Chapter 3: Vows in Blood

POV: Serena

The car crested the final hill just as the first reluctant rays of morning broke across the sky, bleeding gold into bruised orange, casting the landscape in a surreal glow that made everything feel both dreamlike and deadly.

And then I saw it.

The De Luca estate rose before me—not a house, not even a mansion—but something older and colder, something carved from stone and silence, something that had no business being part of this century. It was a fortress.

An unyielding monument to dominance and cruelty crouched on the cliffside like it had been waiting for centuries to devour someone exactly like me. Iron gates, black as ash, loomed before us, guarded by stone gargoyles that clung to the structure like they weren’t just decoration but sentinels. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

The sprawling wings of the estate stretched wide like a beast preparing to consume, casting shadows so long they looked like claws. It wasn’t a home. It was a cathedral of secrets, built not to welcome, but to hold and hide.

A prisoner in heels.

And I was the offering.

The gates opened without a word, without a buzz, without even a whisper of approval. They simply parted, smooth and slow, like they already knew who I was, like they had been expecting me, like resistance was a language they no longer recognized.

The car rolled forward over gravel that crunched beneath the tires like bone, the winding path snaking us closer to the heart of the beast. With every turn, the air grew colder, not just in temperature, but in energy, as though the very atmosphere was trying to push me back, warning me that each passing second was another inch deeper into the belly of something I couldn’t escape.

When we arrived, the car came to a stop in front of the towering entrance. Before I could collect myself, two men approached and opened the doors in unison, their expressions unreadable, eyes fixed not on me but just past me, as if my presence was only a formality they’d grown numb to. They didn’t speak. They didn’t gesture. They simply waited, expecting obedience and expecting silence.

I stepped out, the sharp morning air hitting my skin like a slap, not because of the temperature, but because of the weight that settled instantly on my chest. I wasn’t alone. The estate was watching. Cameras were tucked beneath ivy, hidden in stone, blinking red like digital eyes in every corner. I felt them tracking me, calculated, mechanical, and unblinking.

I was already under glass.

Adrian stepped out behind me with that same infuriating calm he always carried, a calm that didn't belong in a world like this. He moved like a king returning to his throne, unrushed, deliberate, and entirely unaffected. There was no acknowledgment between us, no exchange of words, no soft greeting or bitter remark. None was needed. Because this wasn’t a reunion, it was a claim being finalized.

Before I could even take a full breath, I was searched.

They turned me toward the stone wall, made me press my palms flat against it, and spread my legs. The wand scanned over my body, tracing too slowly, pausing too long, and dipping too intimately. When it hovered between my thighs, I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch.

But inside, something primal howled.

It was the helplessness, not the touch, that made me want to scream.

Inside, the house was colder than the outside, and not just in the air. Marble floors stretched beneath vaulted ceilings that soared high enough to echo every heartbeat, every breath. The walls were unbroken slabs of smooth stone, adorned with oil paintings that stared back with haunted, accusing eyes. There was no warmth here. Just elegance stripped of humanity.

It wasn’t a home.

It was a museum built to display fear.

The staff are only women and they moved silently through the halls like ghosts in tailored black uniforms. Their hair was pinned tight, their expressions void of emotion. They didn’t speak. They didn’t smile. They didn’t look me in the eyes. But the way they glanced through me, as if measuring my worth for a grave I hadn’t earned yet, said more than any words could.

One of them approached, as quiet as smoke, and handed me a long black garment bag. No words. No instructions. Just a short bow and a quick retreat.

I didn’t need to unzip it to know what was inside.

But I did.

And there it was.

A wedding dress. But not white.

Blood red.

The color of danger. Of sacrifice. Of surrender and conquest all at once. Silk so fine it shimmered like liquid under the light, slit high to the thigh, backless, sleeveless. No lace. No innocence. There was no illusion of purity. It wasn’t a dress meant for celebration. It was meant for a ceremony. For ritual. For branding.

It was my size.

Of course it was.

Because no one had to ask. No one ever needed to.

Adrian already knew.

There was no makeup artist. No hairstylist. No music. No bouquet. Just a full-length mirror standing in the corner and me, shivering into myself beneath the stone ceiling.

I stripped slowly, the chill clinging to my bare skin like judgment. I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes were hollow. Her lips are tight. She looked like someone who had run out of exits.

The dress slid on with the weightless finality of a noose.

It fit perfectly, molding to my body like it had always belonged there, like I had always belonged to it. It wasn’t just a gown.

It was a warning—no veil, jewelry, or softness; it was just me painted in red.

A bride not chosen but claimed and a soldier in silk.

The private chapel awaited like a tomb carved into the estate itself. I recognized it instantly. This was where he had executed a man with a bullet to the skull, right before my eyes.

The blood was long cleaned, but the memory clung to the stone like mold.

There were no pews—only a long, narrow aisle lined with flickering candles, the kind that didn’t warm, only revealed. The altar was cold, bare, and functional. And Adrian stood at its center, dressed in a black tailored suit that looked like it had been sewn with shadows, his face untouched by emotion, carved from something colder than ice.

Beside him stood an older man with a leather-bound book, his presence quiet but firm. Two witnesses flanked him—men in fitted suits, standing in complete silence.

There was no priest, scripture, or even God. It was just law, power and control.

I walked toward him, the train of the gown dragging behind me like a trail of spilled blood, my heels hitting stone with every step, each one echoing like a drumbeat in a march I hadn’t agreed to.

The elder opened the book and, in a voice that held no reverence, only record, said, “The union of power must be witnessed and documented.”

Adrian wasted no time. His vows were not about love or loyalty. They were declarations of ownership.

“I take you, Serena Ricci, to be mine. My wife in blood. My partner in empire. My assets are public. My possession in private.”

The words landed like punches: asset and possession.

Still, I did not flinch.

My voice, when it came, was like ice sliding across steel. “I take you, Adrian De Luca, to be mine. In name, not heart. In image, not soul.”

The elder hesitated—but only for a beat. Adrian didn’t even blink. He only slipped the ring onto my finger again, slow and deliberate, like sealing a contract, like branding a prize.

“Signed,” the man announced.

And just like that, it was done.

No kiss. No cheer. No witnesses clapping. Just the thick silence of a contract sealed.

A wedding in appearance.

A funeral in spirit.

We exited the chapel and entered a narrow corridor tucked behind a larger hallway, the kind not meant to be seen. The stone walls pressed close, and with every step we took, the air grew heavier, hotter, and more suffocating.

I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“You didn’t marry a wife,” I said, my voice slicing through the air like a blade. “You took a hostage.”

Adrian didn’t answer immediately. He slowed, then turned to face me with that infuriating calm still painted across his expression. “No,” he said. “I chose one.”

“You mean you cornered one?” I snapped, fury blooming like fire behind my eyes.

“You were never cornered,” he replied, stepping toward me. “You walked into that alley. You stayed. You watched.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I spat.

“You did,” he said, his voice so quiet it was cruel. “You just chose wrong.”

Something inside me broke.

I slapped him hard, and the sound echoed like a gunshot. His head turned slightly with the force, but he didn’t react otherwise. When he looked back at me, his eyes were darker, storm clouds on a dead sea.

“You done?” he asked.

“No,” I whispered, shaking. “I haven’t even started.”

He stepped forward, slow and controlled, until the heat between us shimmered like fire pressed between glass.

“But I have,” he said softly.

The words were more final than anything the officiant had spoken.

I stared into his eyes, trembling with fury and something I hated myself for acknowledging—an ache, a hunger, something twisted and unwanted.

“You break women until they fit your shape,” I said.

“No,” he answered without hesitation. “I burn the illusions until only the truth remains.”

“And what’s mine?” I demanded.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my lips.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured. “You’re afraid of how much you feel when you’re near me.”

I hated how close he was and I equally hated that he was right.

“I hate you,” I breathed.

“You hate that part of you that already belongs to me,” he whispered back.

And then, just when I thought I could bear no more, when the tension was about to snap.

The door creaked open in the middle of the night.

And guess what? It is Refael who opened the door. He stepped inside shirtless, quiet, and unforgiving.

And everything changed immediately as he moved towards me with a seductive look.

I immediately asked myself, what will become of me in a second?