to her figure, a modest slit along the knee revealing just enough of her leg to draw attention without sacrificing grace.
The sleeveless design revealed her slender shoulders and the delicate line of her collarbone—an entrancing sight that might tempt any creature with a taste for blood.
A dangerous thought.
I felt my thirst stirring faintly within me, and I forced it down with deliberate control.
"Oh, why don't you all take a seat?" Grandmother Isolde said brightly. "Our darling bride should sit at the Alpha's right side."
At the matriarch's order, the bride widened her eyes briefly before pressing her lips together and obeying.
Once she took the seat beside me, her scent reached me almost immediately.
Not merely the scent of her werewolf lineage.
But the faint, intoxicating scent of her blood beneath it.
I had to turn my head away physically and mentally to prevent myself from reaching out and pulling her into my arms.
The elders settled into their respective seats soon after.
Grandmother Isolde sat to my left.
The bride's father sat two chairs away from his daughter while his wife took the seat opposite him.
At my signal, lunch commenced.
The conversation remained light and polite, with Grandmother Isolde asking the majority of the questions directed toward the bride.
From those exchanges I learned her name.
Mira.
"Oh Mira," Grandmother said suddenly, smiling sweetly. "Why don't you have a conversation with your soon-to-be husband? The two of you have been rather quiet for people who will be married in less than a week."
"Ah… yes."
She lifted her gaze toward me hesitantly.
I met her eyes with a faint smirk.
She almost shrank back into her seat.
And yet, for reasons I could not quite explain…
I had the strange and unsettling feeling that this new wife of mine would not be quite so easy to kill.