by Rose Wulf
EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2019 Rose Wulf
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0002-1
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my muse, because this story was nowhere—it didn’t exist in my head whatsoever—until all of a sudden it consumed me. When the muse is inspired, there’s no stopping the words.
Not that I’m complaining!
THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT
Rose Wulf
Copyright © 2019
Chapter One
May, Ten Years Ago
Eighteen-year-old Ophelia Flynn sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she studied herself in the tall mirror. The pale-yellow dye had been washed from her naturally silver hair and the strands woven in layers of braids, all twisted up together in a tight, fancy bun she could never have done on her own. Only a few wisps were left loose to hang around her face. Subtle, shimmering makeup accented her pale-blue eyes and brightened her cheeks. On the top of her head rested a sapphire and emerald-bejeweled tiara that anchored her lace, back-length veil in place. The veil she needed to flip over her face in a matter of minutes.
Ophelia took in the sight of her fancy white dress. It was beautiful. Flattering, though far from scandalous, with a loose enough skirt to make walking easy and a trail as long as she was tall. Probably. The white, satiny material was bedazzled in only certain places and gave way to lace over her shoulders and down her arms. The dress was beautiful and modest. Ophelia had no idea if it was something she would have ordinarily picked for herself.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She hadn’t selected her dress. Not any more than she’d selected her husband.
The chorus of a popular song filled the oppressive silence without warning, startling Ophelia from her thoughts and drawing her attention to the purse resting across the room. There was only one person who had any reason to be calling her. She swallowed the guilt and reluctance and rushed to catch the call. “Hi, Mom. Thank you for calling.”
“Of course, I’m calling,” her mother said. Ophelia could easily picture the weak smile on her mother’s pale face. “It’s your big day.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Mom.” They’d already argued about it. Until she was blue in the face, almost literally. There was no sense rehashing it now, not at this stage. “I wish you could be here.”
“Ophelia,” her mom said softly. She drew a breath and promptly coughed. Ophelia waited several seconds, her heart aching, as her mother caught her breath. “Sorry. Sweetie, I know this isn’t ideal right now. But it won’t be so bad. Having a strong family to support you is … it’s important.”
“I know,” Ophelia assured her. “But … why now? Why not, I don’t know, after college?” Or, a crazy idea, why couldn’t she choose her own future husband like any other girl? She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue. I just wish I had someone here for me.”
“Your father’s there,” her mom said. She wheezed for a moment. “And Grandma Yvette.” The distinct sound of machines beeping in the background nearly overshadowed her mother’s weakened words, but Ophelia didn’t need to hear them to know what they were.
Ophelia lifted a tissue from the box on the small table and dabbed carefully at her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin her makeup now, when there wasn’t any more time to fix it. “Grandma left,” she said. “She gave me a hug, glared at Dad, and left.” Her grandmother was the only member of the family, as far as Ophelia knew, who didn’t support this ludicrous marriage.
“She left?” A round of breathless wheezing followed the astonishing question. “I specifically told her—”
At the building upset in her mother’s voice, Ophelia quickly interrupted. “Mom, Mom, it’s okay! I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything.” A knock at the door drew Ophelia’s attention and when she turned, she saw it was partially open, her father’s cool, calm eyes watching her. “I have to go, Mom. It’s time.”
“Oh, of course,” her mother said. She whispered, “No, no, please,” to someone in the hospital room with her before adding, “Take a deep breath, sweetie. And remember to smile. I love you.”
Ophelia drew the breath on cue. “I love you, too, Mom,” she said before disconnecting the call and returning her phone—now silenced—to her purse. She quietly crossed the room and joined her father in the hall of the small building.
Her father cupped her chin and lifted her head, analyzing her. “The dress suits you, Ophelia,” he said after a second. Then he reached behind her and pulled the veil into place, swathing her vision in white lace. He tucked her hand into his elbow and guided her down the hall, out the sliding glass door, and into the decorated yard space.
As soon as her shoe, a tasteful rented flat, stepped onto the makeshift pathway, Ophelia’s throat swelled.
The yard was done fairly nice, considering. It was late May and the burgeoning summer heat hadn’t yet killed the grass, so the ground was mostly green, with a few specks of flower bushes for color. A latticework altar stood several yards ahead, draped in ivy with white, powder-blue, and strikingly red flowers dotting the curving vine from top to bottom. Off to one side, a middle-aged couple sat, dressed for the occasion and waiting patiently. Her soon-to-be in-laws. On the opposite side of the aisle, parallel to their seats, was another pair of chairs. Both empty. One was supposed to be for her grandmother, Yvette. The other would be for her father. After he gave her away.
Ophelia did her best to push down the lump in her throat as she continued forward. Ahead of her was the stranger waiting to perform the ceremony, the one person present who didn’t know the lie that this was. Next to him was the other eighteen-year-old, the young man she barely knew, a boy she’d literally never spoken to outside of school until a month prior. Her soon-to-be husband.
Batson Crosse.
This is completely ridiculous. She was barely eighteen. He was only half a month or so older. They may have met in middle school, but in the past six years, they might have shared as many classes. Their social groups couldn’t be more different. The only things they really had in common were their school—which they still had nearly two weeks left of—and their natures. Sort of.
She was a sylph, a being of wind and air. She was the last in her family’s line and, with her mother on her deathbed, so she would remain. Batson was a salamander, a being of heat and fire. Actually, Ophelia had heard he was only half-salamander. Somehow, though she didn’t understand it at all, their union was supposed to save their family lines. Or strengthen them. Something like that.
She didn’t really care. She didn’t have anything against Batson, but she didn’t like him, either. He wasn’t the kind of boy who appealed to her. She probably wasn’t the kind of girl he preferred.
“Your marriage has been set since before you were born.” For not the first time, her father’s words replayed in her mind. “This is the best way to keep our family safe and strong, Ophelia. You will see it through.” He was the last male sylph of her family. By the laws of her people, she had to obey him even after she became an adult.
That was how it happened.
Batson’s red gaze met hers for only a second as thei
r hands touched. His skin was warm and clammy and she supposed she couldn’t hold that against him. She didn’t look for his eyes again, instead studying their loosely clasped hands as she listened to the oblivious officiant prattle on. With each word the other man spoke, she found it a little harder to breathe. She hoped her trembling lips would be ascribed to excitement and overwhelming joy instead.
Ophelia forced herself to look up when she noticed Batson’s head shift and, when the time came, with narrowed eyes, he uttered, “I do.” For a creature of fire, there was no heat—no passion—in his ruby stare.
She hoped her own eyes didn’t look as lifeless when she shortly repeated the words. “I do.”
Rings they wouldn’t be allowed to wear, even if they wanted to, were exchanged next and the last words Ophelia wanted to hear followed all too soon.
“You may kiss the bride.”
She lifted her own veil in an effort to hide her shaking, didn’t fight when Batson placed his hands on her arms, and closed her eyes to keep from panicking. He pressed his lips to hers, just for a few seconds, and she couldn’t help the tear that rolled down her cheek.
She didn’t even get to choose her first kiss.
April, Ten Years Later
“I can’t believe you still live next door to Batson Crosse,” Alice Mitchell commented as she followed Ophelia up the cracked sidewalk pathway to Ophelia’s house.
“You say that practically every time you visit,” Ophelia returned, throwing her longtime best friend an eye roll for good measure. She’d never once liked lying to Alice, about anything, but she understood why she had to.
“Well, it never fails to amaze me,” Alice said with a laugh. “Is he still an asshole?”
Ophelia’s lips twitched. That had been the summation of his reputation in high school and he’d never made any effort to change it. “What makes you think I actually know?” She pulled her key from her purse and stepped up to the front door on her half of the duplex. “Come on, we’re not here to talk about my gangster neighbor. It’s movie night, remember?”
Alice held up her grocery bag containing microwave popcorn and an assortment of sweets. “Oh, I remember. Wait ’til you see what I picked!”
“Whose idea was this whole ‘free reign rotation’ thing?” Ophelia joked as she led the way inside and flicked on the nearest light. She and Alice had started their twice-monthly movie nights during college, when their busy schedules had threatened to keep them from seeing each other for weeks on end. Ironing out a schedule had been hard, and every now and then they still had to make adjustments, but it always balanced in the end.
Movie night was one of Ophelia’s favorite nights. She got to forget everything else and just relax and laugh with her best friend. A normal woman who took for granted that Ophelia was normal, too.
“Are you ready?” Alice asked, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly as she twirled the remote in her hand.
Ophelia snatched her first handful of popcorn. “As I’ll ever be,” she declared before tossing the puffy, buttery deliciousness into her mouth.
Alice clicked the necessary button and they bundled together under Ophelia’s throw blanket on the couch as the movie started. Of course, Ophelia realized as it played. It was early April, and though there was a month in between already, Alice was probably still spinning from her great Valentine’s Day. So it shouldn’t have been surprising she’d picked a cheesy romantic comedy.
Alice sighed dreamily at one point when the hero made some sweet, charming, utterly unrealistic gesture. Ophelia cut a sideways glance to her friend, unsurprised to find her practically swooning.
She popped some chocolate into her mouth to cover up her frown. If only it always worked that way. Ophelia personally hated romantic comedies. So cheesy and over-the-top. Somehow, no matter the odds, everything always worked out in the end. Real life didn’t work that way. She had no problem putting aside real-life expectations for sci-fi or high-octane action thrillers, but something like this got her every time. Probably because they got her thinking.
Thinking about her husband, who lived in the house attached to hers on one wall. The one her best friend didn’t know she had. The man she’d been forced to marry at barely eighteen, before she’d even graduated high school. She’d expected to hate him more and more each day. To come to resent him on principle alone. At first, she had, but somewhere along the way that had … changed.
“No!” Alice cried, drawing Ophelia from her reflection as she threw her arms in the air and nearly tossed their popcorn on the floor in the process.
Ophelia rescued the half-empty bowl and cradled it in her lap. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You knew it was coming. He’s been hounding her the entire movie. That’s how it goes.”
Alice shot her a mock death-glare. “Don’t insert your anti-romance cynicism into my fantasy.”
Ophelia tossed her candy wrapper at her friend. “I am not anti-romance!” Granted, from Alice’s perspective, she’d never been on even a single date and she avoided heavily romantic movies or shows when it was within her power. Still. I’m not.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Alice grumbled. She stretched her fingers toward the popcorn. “Gimme.”
The popcorn and most of the candy were gone by the time Alice took her leave that night, laughing and waving herself out the door the same way she did every time.
“Drive safe,” Ophelia called.
Alice offered her a wave of dismissal. “How about you have a little fun this weekend? Just because I’ll be out of town doesn’t mean you have to be bored, remember!”
“Sure, sure,” Ophelia said as Alice ducked into her car. She watched until Alice was at the intersection before stepping back inside and shutting the door. She locked it with a soft click and closed her eyes. The moments after her friend left, when she was alone in her silent, empty home, were usually the worst. The loneliness was hard.
“I swear she gets louder every damn time.”
Ophelia shrieked and spun around, inadvertently sending a rush of air out in the direction of the speaker before she could stop herself. “Batson! Don’t do that!” He’d let himself in through the hidden door that connected their supposedly separate houses again.
He squinted against the harsh breeze as it ruffled his dark, ever-messy bangs for a moment and scoffed. “What, you wanted me to come around the front?” He didn’t wait for her to answer the rhetorical question before tugging his hands from his pockets and starting toward her kitchen. “Anyway, you got any food? I need to go shopping.”
Barely resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, Ophelia trailed after him. You’d think I’d be used to this by now. Yet somehow, it struck her, constantly, how strange and messed up their lives were. “I think I have something,” she said, even though he’d already opened her refrigerator. “Also, we had some leftover candy. You can have it if you want.”
“Nah,” he said. “Shit, Lia, you barely have anything.”
She scrunched up her lips and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the small island she used half the time as a dining table. “I’m sure there’s food in there. You’re just being picky.”
Batson shut her fridge with the carton of eggs in hand. “You need to keep more protein in this place.” He set the carton on the counter and pulled out a frying pan from the appropriate cupboard. “You want any?”
“It’s just in the freezer,” she returned defensively. At his pointedly raised brow, she shook her head. “I’m full of popcorn. But thank you.” Why was she thanking him for offering to share her eggs with her? He cracked three eggs into the pan, one after the other, and Ophelia moved to grab a plate and fork. For a man with such a rough-and-tough reputation, he was surprisingly comfortable in the kitchen. “Here you go,” she said as she set the items down beside the stovetop.
He grunted acknowledgment, focused on his task.
Ophelia moved back out of his way, watching him. Batson had been a sturdy boy as a teenager but
as an adult, he was hard like a rock. His body was all broad shoulders and rippling muscles under a mop of uncontainable dark-brown hair. He never seemed to lose his five o’clock shadow and that only served to emphasize his strong, often stubborn, jaw. In contrast with his dark hair and slightly pale skin, his eyes were piercing ruby red. It was a trait reflective of his salamander heritage, a trait she knew he was proud of. That was why he didn’t cover it up, like his mother did.
In all honesty, her husband was hot.
She giggled to herself at the irony of the thought.
“What the hell’s so funny?” he asked as he plated his freshly fried eggs. She really wasn’t hungry, but they smelled delicious.
Covering her mouth for a second in an effort to compose herself, Ophelia replied, “Nothing, sorry. Is that all you’re eating? I thought you were hungry.”
Batson twisted around and rested a hip against her counter, plate in one hand, fork in the other. “It’s all you had,” he said before he stabbed his first egg.
Ophelia straightened sharply. “That is not all I have!” She darted around her island and over to her fridge.
She’d barely grabbed hold of the handle, intent on proving her point, when he said, “It’s all you have that looked good.”
Breath rushed from her lungs in a huff and she let go of the handle, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re impossible, Batson. So picky.” He shoved a mouthful of fried egg into his mouth in a poor attempt to cover up his smirk. As if he enjoyed teasing her. He probably does. She opened the fridge after a second and reached in for a bottle of water. “Here,” she said, setting it next to him.
He eyed it while he swallowed his latest bite. “You don’t happen to have anything harder?”
