Chapter Text
Adelia
My father gave up completely after mother died. He fell into a deep spiral that not even I could pull him from. Originally, we had been well off. My father was the fortunate son of many merchants and we had earned our wealth through the spice trade. Generations prior, my great, great, grandfather had fallen into favor with the King at the time, George III. He had bestowed upon my ancestor the title of Count.
Since then we had been influential, sought after.
I had long dreamed of being married off to a handsome man of means, to live in a beautiful house and give him children.
Now I watched, helpless as everything slipped away.
My mother had died when I was fourteen. I was now nineteen, and unwed, a topic of much gossip in social circles, and my father had squandered nearly all of the money in the five years since, including my dowry.
Lavish parties to occupy the suffocating silence of our manor, entertainments of every sort, fine food, wine, spirits, and though my father would never admit it, many many women of the night to grace his chambers each evening. It did nothing to ease the hollowness that I could see ravaging his soul.
I wanted to understand, truly I did. But I couldn't. All I felt was rage and resentment. Why had I not been enough? My father had forsaken everything, our reputation, our assets and most importantly, me. I spent most of my time wandering the sprawling gardens, reading books I'd snuck from the library beneath the thick, sheltering branches of the oak tree, the only place that still felt like home. I avoided my father in all things, speaking to him only when forced. He allowed me this freedom, these small rebellions, too caught up in his own grief and selfishness to even remember about his daughter most days.
Therefore, it was a surprise when I was summoned to the drawing room.
The buttery afternoon light seemed to end at the windows, the dark blue of the heavy curtains seeming to eat up the warm glow.
Count Edmund Harwood sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the cold fireplace. As he turned to me, the sharp lines of this thin face a stark contrast to the plush velvet of his seat, I realized that I could no longer see any trace of my father.
“Adelia, darling, have a seat. There are matters which I must discuss with you.” It was not lost on me that he could scarcely meet my eye. My heart thumped against my ribs, apprehension growing as I lowered myself onto the adjacent settee. “It has not gone without some attention that you are still unmarried.”
I nodded, wondering where this conversation could possibly be going. He and I both knew that what money had been set aside for my dowry was spent, that there was precious little left to sustain the lifestyle that my father had grown so accustomed to over these past years. If anything, we were in debt, though this particular suspicion of mine had yet to be confirmed.
There was nothing else for it. I gave him a curt nod. “Yes, Father.” the term felt like poison on my tongue, though if this showed upon my face, he did not notice. On the contrary, he offered me a soft smile. This, however, did nothing to calm my unease.
“I have excellent news on that front!” he proclaimed. “I have found you a suitor!”
The breath I inhaled felt sharp as a dagger in my throat. For the first time in years, a kernel of hope lodged itself between my ribs, a cautious warmth.
“You... truly?” I stammered, my mind racing too quickly for my lips to keep up. “But how? Without my dowry, who would be willing...?”
“A baron from Switzerland. Geneva, I've been told. His family has faced some... social hardships, and I believe the Baron is the last remaining of his name. As his standing has slipped so far, he was happy to agree to the match, as well as offer a more than reasonable sum for your hand.”
Indignation flared within me.
“So you would sell your only daughter off to the highest bidder. As if I am no more than a prize swine?” I ground out, my always tenuous composure cracking in an instant. My father narrowed his eyes, and I waited for the scolding, but it did not come.
He took a breath and continued, as though there had been no interruption. “The Frankenstein family was well known, and is very wealthy. The Baron has need of a wife and heirs.”
My heart stopped.
I had overheard many bits of gossip over the years regarding the cursed Frankenstein family. That the previous baron, Victor had gone mad, believing his sciences above the will of God. Not long before the baron's death, his younger brother and fiancee had been brutally murdered on their wedding night. But that was not the worst of it. I had heard tell that Victor had sired a son, but had kept his existence a secret for many years, as the boy was not untouched by the curse of his name. It was said that the boy was deformed, horrible to anyone who had the misfortune of seeing his visage, that Victor Frankenstein was the father of a monster.
“Father, you cannot mean the son of Victor Frankenstein?” I choked, not willing to believe it, that my own father would so thoughtlessly thrust this fate upon me.
At this, Father narrowed his eyes. “This is not an option. I was merely informing you that the match has been made.” he snapped, his warm tone frosting over.
I felt the kernel of hope shrivel up and die.
“Besides,” he resumed, “Rumors are just that. Rumors. Adam Frankenstein is a recluse, yes and the history of his family is... strange, I'll admit, but I've heard nothing of the man that concerns me. There have been no reports of cruelty or god forbid his father's insanity-”
“They say he is a monster!” I nearly shriek, “That he lives in only darkness, that his flesh is not flesh, but rot, that there is a reason he stays hidden! That he is incapable of speech, that he is little more than an animal!You cannot make me marry that, Father, you cannot!” My chest is heaving, bile rising as every awful thing I've ever heard of Adam Frankenstein races through my mind.
“I can,” he replied, his voice cold as ice, “and I will.”
He rose from his seat, glaring down at me as I felt hot tears prick my eyes.
“Why?” I asked, my voice choked.
He lifted an arm, as if to touch my shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, letting it fall to his side with a sigh. “We need the money, my dove.” His tone softened again. “It... it will be alright, you'll see.”
'You need the money.' I thought, my throat unable to produce sound, the old hatred flooding back tenfold.
Without another word, or even a backwards glance in my direction, he strode out of the study, likely off to plan yet another party, or call upon his favorites from the local brothel.
I sprang to my feet, the room spinning, suffocating, and ran.
I tore down the corridor, my skirts hindering my movement as I raced towards the gardens, to my tree, to safety. In my haste, I nearly bowled over my handmaiden, Grace. She yelped and leapt out of my way, but made to follow me as I sprinted.
“My lady!” she cried, concern and confusion apparent in her tone as she pursued me.
I could hear her shoes clicking on the marble of the main entrance as I shoved my way out of the ostentatious double doors and into the fresh spring air.
She was panting by the time she caught up to me, having collapsed against the trunk of the last sturdy thing in my life.
“My lady,” Grace said, more softly this time, still catching her breath as she knelt beside me, “Whatever is the matter?”
I broke completely and allowed her to wrap her arms around me as I sobbed helplessly into her crisp, white uniform. Between the tears, in harsh, shuddering breaths, I told her of the horror about to befall me, what my father had done, where I was to go. What I was being forced to do.
She stroked my hair as she had done whenever I had been upset as a child. It did little to calm me, though I did find my crying quieting somewhat.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Grace sighed. “I wish I could do something to help you. I have naught to offer besides my belief that it will all be alright in the end.”
My head snapped up at this and she recoiled at the look I leveled at her.
“I mean to say, if the Baron is as much of a recluse as rumor would have one believe, you might not need to see much of him at all. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. I know many women who wish their husbands would make themselves scarce.”
I scoffed. “Did you not hear what I said, what others say about him, about how... how he looks?”
“Of course I did, my Lady. I also know that many women adore stretching the truth for their own amusement. Most likely, he was injured in the war, or otherwise was born with a defect.” She held my face in her hands. “Neither of these things does a monster make.”
If only I believed her.
Notes:
Apologies for the short first chapter, I promise they will get longer, I just had to belt this intro out or I was going to lose my mind :)
Chapter Text
Adelia
The beautiful monstrosity of white silk and lace made me sick. I had refused to speak while it was being fitted, all of my energy spent in an attempt to not cry in front of a stranger. Now, it stood upon its dress form, mocking me.
It would be the finest thing I'd ever worn, and I wished nothing more than to shred it to pieces.
The wedding planning had gone by quickly. I was involved in none of it, by my own choice. There was a part of me that once would have delighted in discussing flower arrangements, music, and the guest list. That part of me had died.
I knew that it was proper for me to have been introduced to my betrothed before the wedding. There was no mention of such a meeting to take place, and that was fine with me. I felt it would be far worse to know exactly what sort of horrors awaited me for weeks before the ceremony rather than to grit my teeth and walk the aisle still ignorant. If anything, I was at least slightly less tempted to run away, or otherwise throw myself from the balcony.
Grace was my constant companion. I had instructed her to forgo all other duties, and to stay by my side, lest my grief should overwhelm me. I begged her to accompany me to Geneva when I left, and to my delight she agreed. My father was not likely to notice her absence. He noticed precious little these days, in a near constant drunken stupor. I watched helplessly as my belongings were slowly packed away in preparation of my leaving, each part of my life folded neatly into a trunk. Soon it would be as if I had never existed in this house.
The wedding was in a fortnight, each passing day feeling like a noose slowly tightening around my neck. I still spent most of my time beneath the great oak tree, losing myself to daydreams in which I was not being sold like livestock. Where I was still free, that I still had the hope of the future I had dreamed of for my whole life. Secretly I wondered how long I could continue the fantasy. Would it even be possible after the union to pretend that I was not chained to a beast? Would Grace be correct in thinking that my future husband might want little to do with me? That I would not be subjected to more hardship than I could bear?
Leaning my head against the rough bark, I thought back to the last wedding I had attended. My cousin Alice, had gotten her beautiful day. Her husband, an exceptionally well formed man with hair than shone like spun gold had looked at her with such tenderness in his eyes, despite their engagement having been short, the two of them only having met once or twice before they had become husband and wife. I knew jealously was a sin, but I was unable to quell the ugly uprising in my chest. Alice was a sweet girl, but plain in looks and in mind. As far as I was aware, she now had two children, with another on the way. Every time I'd seen her since, she was glowing, as a woman in love does. Why did she get everything I had ever dreamed of?
It was so unfair that I wanted to scream, but I didn't. In fact, I did not move another muscle until Grace came to fetch me for dinner. Perhaps I had dozed off, wallowing in my own misery.
***
Time seemed to pass faster, as things I dreaded always tended to have an inconvenient habit of racing towards me. Three days before the wedding was to take place, I went off food. Grace was worried, begging me to eat at least something, but it all tasted like sawdust on my tongue and I could not bring myself to swallow.
“At least I shan't vomit in the church.” I told her, not entirely in jest, pushing my plate away from myself and getting to my feet.
“My Lady,” Grace protested, “you shall faint from hunger, and I will be the one who is blamed.”
I ignored her. “What if all of the rumors are true, Grace? What shall I do?” I'd asked before, but the note of desperation in my voice couldn't be more clear. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
“If he truly is a mindless animal, then you will simply have to teach him how to sit and scratch behind his ears until you tame him.” Grace was turned away from me but I could feel the smirk on her face.
I didn't laugh.
“This is no joke!” I shot back. “This is my life.”
“I know, dear, but if one does not learn to laugh at their unfortunate circumstances, then they will fall victim to despair.”
I wished I could have her optimism. It always came so easily to Grace, who I knew had been through her fair share of trials. She had lost three children to fever, and her husband to another woman, though I'd never seen her weep over any of it. I was sure she felt that hurt, but she showed nothing. I admired her strength, even though I knew I could never mimic it.
How she managed to find humor in any of her tragedy, however, I didn't know. It was simply too morbid to wrap my head around.
I sighed and sat back down. I picked up my fork and forced myself to eat.
***
The distant clang of the church bells sang out my impending doom.
I stared at my reflection, not recognizing myself. My hair had been woven with flowers and pulled into an elegant knot at the base of my skull. A thin veil blurred my features, making me look ethereal, like a ghost. My skin crawled under the abomination of silk I wore. As beautiful as I looked, I could not find it within myself to feel any joy. I looked like a woman who did not know where she was or what to do. I knew I was expected to act. To smile and laugh, to pretend like I didn't feel dead inside at the prospect ahead of me. I also knew I did not have the strength to do so.
Grace stood off to the side, having fretted over every small detail all morning. I spoke only to her, otherwise allowing myself to be dressed like a living doll in silence, replaying the conversation that Grace and I had the previous evening in my mind.
“Do you know all that is expected of you, my Lady?” Grace said, her tone hushed. I had shaken my head. I knew only of what the Bible spoke of regarding a wife's duties to her husband. Her eyes soft with what must have been pity, she explained it to me in whispers. My face grew hot and the panic I already felt seemed to triple.
“I must let him...” my voice trailed off as a fresh wave of hot tears splashed down my cheeks. “Grace, I don't want to do this.” The thought of being touched like that, especially by a stranger, terrified me more than the gossip regarding his appearance and demeanor.
At this she had gripped my hands within her own. “If you are fortunate, he will be gentle. If not... just know it is usually brief. It won't hurt as badly as you imagine. If it gets to be too much to bear, allow your body to relax and your mind to wander to a place you feel safe.”
This did absolutely nothing to quell my fears. My head spun and I had leaned over the arm of my chair, violently expelling my earlier meal.
“Well,” tutted Grace as she made to clean up the mess, “try to avoid that tomorrow night.”
There was a good reason I had done without breakfast today.
I watched the clock with increasing consternation, the minutes ticking by quicker than usual. The ceremony was to take place at noon, when the sun was at its highest peak in the sky. I peered out the window at the carriage that had arrived to take me to the parish. Dully, I wondered if there was still any chance of running. I met Grace's eye, and as if she read my thoughts, gave me a sad smile and a tiny shake of her head.
Despite the mild spring air, the coach felt stuffy, as if the air itself could breathe as little as I could. I stared down at my ivory gloved hands, folded neatly in my lap, an attempt at composure. I flinched at every bump in the road, each nicker of the horses, but I refused to cry.
The walls of the cathedral loomed above me, imposing and suffocating. I kept my eyes upon the arched windows as I climbed down onto the street. Any other day, the sight would have taken my breath away. The architecture was gorgeous.
The bells continued their ringing, the noise causing my teeth to vibrate, as though I'd been struck across the face. I did not register the faces of the men who opened the doors for me, nor did I pay mind to my father, who was waiting for me just inside. He took my arm as the music began.
Swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, I forced myself to walk. I felt as though I was walking towards the executioner's block rather than down the aisle.
As the pews surrounded me, I finally lifted my head. If not for my father's grip on me, I would have stumbled.
There he was, the man I was to marry.
The first thing I noticed was the mask. It gleamed in the high noon sun, the silver surface leaving spots in my eyes that I had to blink away. The next thing I realized was how tall he was. No normal man was that large. He was at least seven foot, towering above everyone else in the cathedral. His finely made clothes covered every inch of his body, including his hands, which were gloved. The only human characteristic that was visible was his hair, long, brunette and tied back.
The blasting symphony from the organ thankfully drowned out the whimper that made its way out of me. I felt my father tug on my arm. My steps had slowed without me realizing.
As I reached the steps leading to the altar, the Baron turned towards me. I took a deep, shuddering breath and began to climb.
Beneath the mask, intricately embossed with swirling patterns of vines, I could make out a pair of eyes. I blinked at how... human they were. Deep brown, alive. I took my place across from him.
As the priest began his speech, his words blending into a dull drone I didn't care to attempt to decipher, I studied those eyes. Adam Frankenstein looked at me, his gaze calculating, but somehow, not cold.
A shameful part of me wanted to ask him to remove the face covering, so I at least could see who I was leashing myself to. I held my tongue. Barely.
I was snapped back to reality as the priest turned to the Baron and asked, “Do you, Adam Frankenstein take Adelia Harwood was your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
His voice was deep, slow and deliberate. It sent a shudder through me.
The old man turned to me. “And do you, Adelia Harwood, take Adam Frankenstein as your lawfully wedded husband?”
I swallowed. “I do.” The words burned like acid, but I still managed to force them out. Everything said afterwards was a blur.
Thankfully, I was not required to kiss my new husband.
I felt dizzy again, and my shoulders heaved with the strain of drawing breath. I felt, more than saw, his shadow slide over me. I looked up into the masked face of my husband and saw that his eyes seemed to carry a great sadness, as if he was as upset about this union as I was. He held out his arm, and I reluctantly took it, if only to avoid collapsing in front of a crowd of onlookers.
Before I could take a step, however, he bent down and spoke in a voice so quiet, only I could hear.
“I won't let you fall.”
He was true to his word. I did not stagger on our exit from the church, despite being pelted with handfuls of rice. I did not let go until I was seated across from him in the carriage that would take us to his manor.
I glanced one more time at him and managed to speak.
“Thank you.” I said, unable to keep eye contact, more out of propriety than a real urge to hold conversation.
He just nodded.
I leaned my head against the seat, staring out of my window, watching as everything I knew faded off into the distance.
Notes:
It's about to start getting good I promise.
Chapter Text
Adelia
The ride to Geneva took four days. At least Grace had been wrong in the fact that I would be expected to perform my wifely duties on the day of the wedding. I might have, had the Frankenstein manor been nearer. With each mile we traveled, however, the knot in my stomach continued to tighten at the eventuality of what was to come.
The journey was awkward, though not as terrible as it could have been. The Baron had excused himself to one of the other carriages in the convoy by the evening of the first day, and I had only caught glimpses of him since. His presence had been swapped with that of Grace, a fact I was extremely grateful for. Having her around to talk to was a blessing.
“Well, at least he can speak.” Grace pointed out, her gray-streaked hair swaying with the rocking of the buggy. “That's one rumor quashed.”
“I suppose, though I've only heard him say seven words.” I replied, the memory of his steady baritone causing my fingers to flex against my skirt.
“I've learned over the years that the most attractive men are ones who keep their mouths closed.” she said, grinning. “So no matter what he's hiding beneath that mask of his, he's got that going for him.”
I laughed, rolling my eyes. “I do wonder, it must be something terrible if he covers his entire body, doesn't it?”
Grace shrugged. “I suppose you'll find out sooner rather than later.”
I bit my lip, my amusement dying in an instant. “Every time I dwell on it, my stomach roils. He does not seem... cruel, but I still don't wish to warm his bed.”
Grace only replied with a soft tsk.
“I mean to say,” I continued, wishing more than anything she would tell me that this would not be required of me, “I don't want that with anyone, ever.”
“I used to think the same, my Lady. That was until I fell in love. Perhaps one day, you'll get to experience that as well.”
I scoffed. “Be realistic, Grace. It is more likely to snow in midsummer than I am to experience romance with Adam Frankenstein.”
Anyone else would have been scandalized by my impudence, but Grace's eyes twinkled. “Don't let anyone else hear you say so, my Lady.”
***
The Frankenstein manor was much, much larger than the one in which I was raised. It was set against sprawling lawns, and I could see the edge of a perfectly kept garden peeking around one side. I was unsurprised that I did not see any sign of my husband as I entered the house. For such a large man, he was incredibly stealthy.
I was shown to my rooms by the head housemaid, Constance. She was a severe-looking woman, her shining black hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. She put me in mind of birds of prey and knew that she was not one to cross. There was, however, a certain kindness in her eyes that told me she was not all sharp edges and rules.
As the door swung open, I let out an audible gasp. Every single thing was beautiful. Sunlight filtered in through the large windows in a way that it had never done in my father's house. The rooms were decorated in relaxing shades of cream and sage. I sat on the bed, running my hand across the covers, shocked by how soft they were. Grace wasn't far behind me, her head on a swivel as she took in our surroundings.
“The Baron's chambers are in the west wing of the manor,” said Constance in her carrying voice. “He values his privacy over all else; therefore, I do not want to hear of anyone entering without express permission.” It should have sounded like a warning, but instead I had the distinct impression that Constance was simply... protective of the Baron. “Dinner will be served at seven-thirty.” And with a click of shoes on wood, she had gone.
I turned to Grace, still running my fingers across the impossibly fine fabric of the bed sheets. “Do you think the Baron will be there?”
Grace just shrugged and began to unpack my belongings. “Only one way to find out, my Lady.”
***
My husband did not attend dinner. I was informed by the house staff that he typically took his meals, as well as did everything else, from his wing of the manor. Recluse indeed. I couldn't complain. His silent presence unnerved me; more than anything, it was the silver mask that hid all but his eyes that set my teeth on edge. Terrible curiosity filled me every time I thought about it, imagining what could possibly be beneath the equally beautiful and creepy covering.
The food was wonderful, but I found myself pushing roasted vegetables around my plate, unable to eat more than a few bites before my stomach began to flip in a nauseating sort of way. Tonight would bring many things, and I wondered if my days of curiosity would come to an end. Surely he'd need to remove the mask when he... when we...
I set my utensil down before anyone could notice the tremble in my hand.
“My Lady, are you feeling alright? You've barely eaten.” said a servant girl to the left of me.
I smiled weakly. “I'm just fine. Perhaps simply tired from my journey. I think I'll take my leave. Thank you.”
Before anyone could protest or stop me, I rose from the table and made my way back to my rooms.
I felt breathless as I shut the door behind me, as if I had sprinted rather than walked the way here. Grace looked up from where she had been busying herself, arranging my small collection of baubles in my jewelry box. “You weren't gone long. Was the cooking not up to scratch?”
I shook my head. “No, it was fine. Better than most of what Marco used to make.”
“That's because Marco was usually so intoxicated, he couldn't tell carrots and parsnips apart.” Grace tutted, wiping an invisible speck of dust off the top of the box before turning fully to me. “Are you feeling alright?”
I groaned. “I wish people would stop asking me that. Am I so transparent?”
“You've never had the talent of keeping your emotions off your face.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Or off your tongue, for that matter.”
“I believe I've done exceptionally well so far, personally.” I flopped onto the nearest chair in an extremely unladylike fashion. “Though I'm sure that without you around for me to speak my mind to, I would have horrendously offended every single person in this manor by now.” I conceded, kicking my shoes off onto the floor with a sigh.
I glanced up to see Grace narrow her eyes.
“What? They pinch my toes.”
“You have more personality than the next ten girls, and I don't mean that as a compliment. One of these days, you're going to land yourself in a world of trouble.” remarked Grace as she stooped to pick up the shoes, as always unable to leave a mess.
I cocked my head at her, the queasiness returning with a vengeance. “You don't consider me to already be in a world of trouble?”
“It can always be worse, my Lady.”
***
The knock on my door did not come until long after the sun had set. I had been expecting it, but my heart began to pound nonetheless.
“Enter.” I called, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of my voice.
The door opened. Behind it stood the same servant girl who had spoken to me at dinner. "The Baron requests your presence in his chambers, my Lady.” she said, voice soft but solid.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I got to my feet, terror flooding through me. I stumbled slightly as I walked towards the girl. If she noticed, she said nothing; she simply held the door for me and began to lead the way down the hall, hoisting an elegant candelabra to light the path.
What had seemed beautiful mere hours before now felt oppressive, the gilded walls closing in around me as we made our way to the west wing. The hem of my skirt whispered against the smooth wooden floor, and I felt more like a specter, haunting this place, rather than a living, breathing woman.
I could not calm my racing pulse as we drew ever closer to the Baron's rooms. I stared at the girl ahead of me, a wild, feral part of my mind wondering if I would be able to outrun her. I shoved the thought aside. I couldn't run. If I did, I realized with a start, my father would lose everything. I thought back to my grand oak tree, and the idea of it falling into the possession of anyone else besides my family revolted me.
The girl stopped so abruptly that I nearly ran into her. My breath hitched as she raised her arm and knocked upon the door before us.
“Come in.” The voice of the Baron called out, and I felt my blood turn to ice.
Again, the door was held open for me, and reluctantly, I stepped into the chamber beyond and gasped. For a moment, I was certain I had been led, not to my husband's private chambers, but into the library. Everywhere my eyes fell, there were books. Shelves upon shelves, tomes stacked on tables and on the ground next to chairs, a pile next to the bed. It was as if all the Baron did was read.
I flinched as the door snapped shut behind me.
Movement caught my eye, and there he was, sitting upon a velvet sofa, mask glinting in the candlelight, gloved hands cradling a novel. With his mile-long legs stretched out before him, he looked simply too large to be allowed. Looking up, he closed the book slowly and set it upon the stack next to him. “I expect that you're aware of what is required of us.” he said quietly, though I caught every word. My senses seemed to be in overdrive, aware of every sound and movement around me. More than ever before, I felt like a caged animal.
“Yes.” I said curtly, and before my nerves could stop me, I crossed to the bed. It was massive, though it was hardly a surprise considering the sheer size of the Baron. It must have been designed specifically for him.
He stood and approached, slowly, as if trying not to spook a deer. I glanced at him, but only for a second. My eyes dropped to the floor as he came closer and stopped in front of me.
My hands shook as I began to unlace the front of my dress, and I blinked back tears. My heart shuddered against my ribs, like a bird desperate to escape a cage.
I jumped as enormous, leather clad hands reached out and grabbed my own. Not roughly, but enough to halt my undressing.
“Stop.”
I froze, panic seizing me.
“Just... stop.” The tone of his voice startled me. It was laced, not with desire or lust, but with guilt. I lifted my head to meet his gaze. The brown eyes stared into me, full of too many emotions to read. “You don't want to do this, do you?”
I tried to reply, but my voice stuck in my throat. I shook my head, suddenly feeling ashamed. “But I must.” I whispered, looking away from his masked face.
He let go of my hands, but I did not continue my pitiful attempt to rid myself of my clothes.
“I-if I do not, then I will have failed in the one responsibility I have.” I stammered, the thought of the scandal I would bring. Not just to myself but to my new husband as well.
The Baron scoffed. “Then it is my duty to force myself upon a terrified woman? No. I won't do it.” he turned from me. “I... I can't.”
My hands fell to my sides. “They will know.” I said, simply, resigned to what must occur. “The reverend will inspect the sheets on the morrow. If there is no blood...”
The Baron made an odd noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl. I froze as he snatched a small knife off the bedside table, but he moved past me.
He threw back the covers. I blinked, not understanding until he had pulled back his sleeve, just far enough that I caught a glimpse of deathly pale flesh. I stood rooted to the spot as a flash of metal and a quiet hiss of pain had crimson drops falling upon the sheets.
My mouth fell open as he pulled his sleeve back over his skin and set the knife back down. He tilted his head, inspecting the dark stain that now marred the silk.
“You can stay here for the night.” he rumbled in that deep, sorrowful voice of his. “Take the bed.” And he walked away, returning to the sofa he had been sitting upon when I entered.
Stunned, I moved towards the bed and sat upon the edge, my head spinning. I laid back, careful not to touch his blood, still wet upon the sheet.
“Thank you.” I whispered as I shut my eyes, a tear escaping and rolling down my temple.
I was not sure that he heard me.
Notes:
Adam would absolutely NEVER touch a woman without her consent.
Adelia, girlypop, I believe you judged this book by its cover.
Chapter 4
Summary:
Adam has come to the realization that- oh no- he's in love with his wife.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adam
Self-loathing was hardly a new emotion for me. Since my creation, I had known it many times—yet last night might have been the worst of them all. The abject horror written across my wife’s face at the mere thought of my touching her had turned my stomach. But how could I blame her? Would it have been better or worse to have removed the mask, to let her see… me?
I let my head fall back over the edge of the bathtub, steam curling around me, though the familiar scent of lemon and bergamot brought no comfort. I replayed the interaction again and again, gaining nothing but fresh torment. She had been frightened enough by intricately crafted silver; I did not wish to imagine what her reaction would have been to my patched and sewn features, my too-pale complexion, the mismatched tones of my flesh.
'You did not touch her,' I reminded myself. 'She must now understand you would never harm her.'
'Ahh,' whispered the other voice in my mind, the one that came unbidden with its uneasy candor. 'But you wanted to, didn’t you? What you wouldn’t have given to feel her soft skin against you, to kiss her, to have her as your own…'
I jerked upright, ignoring the water that sloshed onto the floor, forcing the thought away. If she had been willing—perhaps. But never like that.
It was deeply disquieting to realize that I did, in fact, share the base urges of ordinary men despite the nature of my being. I should have expected as much, and yet… I had hoped otherwise.
My Maker’s words echoed in my skull: “Procreation… Reproduction…”
Of course Victor had left such functions intact. He had been a perfectionist by nature—but the quiet cruelty of it still left a bitter taste of irony on my tongue. Why construct a man capable of love yet fashion him so terrifying to any woman who looked upon him? God, I frightened Adelia without her knowing anything more than the color of my eyes and hair.
I lifted my hand before my face. The careful seams that held me together caught the water, sending it running in thin rivulets. A hand that was mine, yet not mine—like every part of me. Mine, but stolen. Spare pieces assembled with precision, yet so profoundly wrong.
I wondered, not for the first time, whose heart now beat ceaselessly within my chest.
The thought made my skin crawl. Not your skin.
I rose, climbing out of the bath, unable to remain still any longer. Wet hair clung to my back and shoulders as I reached for a towel, drying myself in haste before dressing. I had no intention of leaving the west wing today, so there was no reason to don the mask or gloves. I retreated to my main room and sank into the plush armchair beside the open window. I reached for my copy of Sense and Sensibility, the most recent addition to my growing collection. My goal of reading every piece of literature the world could feasibly provide felt minutely closer. If I could not die, then I had all the time in the universe. It was the one small consolation of my existence.
A gentle breeze drifted through the window, carrying with it the scent of lilac and sunlight. My fingers stilled on the cover as a laugh rose from below.
Peering into the gardens, I saw Adelia walking arm in arm with the handmaiden she had brought with her. My heart skittered, momentarily fearing they might glance up and catch me watching. But it was unlikely. I had always been most comfortable as the unseen observer; rejection was far less probable from the shadows.
“—not a laughing matter, Grace,” Adelia was saying. “In fact, I’ve never been more serious.”
“My Lady, all this over a tree? I know it was important to you, but really…” Grace replied, and I tilted my head, curiosity sharpening.
“That tree meant the world to me, and now you tell me he intends to chop it down to build a stone fountain?” Adelia sounded distressed, and something cracked faintly in my chest at her tone.
“My darling girl, you must let this go,” Grace soothed, cupping Adelia’s lovely face. “There is nothing to be done.”
Adelia said nothing, but her shoulders slumped in defeat.
I closed my book, an idea already taking shape in my racing mind.
***
I ensured my mask was firmly in place before opening the door to my chambers. Grace looked nervous, but not with the same wild anxiety that overtook Adelia in my presence.
“You called for me, my Lord?” she asked, craning her neck upward.
“Yes,” I said, softening my tone. I did not wish to frighten her. “Please—sit.” I gestured toward the small table where I usually dined alone.
She sat, looking almost as awkward as I felt. I lowered myself into the chair across from her, and she waited expectantly.
“I… overheard you and Lady Adelia speaking in the garden earlier,” I began, gesturing toward the window. “Not intentionally,” I added quickly; I did not want her thinking me stranger than she already must. “Tell me about this tree of hers.”
Grace narrowed her eyes—not in suspicion, more in measured caution—but she answered. “A great oak tree. Her father planted it for her mother when they were wed. It has always been my Lady’s favorite part of the grounds. I let it slip her father plans to chop it down, and she was upset. That is all, my Lord.”
I nodded. “Thank you. You may go.”
She blinked, startled by the abrupt dismissal, but stood, taking her leave. Hand on the doorknob, she paused when I spoke again.
“I want to make her happy,” I said quietly.
Grace turned back, as if sensing the rawness beneath the words. She smiled gently.
“I know, my Lord.”
***
I had not been brave enough to call upon Adelia for a week. Like me, she kept mostly to her rooms or wandered the gardens with Grace.
After speaking with Grace, I had put my plan into motion. One sleepless night, and more funds than I cared to admit, brought confirmation that everything was proceeding exactly as I’d hoped.
The workers had been ordered to be silent the previous night. I could not risk waking her.
Now I sat at the long dining table, food laid out before me, waiting. I did not eat—my nerves and the mask made it impossible. My gloved fingers twitched restlessly as she rounded the corner.
She stopped, a soft oh escaping her lips.
“Good morning, my Lord,” she said, recovering and taking a seat. Her dark hair glowed in the morning light, and my heart gave an undisciplined flutter. I swallowed, willing it to settle. It did not.
“Good morning,” I managed, striving for casualness. If she noticed my pitiful attempt, she did not show it.
She served herself in silence. Several minutes passed as she ate.
“Are you not hungry?” she asked, nodding toward my empty plate.
I shook my head. “I’m fine.” Food would have been disastrous in my current state.
She hesitated, biting her lip, then blurted, “Thank you, by the way. For what you did. The other night, I mean.” Color rushed to her cheeks.
“Of course,” I replied too quickly, heat rising in my own face.
Silence again.
I could not tell whether this was going terribly—or not.
“Before you take your leave, there is something I’d like to show you,” I said as she began to rise. I stood as well. “If you would follow me, my Lady.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, trailing behind me down the sweeping staircase.
Warm morning air enveloped us as we stepped outside. As we rounded the corner into the gardens, I glanced at her.
She gasped.
She spun toward me, radiant, and my heart nearly stopped. She was smiling—at me.
Before I could react, she rushed forward and threw her arms around my middle. I stiffened, then slowly returned the embrace. It lasted only a few seconds, but heat surged through every inch of me.
“You… you saved my tree,” she breathed, her eyes bright.
I nodded. “I… I wanted you to be happy.” Eloquence failed me around her; everything tangled inside and I found myself stammering as I had in the early days of learning language.
“Then you have succeeded.” She smiled again, and every coherent thought vanished.
I walked with her to the enormous oak tree and watched as she laid a trembling hand against its rough bark. When she turned back, a tear traced down her cheek.
“Thank you, Adam.”
And for the first time, I wished she could have seen me smile back.
Notes:
I know this one is a bit shorter, but trust me when I say I am cooking behind the scenes.
Chapter 5
Summary:
Adam's insecurity causes conflict.
Chapter Text
Adelia
Slowly, almost without noticing, I began to settle into a gentler routine. Much of my time was spent in the gardens—just as I had at my father’s estate—reading beneath the broad shade of my tree. The promise of summer drifted on the warming winds and the days started to grow warmer.
Adam grew marginally more social. Every other day or so, he joined me for breakfast or a leisurely walk among the hedges. Sometimes he would sit beside me against the ancient oak, the two of us reading in companionable silence. It was a fragile peace, but a peace nonetheless. He kept his distance, careful to never brush against me, and his mask and gloves remained immovable, only deepening my curiosity about what they hid.
Yet I no longer startled when he drew near. Despite the eerie mask and the layers of secrecy, I had come to recognize a quiet kindness in him, a tenderness he seemed almost afraid to let slip.
With that realization came a small, growing bravery. I found I was able to begin conversations with increasing ease.
“Would you mind if I planted some flowers here?” I asked one afternoon as we sat beneath the oak’s cool shade. “I wouldn’t disturb anything. I just thought… it might be nice to add something of my own to the garden, besides the tree, of course.”
Adam, absorbed in his book, blinked up as though surfacing from deep water. The silver of his mask glinted in the sun.
“You could rip out every hedge and shrub on this entire lawn and replace them with whatever you prefer, and I wouldn’t object,” he said in that low, velvety rumble of his.
I laughed, and his eyes—those warm brown eyes—widened as if he feared he’d misstepped.
“You…” I began, choosing my words. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
He froze, and though I couldn’t see his expression, uncertainty radiated from him.
“I’d heard rumors,” I said softly. “That you were—”
“A monster?” he offered, barely above a whisper. There was no hiding the hurt.
Heat crept up my neck as I nodded.
“And do you believe that?” he asked. His tone was airy, carefully neutral, but it didn’t mask the tension beneath it.
“No.”
I turned fully toward him and, after a breath, laid my hand on his gloved one. His fingers twitched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.
“I think you’re someone who’s been wounded,” I said gently. “Someone who hides away to protect what little peace the world has left you.” I hesitated, then added, “And I don’t believe what you’re hiding is as terrible as you think.”
He let out a short, humorless sound. “Don’t be so sure,” he murmured, gesturing to the mask.
“You’re kind, Adam. I wouldn’t turn from you—not for this.” I gave his hand a small squeeze, feeling suddenly very small beside him. “You don’t frighten me.”
The words hung between us. For a moment he only stared at me, conflict swirling in his dark eyes.
Emboldened, I lifted my other hand and reached toward his face. He went rigid, as though every muscle locked at once, but he didn’t move. My fingertips brushed the warm metal of the mask, grazing along the edge where it met his cheek. His breath hitched. I felt soft strands of brown hair beneath my fingers.
Then he yelped—an involuntary, frightened sound—and lurched back.
I jerked my hands to my chest, heart hammering.
He scrambled upright, chest heaving, and began to retreat.
“Adam!” I called, rising quickly. “Wait—I’m sorry!”
He stopped, turning just enough for me to see the fear in his eyes.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice raw. “But I just… I can’t.”
And then he was gone.
***
The next week crept by with painful slowness. Each morning, I half-expected to find Adam at the breakfast table or waiting beneath the oak, yet he was nowhere to be seen. He had retreated once more to the west wing, and guilt gnawed at me. Every time I rounded the corner into the dining room and found his chair empty, my heart sank a little more. I missed him—his quiet company had become a strange sort of comfort, and its absence left me hollow.
I had frightened him. That much I knew with absolute certainty. I had pushed too far, too soon.
But as the days slipped past without a single glimpse of him, my guilt thinned and simmered into unmistakable anger. I had asked my husband to open himself to me—had promised I would not recoil from his appearance—and he had fled. And now he seemed intent on punishing me with silence.
I began pestering Constance with growing urgency, demanding news of Adam, his well-being, whether he might receive me in his rooms. Her answer never changed.
“The Baron is busy. He will come out when he wishes,” she would say, each time more exasperated than the last.
The irony was not lost on me. When I’d first arrived, I’d wanted nothing less than his company—and now his absence kept me awake at night.
On the eighth morning, after a sleepless night, I rose before dawn. Crossing to the small desk by the window, I seized a quill and began scrawling a note, my hand shaking so badly my script barely resembled itself.
Adam,
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to cause you distress. Your silence has been torment. I won’t touch your mask again. You can stop punishing me now.
Please come to breakfast.
Adelia
For such a brief message, it took far too long to write. By the time I finished, sunlight was just cresting the horizon and birds had begun their morning chorus.
I dressed hastily in a simple blouse and skirt, then swept out into the hall. As always, Constance was in the drawing room, pulling open the curtains. She sighed when she saw me, her annoyance barely concealed behind a strained smile.
“My lady, the Baron—”
“Will you give this to him?” I cut in, holding out the folded parchment.
Her brows pinched, but she accepted the letter with a nod.
“I was about to go wake him,” she said, tucking it into her apron. Otherwise, I wouldn’t trouble myself, her expression seemed to add. I hadn’t been wrong about her protectiveness, nor about the boundary I’d crossed.
I inclined my head. “Thank you, Constance.”
She tutted and made her way upstairs without another word.
I spent the next hour pacing the drawing room, too restless to sit, knowing it was still early for breakfast. My nerves gnawed at me.
When the sun was well above the horizon, I hurried to the dining room—only to find the table bare and Adam absent. I was absurdly early. Not that it mattered; my stomach was in knots, food was the furthest prospect from my mind.
I dropped into my usual chair, leg bouncing, fingers tapping restlessly against the mahogany. After fifteen minutes, servants trickled in with trays of fruit, bread, and eggs—still no Adam.
A steaming cup of tea appeared at my elbow. I didn’t touch it.
I waited. And waited.
The tea cooled untouched, and my anger grew steadily hotter.
When the clock chimed nine—two full hours later—I rose from the table, everything on it still pristine.
I was shaking. Rage sang in my ears.
No.
I was done with this.
Ignoring the startled looks from the servants who had been unwilling witnesses to my vigil, I stormed out of the dining room and up the stairs toward the west wing.
No one tried to stop me.
I reached the door to his chambers and, without hesitation, pounded my fist against it.
“Adam!” I shouted. “I know you’re in there!”
A crash sounded from within—glass hitting the floor.
“Open the goddamn door!” My voice cracked, anger tangled now with something heavier.
Tears stung my eyes. My fists fell still, and I pressed my palm against the door.
“Please,” I whispered.
Silence met me. A single tear slipped down my cheek.
Then the knob turned.
I stumbled back as the door opened. Adam stood there, silver mask gleaming, eyes wide with an emotion I couldn’t name. He said nothing, simply stepped aside to let me in. My heart lurched—but the anger remained.
I swept into the room and let the door slam behind me.
“You didn’t come to breakfast,” I said, blinking away the tears.
“I—I wanted to, but I was… I didn’t…” he stammered. For a man of his size, he suddenly seemed terribly small.
“Didn’t what, Adam? Didn’t want to put me out of my misery?” My voice sharpened with hurt. “Or does it please you to leave me with nothing but silence?”
“I didn’t realize my absence felt like punishment,” he murmured, gentle despite my shouting. “I simply thought you no longer wanted me near. I am… not normal.”
“You read my note,” I pressed. “I made myself clear.”
“Still, I didn’t think…”
“I missed you,” I confessed, another tear falling.
He inhaled sharply, a broken sound that made my anger begin to soften.
“If you never want to show me your face, that’s fine—I can live with that,” I said, stepping closer. He didn’t retreat. “But don’t shut me out like this. It… hurts.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. I was certain he was crying too.
I reached for him and pulled him into an embrace. He bent to meet me, folding his large frame around mine. The metal of the mask was cold against my neck, as though he’d only just put it on.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” he murmured, voice muffled and raw.
“I do,” I said simply, pressing my face to his chest. His arms tightened around me, drawing me closer, and something fluttered in me—something new, or perhaps simply relief that he wouldn’t hide from me forever.
We stood that way for a long time before slowly parting.
“Would you join me in the gardens?” I asked, wiping my cheeks.
“Please,” he said softly.
A watery laugh escaped me. Before he could object, I took his arm and guided him toward the hall.
As we rounded the corner, I spotted Constance. She glanced up and smiled—the first genuine smile she’d ever given me.
I returned it, the promise of a day spent with Adam beneath the warm sun more enticing than anything I could remember.
Chapter 6
Summary:
Flashback to the Arctic, Adam receives an unexpected gift from Victor.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adam
1857
The Arctic
The first desperate gasp of icy air scorched my lungs as I dragged myself onto the frozen surface. My soaked clothes stiffened at once, hardening into a second skin of ice.
I staggered upright, coughing out a mouthful of the saltwater that had been my shifting grave for what felt like an eternity.
Blood still clung beneath my cracked fingernails. Though the flesh had reknit itself over bone, a deep, marrow-level ache lingered.
It had been pitch-black when I plunged through the ice into the waters below. Now the sun hung high in the pallid sky—midday by the look of it.
How many times had I drowned? How many times had I awakened with my lungs still full of the sea, panic raking through me as I thrashed in the dark, unsure which direction led to the surface? Each time I died, a strange peace claimed me at the end—when even my cursed vitality could no longer hold out—and I surrendered to the hush of a death that refused to keep me. Again and again.
Then, through the haze of wind blown snow, I spotted the silhouette of the great vessel on the horizon. I had drifted nearly a mile beneath the ice.
Victor.
Victor was on that ship.
Rage rekindled itself, a familiar flame licking at the edges of my consciousness. I rolled my shoulders; my neck cracked, the soreness a constant echo of what I had endured.
With a harsh breath, I began the long walk toward the ship, my frozen boots crunching through the snow.
***
My return was not welcomed by the crew.
Most were wise enough to step aside. A few… were not.
Their cries trailed behind me as I advanced across the deck. Guilt flickered briefly, but I did not stop. At least this time, I had spared their lives.
Following the murmur of male voices, I stopped before a set of double doors.
They slid open unexpectedly. The captain’s startled face appeared—and instinct overtook me. A growl rumbled deep in my chest as I seized the front of his coat and forced my way inside.
The old man collapsed to his knees as I raised my fist, ready to end the final barrier between myself and the man I sought.
“No—no! Stop!” Victor gasped, his lips smeared with fresh blood. “Do not harm him! I’m here. Take me…” His voice fractured with the effort.
“Go on, beast,” the captain spat, bristling with indignant courage. “Kill us both. Confirm your maker's tale!"
“My maker,” I growled, glancing at Victor—broken, breathless, pitiful—“told his tale.” I looked back at the captain and slowly lowered my arm. “Now I will tell you mine.”
***
I held Victor’s hand long after the heat had left his body.
Captain Anderson remained beside me in quiet vigil as I grieved—not only for the man who created me, but for the life I might have known had he listened before it was too late. He did not judge me as my tears fell freely. Rage had finally deserted me, leaving only regret and an aching, endless sorrow.
Victor had asked me to live. I had promised him I would. But how?
The sky outside had begun to pale before I finally rose to my feet.
“I’m sorry,” I rasped. “For your men.” Shame made it impossible to meet his eyes. “How many…?”
“Six,” he replied with a weary exhale.
The number struck like a bullet.
Anderson shrugged, his expression hardened by years of command. “We sailed into the most unforgiving place on earth. Some were always bound not to return.”
“Six sons. Husbands. Brothers. Dead because of me,” I whispered.
“Dead because they refused to stand down.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “All who yielded still breathe.”
I stared at him, stunned by the brutal practicality of his words.
“You forgive too easily,” I murmured.
“I am not forgiving,” Anderson replied. “I am realistic. Their loss does not halt our mission. They knew the risks when they boarded this vessel.”
“You intend to continue?” I asked, disbelief thick in my voice. “After all that has happened?”
He looked almost offended. “Our objective is nearly within reach. I will not turn back now.”
“Then you share the same madness as my maker.” I gestured toward Victor’s still form beneath the round window. “Look where it carried him.”
A crease formed in Anderson’s brow as he followed my gaze. Silence stretched between us.
“Before you go,” he finally said, reaching into his breast pocket, “there is something I should give you.”
He drew out an envelope—its parchment slightly yellowed, its wax seal chipped but intact. He placed it in my hand. The words on the front barely registered.
Adam Frankenstein
Adam… Frankenstein. The name struck something deep and unfamiliar within me. Victor had never spoken it. His only brother—William—was long dead by my own hand.
“He claimed to have written it during a fit of insanity, yet he carried it for months.” Anderson said quietly. “He begged me to burn it after his death. I chose not to.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets: one heavy and official, the other a letter. I unfolded the latter and began to read.
Adam,
I have failed you beyond the measure of any apology I might offer.
You were born into a world that should have embraced you with warmth, affection, and belonging—and instead you found only fear, rejection, and cruelty. I wrought you with ambition blazing in my mind, but with no understanding of the responsibility that creation demanded. In my hunger to surpass the limits of mortal achievement, I forgot the simplest truth: that you would feel. That you would suffer. That you would long, as any man does, for gentleness and companionship.
I abandoned you—my greatest work, and the only soul who ever had reason to call me father.
Regret corrodes me. Nothing I do now can restore what I destroyed, but I offer you what little remains in my power. Enclosed you will find a document naming you my legitimate son and heir, and the signet ring of our family—poor restitution for the love I denied you, but all that is left for me to give.
I inhaled sharply, unable to continue reading for a moment as the words became blurred and my heart thundered against my ribs. I had to blink rapidly before they came back into focus.
I hope you will accept the name I chose. You are the first of your kind, the new Adam—formed from dust of my own flawed genius. I should have spoken your name long ago, yet cowardice bound my tongue.
If there is any mercy in you—and I believe there always was more in you than ever lived in me—perhaps, in some distant future, you may find it within your heart to forgive the man who wronged you most.
Know this, if nothing else: I loved you. Too late, too quietly, and never as you deserved, but with a depth I was too weak to show in life.
Your creator, your burdened father,
Victor Frankenstein
Notes:
This chapter made me cry while I was writing it.
Chapter 7
Summary:
I know what you're thinking: Didn't she just upload a chapter yesterday? Well I have a PROBLEM OK I'M OBSESSED.
I also wrote this on mobile so if the formatting is weird it's because I haven't gotten to my PC yet to fix it :)A dual POV chapter this time around!
Also yearning!
And gore!
And some fluff.
I had fun with this one.
Chapter Text
Adam
My fingers skimmed the surface of the letter—its creases, its fragile weight—lingering over the ink as though my touch might conjure the ghost of the hand that once dragged the pen across this paper.
The bluish chill that had once been a permanent resident in my flesh had lessened over the years; my hands, though still unnaturally pale, had warmed into something nearer to human. I traced each pen stroke with reverence, careful not to mar the page. In moments of doubt—those quiet, insidious hours I would never openly confess—I returned to these words. If Victor, who had once despised me with such a burning hatred, could in the end love the being he had created… then perhaps I was not entirely the monster I feared.
The night was warm. Crickets trilled across the grounds, and a gentle breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the flame of the candle on my desk. I felt no sleep tug at my eyes; I had never needed it as often as mortals did.
With deliberate care I folded the letter, sliding it back into its envelope and tucking it away in the drawer. But the past refused to loosen its grip entirely. My thoughts wandered—inevitably, helplessly—toward Adelia.
The candlelight wavered, casting long, thin shadows that danced along the walls. I watched them absently, but in my mind rose the image of her soft face, the way she smiled with her whole being, as though joy came as naturally to her as breathing.
Nearly four months of marriage. The knowledge sat like a stone in my chest. Four months, and my wife had never touched my bare skin, never once glimpsed the ruin of a face beneath the mask. Because I had not allowed her to. Because fear—cowardice—had leashed me tighter than any chain.
If she saw… she would leave. She would be granted every right to do so. Our wedding sheets had fooled the Church, but I knew well how easily her freedom could be won should she ever seek it. My reputation was tatters to begin with; losing her would merely complete the ruin. And yet the thought of her choosing to go—that was the wound that truly frightened me.
Constance was one of the few who had seen my visage and even she, honest as she was, had not lied.
“You are a good man,” she had said, soft but firm, her eyes full of sympathy rather than horror. “And those who know you will see that.” She had done nothing to assure me that I was not hideous to behold.
She had meant to comfort me, and perhaps she had. Yet sometimes I wondered which stung more: revulsion, or pity.
My eyes—my mismatched, unnatural eyes—had always been the worst. The left iris too dark, too wide, catching the light like some nocturnal creature’s. My mask had been fashioned with care to shield them, to prevent the eerie gleam that betrayed me. And still… still the world had ways of seeing.
And despite everything, some desperate part of me ached—screamed—to be known. To be seen in my entirety and not abandoned. To be loved despite it.
But did Adelia love me? I could not say. She was my friend, undeniably. Tender, gentle, beautifully human. Everything I was not. Everything I could never become.
That day beneath the oak tree, when her hands had lifted toward my mask, something feral inside me had begged—begged—to let her remove it. To let her see the truth. To see if she might still stay. But terror won. Terror always won. And I ran.
Even now, I still ran.
She had kept her promise not to reach for my mask again, but she touched me in small, steady ways: a hand resting lightly atop mine, fingers brushing my sleeve, her shoulder nudging mine in quiet playfulness as we wandered the gardens. Each brief moment of warmth from her left me breathless, my pulse thundering like a creature caught in a trap.
I felt too much. Wanted too much. Hungered for what I had no right to seek.
I would have offered her every piece of myself, even the broken ones, if only she would reach for them. Yet I dared not push. So I told myself that her companionship was enough, that I could endure my yearning in silence. That the ache in my bones would someday dull.
Books had taught me the shape of longing. Tales of romance, of tender courting, of embraces and kisses and the final joining of souls and bodies. These stories painted entire worlds within me—worlds I knew were not mine to inhabit.
How I longed—shamefully, fiercely—to feel her lips upon mine. To cradle her face between my hands, to trace the warmth of her cheeks with my thumbs. To be wanted by her, even once.
The thought made my chest tighten painfully. With a rough sigh I dragged myself back from that place, shaking my head as if to dislodge the images.
Such fantasies only bred more suffering. Why indulge them at all?
I strode to the window and pushed it open wider. Night air swept in, cool and fragrant, easing the fever beneath my skin. I inhaled deeply, letting my heartbeat steady.
Then a flicker of movement caught my eye.
A lantern—small, bobbing—moving steadily across the lawn toward the forest. The figure carrying it wore a flowing dress, pale in the moonlight. She turned her head, checking the darkness around her, and her face came into view.
Adelia.
My stomach dropped.
Why was she venturing into the woods alone at this hour? I had always told her she was free to go where she wished, that I would never cage her. And I meant it. Yet worry spiked sharp within me. The forest held dangers she did not know, and she had never gone deeper than the border—and always at my side.
I hesitated only a heartbeat before snatching up my mask and gloves.
Just to keep her safe, I told myself as I hurried down the stairs. Only to follow from a distance. Only to ensure she came to no harm.
But the truth thrummed beneath those justifications: she was my wife, and I could not bear the thought of anything happening to her.
Slipping out the front door, I spotted the lantern again—a warm pinprick weaving between the dark silhouettes of the trees.
Silent, I stepped into the night and followed.
***
Adelia
The nightmare had torn me from sleep so violently that the very idea of drifting back into slumber felt impossible. My mother’s death—those dreadful final moments—returned with cruel clarity, as they did on certain nights when grief lay in wait for me. I woke drenched in sweat, tears soaking my pillow, a tremor running beneath my skin. My stomach roiled with the old sickness of horror and helplessness. The air felt too thin to draw in, too heavy to breathe.
There was no staying in bed after that. The silence of my chamber only sharpened the echo of her fading voice in my mind. I paced the length of the room, over and over, wringing my hands as if the movement alone might wring the memories from me.
For a moment I considered slipping down to the servants’ quarters to wake Grace—dear, dependable Grace—but the idea of burdening her with my troubles at so late an hour tugged me back. She deserved her rest.
My thoughts drifted then, to Adam. He would be awake, perhaps. Or perhaps not. And the idea of knocking on the door to his forbidden west wing only to be turned away… I could not bear it tonight. I longed for his presence—his steadiness, his soft-spoken kindness—but the fear of rejection pressed coldly against my ribs.
So I dressed, lit a lantern, and decided that walking would be better than pacing in circles with ghosts. Movement, at least, gave grief a direction to go.
The night welcomed me with a humid hush, the grass whispering against the hem of my skirt as I stepped onto the lawn. Ordinarily, I would have gone to my oak—my faithful companion on long afternoons—but the oak felt too open, too exposed. Something in me yearned for the shaded, cloistered quiet of the forest. As though its branches might curl protectively overhead, sheltering me from my own memories.
The trees received me without question. Their silhouettes loomed tall, ancient, almost cathedral-like in the darkness. I walked among them slowly, lantern light sweeping across bark and bramble, my thoughts spiraling deeper with every step.
My mother had died in childbirth—my brother with her, a tiny, silent thing who never had a chance to cry. I remembered everything with a clarity that felt like a wound. Her screams rattling the walls. Her hand crushing mine in a grip that weakened by the second. Her whispered words—half prayer, half lullaby—as her life bled out onto the sheets. The dark, spreading stain. The smell of iron.
My father’s voice, thick with a grief that had no place to go.
My brother’s still face, tinged violet and impossibly small.
I had lost the entire world in a single day.
My footsteps slowed as another tear escaped, carving a warm path down my cheek. I brushed it away quickly, though there was no one to see. The manor remained to my left, my careful compass in case I wandered too far; even lost in sorrow, I kept its faint outline in sight.
I walked longer than I meant to. Time seemed to loosen its grip within the forest. Above me, bats chattered and swooped through the air, devouring the moths and beetles drawn to my lantern’s glow. Crickets sang unseen from the shelter of tall grasses. Though I was alone, the sounds of the woodland creatures formed a strange, comforting chorus—proof that life, in all its small forms, went on heedless of human suffering.
Eventually, the trees thinned, and I stumbled gently into a small clearing washed in silver moonlight. I sank onto the cool grass with a sigh that was half exhaustion, half release. Tilting my head back, I let my gaze travel upward to the night sky.
It was breathtaking.
The stars glittered like frost scattered across a velvet tapestry—each glowing speck a distant world, unreachable, unknowable. I felt tiny beneath such vastness, as though my soul had shrunk to a mere point of light among millions. Yet the insignificance brought comfort.
My grief, for all its enormity within me, was not unique. Countless others had felt this same hollow ache, this same relentless longing for those who would never return. My sorrow was not special, not singular.
And in that thought, oddly, I found a fragile sense of peace.
I was not alone—not in the universe, not in my mourning—and something about that steadied me more than any embrace could have. The night wrapped around me like a quiet companion, and for the first time since waking, I breathed without trembling.
Lost in memory, I did not at first notice the presence lurking just beyond the tree line.
The clearing felt different—weighted, expectant—as though the night itself were holding its breath.
Then I heard it.
A low vibration, a rumbling so deep it trembled through the ground and into my bones. A warning. A claim. A promise of violence.
I spun toward the sound just as a massive shape lumbered out of the shadows. A black bear—colossal, snarling, its fur bristling like quills—stepped into the lantern’s halo of light. Its eyes glinted with furious intelligence, pinpricks of obsidian fixed squarely on me. Saliva dripped from its bared fangs in long, stringy ropes.
My breath shattered. I stumbled backward, heart slamming against my ribs.
The bear advanced with a guttural growl that rattled the leaves overhead. I screamed—a raw, animal shriek that tore from my throat—and turned to flee.
But it was faster.
Branches whipped against my face as I ran, a blind, desperate sprint. Behind me, the ground thundered beneath the creature’s weight. The sound of its charge consumed everything—the snap of underbrush, the roar that split the night, the hot gust of its breath gaining on me.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, for claws rending flesh, for teeth closing around my skull.
But nothing touched me.
Instead, the forest erupted with another sound—a sound so unnatural it froze the blood in my veins. A scream, not human, not animal, something torn from the depths of a nightmare. A feral, guttural bellow of pure rage.
My eyes flew open.
Adam.
He stood between the bear and me, his body curved into a defensive arc, every muscle drawn taut like a bowstring. I had never seen him look so enormous, so terrifying, so utterly intent on destruction. The silver mask gleamed in the lantern light, still clutched in my hand, warped by shadows into something almost demonic.
The bear reared onto its hind legs, towering over both of us. It was nearly Adam’s height—massive, enraged—and it swung one great paw with lethal force.
Adam didn’t flinch.
He raised his arm to shield his face. The claws tore across his forearm, slicing through skin and muscle with sickening ease. Blood sprayed across the grass in a bright, horrifying arc.
“Run!” he snarled—his voice deeper, distorted, something primal vibrating beneath the words. His head snapped toward me with a wildness I had never seen before. “Adelia—run!”
But I couldn’t. My legs refused to obey. Terror rooted me to the earth. All I could see was Adam—my husband—bleeding, outmatched, facing down a beast meant to tear men apart.
He would die.
And it would be my fault.
The bear lunged, jaws snapping.
Adam met it head-on.
They collided with a force that shook the ground. The impact drove them both into the dirt, a violent tangle of limbs and fur and blood. Adam moved with a savagery I had never imagined, his hands clawing for purchase in the bear’s thick fur. The creature thrashed beneath him, shrieking, trying to dislodge the madman upon its back.
But Adam held on.
With terrifying strength he heaved himself upward, gripping the beast around its neck. The tendons in his arms bulged, his breath coming in ragged, furious growls as the bear bucked and writhed, throwing up clods of soil.
“Adam!” I choked out, though I didn’t know if I meant it as a plea or a warning.
He didn’t hear me. Or couldn’t. The man I knew was gone, swallowed by the monstrous instinct to protect—me.
With a roar that seemed to tear the very air apart, he twisted. His bloody sleeve slipped over sinew and fur. There was a sickening crack—a wet snap of bone folding where it shouldn’t—and the bear’s body spasmed.
The rage drained from its black eyes.
Adam held on a moment longer, chest heaving, before letting the creature collapse to the forest floor in a lifeless heap. The sudden silence was suffocating.
And my husband—my gentle, soft-spoken Adam—stood over the corpse, blood dripping from his arm, his breath ragged, his mask spattered red, looking like something not entirely human.
Something born of fury and devotion.
Something that had killed for me.
I should have been afraid.
I should have been staggering back in horror from the man who had just ended the life of a bear with his bare hands—a creature that could shrug off bullets, that hunters feared, that entire villages fortified themselves against.
But no terror came.
Not of him.
Instead, something inside me snapped free—a rush of frantic, dizzying concern that had nothing to do with the predator lying broken in the grass, and everything to do with the man standing over it.
I ran to him before I had the sense to stop myself, my heart pounding so loud it seemed impossible he could not hear it in the endless quiet the forest left behind.
“Your arm,” I gasped, reaching toward the mangled limb before I could think better of it.
The wound was worse up close—far worse. His sleeve was soaked, the fabric shredded into ribbons, hanging off him like torn banners. Blood—dark and thick—ran in rivulets down to his fingertips, dripping steadily onto the leaves below.
He blinked, the fury in him receding by fractions as he looked at me. “Are you hurt?” His voice was still rough, feral, a beast’s growl struggling to form human words.
“Am I hurt?” I stared at him, incredulous. “Adam, you— you just fought a bear.”
He shrugged as though it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, but the movement tore at his flesh. A fresh sheet of blood spilled down his arm. He hissed, as pain finally cut through the adrenaline.
Panic sharpened my movements. I set the lantern down, hands trembling uncontrollably as I gathered the hem of my dress. The fabric tore easily beneath my shaking fingers. I forced myself not to look at the raw meat of his forearm as I wrapped the strip of cloth around it as tightly as I dared.
Adam didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. He simply watched me—too intently, too quietly—while blood seeped through the makeshift bandage within seconds.
“Come on,” I said, breath shaking, “we need to clean this properly before— before you bleed out.”
He moved to follow, but his steps faltered. The ground seemed unsure beneath his feet.
“I scared you,” he said at last, his voice softer now, but still edged with that unearthly rasp. He swayed as he spoke, almost imperceptibly—but I caught it.
Without thinking, I ducked under his uninjured arm, tugging it around my shoulders despite knowing I could never support his weight. “Here,” I whispered. “Lean on me.”
He did—barely, gently—more as if he feared crushing me than as if he needed the help. But the warmth of him at my side, the tremble in his breath, the scent of blood and sweat clinging to him… all of it made my chest twist painfully.
“I’m not afraid of you, Adam,” I said fiercely, the truth ringing through every syllable as the manor emerged between the trees. “You saved my life. I don’t know how— but I’m grateful. Truly.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His silence stretched, taut and heavy.
Then, in a low, breaking whisper, “You should be.”
The words pierced me. I faltered mid-step.
Afraid of him? Of Adam, whose gentleness softened every moment we shared, whose quiet voice soothed me over breakfast in the mornings, whose hands I had watched birds eat seeds from?
His hands—the same hands that had killed a monster of the forest—hung limp and bloodied at his side.
“Adam…” I breathed, bewildered.
He stumbled as we crossed the manor threshold, knees buckling. Blood dripped from his fingertips in thick, steady drops, leaving a crimson trail across the polished floor.
“I’m fine,” he whispered.
Then he collapsed.
“Help!” My voice cracked, high and strangled. “Someone—please!”
Footsteps thundered upstairs, doors opened, frightened faces emerged as servants rushed toward us.
“What happened?”
“The Baron—He’s bleeding—!”
“Dear Lord—!”
Constance pushed through the chaos, half-dressed, hair loose and wild. Her expression hardened with practiced calm the moment she saw him.
“You!” she snapped at a young footman. “Towels. Now.” she turned to a woman, “And you—hot water, quickly. Move!”
I sank beside Adam, useless, terrified, my hands hovering over him without knowing where to touch, how to comfort, how to keep him here.
His dark eyes found mine, glassy with pain. “I’m alright,” he murmured, as three men lifted him back to his feet. He swayed dangerously but somehow managed to walk with them into the sitting room.
He collapsed into a chair. Blood pooled beneath him.
Constance was at his side in an instant, stripping away the soaked bandages and the shredded remains of his sleeve. The unnaturally pale flesh of his arm was a ruin—deep gashes exposing muscle, tendon, gleaming flashes of bone beneath torn ribbons of skin. Blood bubbled with each unsteady heartbeat.
He groaned, head lolling weakly. He was fighting to stay awake.
Tears streamed down my face. “Adam—oh Adam, I’m so sorry—I’m so, so sorry—this is my fault—”
I reached for his good hand. To my surprise, his fingers curled around mine with surprising strength, grounding himself through the agony. Every time Constance pressed a cloth to his wound, his grip tightened, his breath hitching. Blood smeared across my skin, but I didn’t care.
I stayed.
The scars along his arm—old ones, unnervingly precise, stitched into him like seams—caught the lantern light. They raised a dozen questions, but I swallowed them. Now was not the time.
At last Constance pulled back, breath heavy. “The bleeding’s stopped. He’ll be alright, my Lady. He needs rest.”
Adam nodded once, barely perceptible, mask glinting. “Thank you…” he rasped.
As she left with the basin of red-stained water, he looked down at our entwined hands, at my blood-slicked fingers.
Shame flickered in his dark eyes. He hissed softly and tried to pull away. "The blood..."
“Don’t,” I blurted. “Please—don’t run from me. I don't care about getting dirty."
He froze.
Gently, I slid the glove from his uninjured hand. The bloodsoaked leather peeled away with a wet sound. His exposed skin was pale—too pale—and marred by more seams, more scars. But it was warm. Human. Alive.
His hand lifted shakily.
And then he cupped my face.
His fingers dwarfed me, trembling against my cheek, smearing me with his blood. I leaned into the touch before I could stop myself, a sob catching in my throat. His thumb brushed away a tear.
These hands… capable of killing a bear, yet so heartbreakingly gentle now.
“Adelia…” he breathed.
Then his eyes rolled back, and he slumped backward, unconscious at last.
I caught his hand before it fell, pressing it to my cheek, clinging to the warmth radiating from it. I stayed kneeling beside him, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath my fingertips—fragile and real.
At some point the exhaustion claimed me too, and I slept with my head resting against his knee, his uncovered hand clasped tightly in mine.
Chapter 8
Summary:
Oh this one is gonna hurt you.
I regret nothing.
Chapter Text
Adam
Waking came sluggishly, as it always did when I had lost a significant amount of blood—first the sensation of warmth against my knee, then the faint pressure of fingers laced through mine. The world was dark behind my eyelids, but I sensed her immediately.
Adelia.
Her breathing was soft, uneven, the breath of someone who had cried herself into exhaustion. And her cheek—God help me—was resting on the back of my hand.
I didn’t move. Not because of the pain—there was none.
She knelt on the ground next to my chair, pale gown pooling around her. I shifted, and realized someone had tossed a blanket over me. Who, though, I had no idea.
My arm, which only hours earlier had been a mangled ruin of torn muscle and exposed bone, felt… whole. Tender, yes. Bruised, certainly. But whole.
The seams of my creation had always knitted themselves back together with unnatural speed, but never in front of anyone. Never with witnesses. Never with her. The only person in the household who knew my truth, the whole truth, was Constance, and she was paid well for her silence.
I could not let her see.
Even with the bandages wrapping my arm, it was obvious that something was not quite right.
A trembling breath escaped me despite my effort to hold it in. Instinctively, my fingers curled around hers—before I realized what I was doing.
Adelia stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open; she lifted her head, disoriented and heartbreakingly soft in the low light. Then her gaze snapped to our joined hands.
“You’re awake,” she whispered.
I prayed she hadn’t seen the way I winced—not from injury, but from fear.
“I… believe so,” I murmured.
She straightened from where she sat upon the floor, worry tightening her features. “Are you in pain? Should I call Constance?”
“No,” I said too quickly. “No. I’m fine.”
Her brows knit. “Your arm—”
I sat up sharply, pulling the blanket over my arm before she could reach for it, adding another layer of protection. “It isn’t as bad as it looked.”
She shot me an incredulous look. “Adam, your arm was practically—” She swallowed, emotion rising in her throat. “It was terrible.”
“I heal quickly.”
Not that quickly,” she whispered, leaning closer. “You were bleeding so much. Constance said—”
My heart jolted. “What did she say?”
“That you’d need rest. That the wounds were deep. That they would take days to close.” Adelia’s hand hovered tentatively over the blanket shielding my arm.
"Adam… may I see?”
Panic clawed up my spine.
If she saw the skin already knitted together, the wounds already smoothing, already fading…
“Not yet,” I said, forcing gentleness into my tone. “The sight is unpleasant. I don’t wish to distress you further.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between obedience and concern. “You won’t distress me. Not after what you’ve done for me.”
“Adelia,” I said softly, “please.”
Something in my voice—fear, perhaps—stilled her. She sat back slowly, her eyes searching mine.
“You’re trembling,” she murmured.
I hadn’t realized I was.
She reached for my free hand instead, lifting it into her own. Her touch was careful, reverent even, her thumb stroking over a seam on my knuckle, where unbeknownst to her, a finger that did not belong to the rest of my hand had been sewn on by Victor. She did not look disgusted at the patched and ruined skin, and the sight gave me pause.
“Your hands…” she whispered. “I've never seen them before. You're so pale. You must have lost so much blood." Her breath hitched. I did not respond. Little did she know, this was my normal complexion. Cadaverous. "How many old injuries have you endured?” she asked.
Too many. More than I could count. All the scars I bore were from my creation. I had gained no new marks since. But I could not give her that truth.
“I’ve survived worse than bears,” I said quietly.
She flinched at that—her expression folding into something pained. “Adam… earlier you said I should fear you.”
A familiar dread unfurled in my chest. “I meant it.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said immediately.
Her certainty stripped me bare.
“You should,” I breathed. “You saw what I did.”
“I saw you save me,” she insisted. “You would have died for me.”
“That is why you should fear me,” I said quietly. “Because I did not hesitate.”
Her breath caught. “You saved my life.”
I looked away. “I lost control.”
“You protected me.”
“I became something I should never have become in front of you.”
“Then let me help you understand it,” she whispered, leaning forward. “Let me in. Stop shutting me out.”
Her hand rose—hesitant—toward my cheek, hovering near the cold smoothness of the mask. She didn’t touch it, but her warmth brushed the metal like a breath.
My pulse stuttered violently.
“Adelia…” My voice shook. “Please.” Familiar panic curled at the edges of my mind. Even with all that had happened, I still could not show her my face. What I was beneath the mask. Better to let her imagine that I was human, after all.
She withdrew her hand slowly, though her eyes never left mine.
“Rest,” she murmured, but I saw in her expression that this was far from over. “Just rest. We can talk when you’ve regained your strength.”
Strength.
If only she knew.
Just then, footsteps approached. I jerked the blanket up higher, ensuring the healed flesh was covered completely. Constance entered with a basket of poultices and fresh water, her face stern with exhaustion and authority.
“Good,” she muttered. “You’re awake. Let me change those bandages before they adhere.”
My chest tightened. “That won’t be necessary.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your arm nearly came off, my Lord. Don’t argue.”
My heart hammered as she strode toward me.
Adelia glanced between us, confused.
“Constance, he said—”
“He said no such thing,” Constance cut in briskly, reaching for the blanket.
I grabbed it tighter, hiding my arm.
“Constance. Leave it.”
She froze. Her sharp eyes flicked to mine—and something in them softened with realization. She had... forgotten. Somehow, in the chaos of the night, Constance had let it slip her mind what I was, that I was no ordinary man. That I would not require further nursing.
She understood.
I silently begged her.
Please. Not in front of her. Not this.
Constance exhaled slowly, her expression shifting into patience. “Very well. We’ll… inspect it later. When you’ve had more time.”
Adelia blinked. “But what if—”
“He needs rest,” Constance said firmly, placing a guiding hand on Adelia’s shoulder. “Not examinations. Let him be.”
Adelia deflated, though worry still shadowed her face. She returned to her seat beside me, worry softening every line of her face.
“Just… tell me if the pain worsens,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing mine as though afraid I might disappear if she pressed too hard.
I nodded, unable to speak past the tightening in my throat.
Constance cleared her throat. “My Lord, with your permission… I think it best you rest somewhere quieter. This room has too much commotion for proper recovery.”
Her eyes flicked—knowingly—toward Adelia, then back to me.
I understood her meaning instantly.
Get up. Hide it while you still can.
I forced myself to sit straighter, drawing the blanket with me to keep the arm concealed. “Yes. I should… return to my chambers.”
Adelia stood quickly. “Are you sure? You’re still hurt. I can help you walk, if you need—”
“No,” I said, a shade too sharp. Her expression flickered, so I gentled my tone. “I can manage. Truly.”
Constance stepped to my side, offering support without making it look like support. Together we eased me to my feet. My limbs felt steady enough—more steady than they should have—but I kept my movements sluggish, careful, masking the unnatural ease in them.
Adelia hovered a breath behind us, as though afraid to touch but also unwilling to let distance grow.
“Will you let me check on you later?” she asked softly. There was a tremor of something vulnerable beneath her voice—guilt, fear, something more tender she hadn’t yet named.
My heart lurched painfully.
“I… yes,” I managed. “If you wish.”
She gave a small nod, her eyes lingering on the blanket-wrapped arm with a look that twisted something deep inside me. Suspicion? Worry? Or simply fear of how close she’d come to losing me?
I prayed it was the last.
Constance guided me toward the door. Before stepping out, I turned back once more. Adelia stood framed by the lantern light, hands clasped to her chest, her expression raw with concern.
Her gaze met mine—open, trusting.
It nearly broke me.
“I’ll be all right,” I said, forcing a small, reassuring smile she couldn’t see beneath the mask. “Rest, Adelia.”
She looked as though she might argue, but instead she swallowed and whispered, “Please… take care.”
I nodded once, then slipped out before she could see the truth.
Before she could see me.
The hallway felt colder the moment the door shut behind us. Constance walked beside me in silence until we reached the first bend in the corridor. Only then did she speak, her voice low and clipped.
“You need to get that arm covered properly before she sees anything.”
“I know,” I muttered. The blanket was starting to slip; I pressed it tighter against my limb.
“She’s perceptive,” Constance warned. “If she begins to suspect—”
“She won’t,” I said, though my voice cracked on the last syllable.
Constance shot me a look but didn’t argue.
By the time we reached the west wing, my heart was hammering so violently it drowned out every other sound. Once inside my chambers, Constance shut the door firmly behind us.
I yanked the mask from my sweaty face, flinging it down onto a nearby table, feeling as though I could not breathe. Constance glanced at me, but said nothing.
I pulled the blanket away from my arm and unwound the bandages, stiff with browning blood.
Smooth. Whole. Only the faintest pink sheen remained where torn flesh had been hours ago.
God.
Adelia had seen it shredded open—bone exposed, muscle hanging in ribbons. She had wept over it.
And now not even a scar remained.
“What am I supposed to tell her?” I whispered.
“That you’re resting,” Constance said briskly, already rummaging for fresh bandages. “That’s the only truth she needs right now.”
“Constance.”
She paused.
“Do you think she suspects?” My voice was barely audible, dread curling around every word.
Her silence was answer enough.
I turned away, fingers digging into my hair as a cold, choking fear closed around my throat.
If Adelia noticed the inconsistencies…
If she realized I healed like something unnatural…
If she connected anything to what I truly was—
She would run.
Or worse, she would stay long enough to look at me differently.
Long enough to fear me.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands, my newly mended arm throbbing with phantom pain.
Adelia’s voice echoed in my skull.
"You said I should fear you. I don’t believe you."
God help me.
If she started believing it now…
I wasn’t sure I could bear it.
***
Adelia
Morning came slowly, as though even the sun hesitated to disturb the quiet that had fallen over the manor. Pale gold light slipped between the curtains, warming the wooden floor and brushing against my skin like a timid greeting. For a moment, I simply lay there, trying to steady the restless shift of my breath.
I hardly slept. Every time I drifted off, I saw Adam collapsing, his arm torn open—saw blood soaking through his sleeve—saw the way his body shielded mine without hesitation.
The image clung to me like cold water.
A soft knock broke my reverie.
“Come in,” I called, gathering the blanket around my shoulders.
Grace entered with her usual purposeful stride, a tray balanced easily in her hands despite the stiffness in her joints. Her hair, streaked generously with gray, had been braided back in a practical plait. Lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes—not from smiling, but from years of raising her eyebrows at other people’s foolishness.
“Well,” she said in greeting, her voice dry as sun-baked earth, “I half expected to find you already pacing holes into the rug.”
“I considered it,” I murmured.
“Of course you did.” Grace set the tray down with a tidy clink. “Tea. Toast. And a stern warning not to do anything idiotic until after breakfast. The warning comes from me. The tea is from the kitchen. The toast is from God knows where.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “Good morning to you too.”
“Mm-hmm.” She gave me a searching look. “You look like death warmed through.”
“I had… a difficult night,” I admitted.
“Ah.” Grace sat at the edge of the mattress with a groan that suggested both knees were staging a rebellion. “So. Which is it? Bad dreams, bad thoughts, or bad men?”
My breath caught.
She noticed.
"Oh dear,” she sighed, leaning back on her palms. “It’s the husband, isn’t it?”
“Grace.”
“What? I’m your handmaiden, not a piece of furniture. My job is to meddle and give unwanted advice.”
I huffed out a laugh that felt too thin. Silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the soft tick of the mantle clock and the sound of my heartbeat beginning to race again.
Then I said it.
“We were attacked last night."
Grace went still. “Attacked." She repeated, her eyes narrowing at me. "I'd overhead some commotion earlier but I assumed it was just the servants making a fuss over something inconsequential."
“A bear,” I whispered. “A massive one.
There were many admirable qualities in Grace, but her composure under shocking revelations was my favorite. She blinked once, very slowly. “Well,” she drawled, “that explains the blood on your hem. And here I was assuming you had finally taken up fox hunting.”
I choked on a startled laugh. “Grace!”
“What? If you’re going to nearly die, you might as well do it doing something glamorous. Being eaten by a bear is terribly undignified.”
“It wasn’t dignified at all,” I agreed weakly. “But Adam… he saved me.”
Grace’s expression softened, though only just. “Of course he did.”
“No, you don’t understand. He didn’t just save me—he threw himself at the creature. With nothing but his hands. It should have killed him.”
“Well, he’s a large fellow, isn’t he?” she mused. “Probably startled the bear. I know I would be alarmed if a man the size of a barn came flying at me out of the trees.”
I shook my head, frustration and something sharper twisting in my chest.
“His arm was almost torn off, Grace. He killed the bear. He snapped its neck."
That got her.
Her face went still, all sarcasm falling away. “How bad?” she asked only of his injury, and I understood she was not quite ready to unpack his impossible strength this early in the morning. In fairness, I wasn't sure I was either.
“Bad enough that I saw bone.” My voice cracked. “I didn’t think— I thought he might—”
I couldn’t say it. The word lodged in my throat.
Grace gently touched my hand, her rough fingers warm. “But he didn’t.”
“No,” I whispered. “But something is strange.”
“Strange how?”
“He…” I hesitated, feeling foolish even as the memory stirred uneasily. “He didn’t seem as injured as he should have been. Even after Constance finished tending him, he moved with almost… ease. And this morning, when I tried to look at the wound, he refused.”
Grace’s brows climbed. “Well, I don’t imagine anyone wants their half-chewed arm admired before breakfast.”
“It’s more than embarrassment,” I insisted. “He was hiding it. Desperate to.”
Grace studied me for a long moment.
“Adelia, people do foolish things when they’re afraid they’ve frightened someone they care about.” Her tone softened into something approaching gentle. “Especially husbands who don’t know where they stand with their wives.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I never said he— that I—”
“Oh spare me,” Grace said, waving a hand. “You’ve been mooning after him for weeks now.”
“I have not!"
“You sigh,” she countered.
“I do not sigh.”
“You watch the door when he’s late to breakfast.”
“Grace—”
“You get flustered when he looks at you too long.”
I stared at her, mortified. “Do I truly?”
“You do. It’s adorable and deeply inconvenient.” she gripped my knee and added, "But he does the same."
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “I am not— I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
“Well, that,” she said dryly, “is obvious.”
I peeked out from between my fingers.
“He’s a kind man, Grace. Truly kind. And gentle. And he listens to me and— and I feel safe with him in a way I didn’t expect."
“And do you trust him?”
The question hit me harder than I expected. My breath caught.
“I want to,” I said. “But there’s something he isn’t telling me.”
Grace pursed her lips. “About his arm?”
“About more than that,” I whispered. “About everything. His room in the west wing. The mask. The way he disappears sometimes for days at a time with little more than a warning. The look he gets in his eyes when I ask too many questions.”
Grace gave a thoughtful hum. “Secrets aren’t always malicious.”
“No,” I agreed. “But they can be dangerous.”
Her gaze softened. “Do you fear him?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Thought.
And finally shook my head. “No. Not even when I should.”
Grace nodded once, satisfied. “Then what is it you’re afraid of?”
“I’m afraid he’ll push me away again,” I whispered. “And I won’t know why.”
Grace let out a slow breath. “Then you keep your wits about you. You observe. And when the moment is right, you ask. Men unwrap themselves like winter coats—slowly, stubbornly, and always when you least expect it.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
She squeezed my hand. “Whatever he’s hiding, you’ll know soon enough.”
I looked toward the window, where sunlight painted the floor in soft gold.
“I think he’s scared,” I murmured. “Of me. Of what I might see.”
Grace rose with a quiet groan, brushing nonexistent dust from her apron. “Well. If your husband is frightened of a woman half his size and not a bear then either he’s a very poor judge of danger…” She smirked. “…or he cares very deeply what you think of him.”
Warmth blossomed beneath my ribs, fragile and aching.
“I should check on him,” I said softly.
“You should finish your tea first,” Grace said, sweeping toward the door. “If you’re going to march into the west wing demanding answers, do it caffeinated.”
I pressed my lips together to hide a smile. “I’ll try not to demand.”
“Oh, darling.” She paused at the doorway, giving me a knowing look. “You won’t have to. He’ll unravel the moment you walk through the door.”
I hoped she was right.
When she left, the room felt quieter, though the sunlight seemed to glow a little brighter.
I sipped my tea, my heart a restless tangle of fear, affection, and curiosity.
Whatever Adam was hiding...
I knew this much:
I was no longer willing to be kept in the dark.
***
By late afternoon, the resolve that had flickered uncertainly in the morning had solidified into something sharp and undeniable. The sunlight had shifted into deeper gold, casting long bars of warmth across the floor as I paced my room for the tenth time. Each moment that passed without word from Adam only fueled the knot tightening behind my ribs.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore—the secrets, the evasions, the lingering feeling that I was only seeing a fraction of the man I shared a home, and now life with.
Grace had tried to comfort me, but even her dry humor couldn’t ground the frantic thoughts circling in my mind.
If he won’t let me in now, when will he? If I don’t ask today, will I ever?
Before I could lose my nerve, I left the room.
The path to the west wing felt longer than it had any right to. This part of the manor was always colder, quieter—like the walls themselves were holding their breath. My footsteps echoed softly as I approached the tall double doors of Adam’s chambers.
For a moment, I hesitated, pressing my palm against the dark wood.
Please… let him speak to me. Let him trust me.
Then I knocked.
There was a long pause—too long—before his voice came through the door, low and slightly strained.
“A moment.”
I heard movement inside. Fabric rustling. The faint clink of metal. Footsteps, uneven, as if he were adjusting something.
When the door finally opened, Adam stood tall, masked, wrapped in a robe pulled neatly around him. His injured arm—if it could even be called injured anymore—was completely hidden beneath a fresh sling and layers of bandages.
He looked immaculate. Controlled.
As though nothing had happened.
“Adelia,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly. “You should be resting.”
“I’m not the wounded one,” I said, brushing past him before he could stop me.
The room was dim. Heavy curtains drawn. A single oil lamp burned on the desk beside a stack of untouched medical supplies.
He closed the door behind him, slow and careful—as if fearing the sound of it might startle me.
I turned to face him fully. “I came to see how you were.”
“I’m recovering,” he said quietly, keeping distance between us. “It’s nothing you need to trouble yourself over.”
“I am troubled,” I said bluntly. “You nearly died last night. And today you act as though it were a minor inconvenience.”
His posture stiffened. “I do not wish to upset you.”
“Then stop hiding things from me.”
Silence.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment.
“What is it you believe I’m hiding?” he asked softly.
I gestured toward the sling. “For one—the state of your arm. You wouldn’t let me see it this morning.”
“It’s not presentable.”
“It wasn’t presentable last night either, and you didn’t seem so defensive then.”
A pulse of something sharp flashed in his dark eyes behind the mask.
I stepped closer. “Adam… I’m not made of glass. I can bear the truth.”
He looked away, mask shining in the lamp light.
I took another step. “Remove it.”
He went utterly still.
“Your mask,” I whispered. “Please. I want to see you.”
His breathing quickened—barely noticeable, but enough to make my stomach twist.
“Adelia,” he said, voice low with something I couldn’t name, “I cannot.”
“You won’t.” I reached out, fingertips brushing the cold metal. “You think I’ll be frightened. You think I’ll run. I won’t. I won’t.”
He pulled back as though my touch burned him. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand!” My voice cracked. “Help me know you! Let me in, Adam! Let me see the man I married—not just the pieces you deem safe for me.”
His hand snapped up to cover the mask. “I said no.”
Anger and heartbreak surged in equal measure. “Why? Why won’t you trust me?”
“Because the truth is not something you need to shoulder,” he said weakly. “It is… monstrous.”
“Let me decide that.”
“No.” His voice broke. “Adelia, if you saw—”
“I’m your wife!” I cried. “You risked your life for me yesterday, but you won’t let me look at your face?”
Something inside him cracked; I could hear it in the tremble he tried to hide.
“I cannot do what you ask,” he whispered. “Please… let that be the end of it.”
“It isn’t the end of it,” I said, shaking. “I’m tired, Adam. I’m so tired of being shut out. Treated like a guest, or a child, or a stranger you fear more than a wild animal!"
“I don’t fear you.” he insisted weakly.
“Then why won’t you trust me?”
His silence was answer enough.
My chest felt too tight, too small, as though my heart had outgrown it all at once.
“Adam Frankenstein,” I said, voice trembling with anger I never meant to let loose, “if you insist on hiding behind that mask—behind lies and half-truths and locked doors—then I cannot stay here.”
His head jerked up. “What?”
“I’m leaving."
“Adelia—”
“I’ll go to my cousin’s estate,” I said, chin lifting even as my vision blurred. “Just for a while. Until you decide whether you actually want a partner… or a ghost of one.”
He reached out—hesitated—then stopped entirely, fingers curling uselessly in the air.
“Please,” he breathed. “Don’t go.”
“I can’t stay,” I whispered. “Not like this.”
Something desperate and silent stretched between us—a reaching, a breaking, a plea.
But he didn’t remove the mask.
He didn’t offer the truth.
He didn’t give me anything to stay for.
I stepped back, tears spilling hot and unbidden. “Goodbye, Adam.”
“Adelia, wait—”
I turned and walked out before he could finish, before my resolve could shatter. His voice echoed behind me, strangled, pained—but I didn’t stop.
Not this time.
Not when the distance between us had become a chasm he refused to cross.
The moment I reached the hallway, I exhaled a shaking breath.
Then I kept walking.
***
I pulled my trunk from beneath the bed, the scraping of wood against the floor loud in the stillness. My hands shook as I folded dresses, tucked books between layers of fabric, tried to remember what a person needed for even a brief stay away from home.
The truth was, I didn’t know how long I meant to be gone.
I only knew I couldn’t stay—not with so many unanswered questions pressing hard enough to bruise.
A soft knock interrupted my frantic motions.
“Come in,” I said without turning, expecting Grace.
But it wasn’t Grace.
It was Constance.
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, her expression grave, almost haunted. In her hands she held something—something small, leather-bound… and scorched. Its edges were curled, blackened, as though rescued from fire.
Before I could ask, she thrust it into my hands.
“You must keep this hidden,” she said, voice low and sharp. “And you must not let the master know I gave it to you.”
The weight of the book felt wrong. Too heavy for its size.
“What is this?” I breathed.
“Your answers,” Constance said. “The ones he fears to give.”
My pulse stumbled.
I opened the book.
Inside were pages written in meticulous, almost fevered script. Equations. Anatomical sketches. Notes on nerve conductivity. Diagrams of human limbs—dissected, rearranged, reassembled.
My stomach flipped.
“This can’t be—”
“It is,” Constance said, stepping back as though afraid to be too near it. “The work of Victor Frankenstein.”
A chill stole through me. “I thought that all his research had been destroyed." That had been part of the huge mystery surrounding the late Baron.
“Most of it,” Constance replied. “I burned this myself years ago—partially. I thought I could be rid of it. But something stopped me. Guilt, perhaps. Or fear that the truth would one day be needed.” Her gaze softened. “He won’t tell you. He’ll die before he shows you what he is, after all he has been through.” She swallowed. “And he deserves better.”
My breath weakened. “Constance… why give this to me?”
“Because you’re leaving.” Her voice cracked just slightly. “And if you leave without knowing what shadows he carries… he may never call you back.”
My throat closed. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“I know.” She moved toward the door. “But sometimes truth hurts before it heals. And he—” Her eyes glistened, just once. “—he needs healing more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Before I could speak again, she slipped out, shutting the door behind her.
I sat slowly on the edge of the bed, opening the journal fully. My fingers shook as I traced the scrawled ink, the diagrams showing sinew attached to foreign bone, arteries carefully threaded through stitched flesh. Notes about vitality. About failed experiments. About the nature of consciousness.
One phrase repeated again and again.
To conquer death.
I stared until the lines blurred. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs—heavy, disbelieving, but not horrified. Not yet.
The rumors I’d heard growing up—whispers of Victor Frankenstein’s descent into madness—suddenly felt less like superstition and more like a warning.
A warning Adam had lived under his entire life.
A soft creak broke the stillness.
I snapped the book shut and slid it beneath a folded cloak just as someone appeared at the door.
Adam.
He hovered in the doorway as though unsure whether he had the right to enter. The mask was still fixed in place, but the rest of him… the rest of him looked undone. His shoulders hunched, his arm not in the sling trembled slightly at his side.
“I knocked,” he murmured, voice frayed. “You didn’t answer.”
“I didn’t hear.” I stood, pulse racing. “What do you need?”
He stepped inside—tentatively, as though crossing the threshold might burn him.
“To—” His gaze drifted to the hastily packed trunk, and I saw pain tense his shoulders. “To ask you not to go.”
I looked away. “I warned you. I cannot live with nothing but locked doors and half-truths.”
He moved closer, but not too close. Never too close. “Adelia… I am trying.”
“No,” I said, turning back to him. “You’re not.”
He flinched.
I froze.
His reaction was small—barely more than a tightening around his eyes, a subtle recoil of his shoulders—but it was unmistakable.
My breath shuddered out of me, half-controlled, half broken. “Adam… I’m trying to understand.” My voice wavered, but not with fear—something deeper, rawer. “I’m trying to understand you. But every time I get close, you—” I swallowed hard. “You pull away.”
His masked head lowered, shame rippling through his posture like a tremor he couldn’t contain. “Adelia… please.”
“No.” The word escaped before I could temper it. “Not this time.”
I took a step forward, fingers tightening at my sides. “Tell me about him. About Victor. What he was doing. What he created. What he did to you.”
He shook his head instantly—violently—like a child refusing a bitter medicine. “I can’t.”
“You won’t,” I corrected sharply.
Silence crackled between us, thick and electric.
My pulse hammered. “Adam, I know you’re hiding something far greater than a few scars. I know there’s more to this than whatever happened to your face. I know Victor Frankenstein wasn’t just some brilliant eccentric who died in a storm. So tell me. Tell me the truth about your father. About what he was pursuing. About what he—”
“Stop.” The word ripped from him, guttural and broken. His hands clawed for the back of a chair, gripping it so hard the wood groaned. “Adelia, please. Don’t ask me that.”
“Why?” My voice rose, brittle, agonized. “Why can’t you tell me anything? Why can’t you trust me?”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“Then make me understand!”
His breathing quickened—ragged, almost pained beneath the mask. Every line of his body screamed panic. “Adelia… if I speak of him… of what he did… of what I am—” His voice cracked. “You’ll look at me like they all did. Like a monster.”
The word clattered between us like a dropped blade.
I stepped closer. “Adam, I’m begging you. Tell me what Victor wanted. Tell me what he achieved. Tell me what happened to you.”
His head jerked back as if the very questions struck him. His voice thinned to a whisper. “I can’t. I— I won’t.”
It felt like the floor dropped out from beneath me.
Something in my chest, pulled taut for so long, finally snapped.
“Then what am I doing here?” I whispered. “Why am I fighting so hard to reach a man who refuses—absolutely refuses—to let himself be reached?”
He flinched again. Harder this time.
My hands trembled as I backed away from him. “I asked for truth, Adam. Just truth. One shred. And you still shut me out.”
“Adelia—”
“No.” My voice shook with fury and heartbreak in equal measure as I slammed my trunk shut and locked it. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep begging my own husband to trust me while he hides behind masks and half-lies and panic.”
His mask turned toward me, desperate, but I pushed past him.
“I’m leaving,” I said, barely above a breath.
The words gutted him.
I saw it—felt it—like a blow to the room itself. His entire frame collapsed inward, as though the structure of him couldn’t bear the weight of that reality.
“Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please don’t.”
But I was already at the door, fingers trembling on the handle, vision blurring with hurt I refused to let him see.
“I can’t stay here,” I said, voice fractured but resolute. “Not like this.”
Then I left him behind.
And the sound that followed— a muffled, strangled noise torn from somewhere deep inside him—was not human grief as I had ever known it.
It was something older.
Something wounded beyond comprehension.
And I didn’t look back.
Chapter 9
Summary:
Adam realizes just how badly he has fucked up.
Enjoy the Byronic- level self pity. This is gothic literature, after all. :)
Chapter Text
Adam
The manor died the moment she walked out of it.
It did not dim or quiet in any ordinary way. It expired.
A breath held. A heartbeat stilled. A soul slipping loose from its last tether.
A strange silence fell first—not the casual hush of unused hallways or the winter breath that sneaks through old mullioned windows, but a silence with weight, direction, intent. It pressed in from every corner, a suffocating stillness that felt almost punitive, as though the house itself condemned me. The walls seemed to cringe away from me. The stones withdrew, ashamed to shelter the thing that had driven her out.
I followed her at a distance, rooted uselessly at the far end of the corridor, a coward observing the aftermath of a disaster he had crafted with his own trembling hands. Her figure—small, steadfast, unbearably resolute—moved with the stiff dignity of someone fighting to keep from shattering. Her shoulders trembled despite her stiff spine. Her fingers clenched the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles blanched. Her braid swung like a pendulum marking the last seconds of something sacred.
The afternoon light struck her as she turned, gilding her once more—one final act of mercy from the world before it stole her away.
I memorized the moment.
And yet, I did not go to her.
I told myself I could not. That stepping forward would only force her to ask again, beg again, and I would fail again—hurt her again. That my presence was poison she deserved to be free of.
But the truth was simpler. Purer. Crueler.
I was afraid.
The front door closed behind her with the heavy, damning finality of a coffin lid. My entire chest hollowed at the sound, as though something vital had been scooped from me with surgical precision.
I moved unsteadily to the foyer window, pulled by instinct or desperation or some primitive ache in the bones I barely considered mine. Outside, the carriage waited. The horses stamped impatiently at the chilled earth. The driver helped her inside, glancing back toward the manor with the expectant unease of someone awaiting a confrontation that never comes.
I stood there.
I watched.
I let her go.
Adelia paused on the carriage step—just once—her head tilting a fraction, as though she sensed the weight of my longing pressing through the window. My breath held sharp in my lungs. My hand lifted, palm flattening to the glass. I was a heartbeat away from pounding on it, from breaking it, from running after her—
But she did not turn fully.
Not enough to see me.
Not enough to save me.
The carriage lurched forward.
I watched as the wheels cracked the gravel like brittle bones. The horses gathered speed; the world blurred. Her silhouette dissolved behind the square of rippled glass. The trees swallowed the road. And then—
She was gone.
A sound tore from my throat—part sob, part beast, part prayer. I slid down the wall, collapsing onto the cold marble, pressing my palms to my skull as if I could keep the splintering pieces from spilling out.
I had not even said goodbye.
I had not even tried.
***
The world dulled after that—bled itself into gray tones, muffled edges, and a numbing sameness that scraped and scraped without relief.
I drifted rather than lived.
I returned to her chambers because they were the only place still faintly warm with her scent—lavender, parchment, and something soft I had never been able to name. By nightfall I lay curled beside her bed like a dog seeking warmth at a dying hearth, my cheek pressed to the floorboards that held the ghost of her footsteps.
The next morning I did not rise.
Her voice looped through my skull, fragmented, rearranged, weaponized by my own guilt.
“I can’t stay here.”
“Not like this.”
“Let me in.”
“Adam… please.”
I whispered answers to the empty room.
I’m sorry.
Don’t go.
I would have shown you. I would have—
Lies. All of it lies.
Because I could have shown her. I could have removed the mask, offered her truth, allowed her into the unlit chambers of myself.
But I didn’t.
And so she left.
Time folded into a knot. Hours became indistinguishable from one another. The light crawled across the room, slow and disinterested. Dust drifted like constellations forming and unforming above me.
My mask remained on through the first night.
And the second.
And the third.
Not out of comfort.
Out of inertia.
Out of a grief so heavy I couldn’t lift a hand to unmake it.
I sobbed until my voice eroded into something hoarse and unfamiliar. Tears dried on the mask’s edges, tightening it against my skin until the metal felt fused to flesh. Still I couldn’t remove it.
One night—I don’t know which; time had degraded into a blurred smear—I lay on the floorboards unable to draw a full breath. My chest constricted, sharp and merciless. Panic rasped up my throat.
I clawed at the mask.
Not to free myself.
To hurt.
My nails scraped grooves into the silver. A petty, pitiful punishment.
I deserved worse.
At dawn on some nameless day, I dragged myself onto her bed. Her pillow still held the faintest trace of lavender. The moment it reached me, my chest ruptured. I buried my face in the fabric, choking on the memories it held, clutching the sheets with white-knuckled desperation.
“Adelia,” I whispered, the word cracking in half. “God—please… just come back.”
Silence answered me.
It always did.
Days dripped by like cold resin. Constance left trays of food untouched at the door. Hunger tugged at me faintly, but my body—my unnatural, indefatigable body—suffered in quiet ways instead: tremors, spinning vision, a creeping hollowness.
Sometimes I wandered the halls, fingers brushing the wallpaper where she once brushed past me. Other times I returned to the foyer window, staring down the road until my eyes burned.
Sometimes I lay on her bed for so long that dust collected in the folds of my shirt.
My dreams became torments.
In some, she stood in a misty field, reaching for me with eyes full of sorrow. In others, she walked away, veil trailing like a severed ribbon. In the worst, she lifted my mask—and screamed.
I woke from that one gasping, nearly tearing the mask free in sheer animal panic.
Nearly.
But cowardice was an old friend.
***
On the fifth day—or sixth—something inside me cracked.
A hairline fracture. A warning.
I sat slumped against her bed, mask askew, vision buzzing at the edges. My limbs were heavy; my thoughts slow.
And then—
“Adam.”
Her voice was sharp enough to slice fog.
I jerked my head up. Constance stood in the doorway, framed by light, looking at me as though I were something she might wring out like a filthy rag.
She strode forward, her anger a palpable heat.
“Oh good,” she snapped, “you’re alive. I was starting to doubt it.”
I tried to speak. My throat rasped.
Her eyes took in everything—my trembling, the dried tears, the unkempt mask—and she let out a sharp inhale.
“Look at yourself,” she said. “Actually—don’t. You’ll faint. And I refuse to drag your massive carcass anywhere.”
I swallowed. “She left.”
“Yes,” Constance said tartly. “We are all aware.”
“I didn’t stop her.”
“No,” she said, kneeling before me. “Because you were too terrified to show your own face. Pathetic.”
Her words struck with precision. I flinched.
Then she did something I had not expected—she reached up, seized the edge of my mask, and tore it off.
I didn’t resist.
She dropped it onto the bed with disgust.
“She begged you, Adam. Begged you to trust her. And you hid.”
“I thought she would be horrified,” I whispered.
“She was horrified,” Constance retorted. “By your cowardice. Not your face.”
Something inside me split wider.
“Constance,” I breathed, “I love her.”
She went still. Then exhaled as though exhausted by the obvious.
“Of course you do. Even the furniture noticed.”
A broken sound escaped me.
Constance’s voice sharpened with heat. “She tried to love you through walls thicker than fortress stone. But you gave her nothing. You are made of pieces, Adam—and still you couldn’t give her one.”
I bowed my head, tears falling.
She sighed—a long, heavy exhale of a woman utterly done with playing nursemaid to a grown man with the emotional consistency of wet parchment.
“Adam,” she said quietly, “she cares for you more than is sensible. More than you deserve.”
My head snapped up.
“You don’t deserve her,” Constance continued, unflinching. “Not as you are. But you could.”
A beat.
“If you choose to.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then learn.”
“How?” I whispered.
Constance picked up the discarded mask, set it beside me like an ultimatum.
“Start by facing yourself,” she said softly. “Then go face her.”
A tremor passed through me.
“She didn’t leave because she stopped wanting you,” Constance continued. “She left to breathe. To think. To stop bleeding herself out trying to reach you.”
Hope flickered weakly in my chest.
Constance saw it. And pounced.
“Do not confuse distance with abandonment,” she said. “You have one chance to fix this. Don't waste it.”
I swallowed. “I miss her.”
“I know,” she said. “Then go to her. Tell her the truth. And this time—let her see you.”
“What if she—”
“No,” Constance cut sharply. “No more what-ifs.”
She reached the door, then paused and looked back.
“Adam,” she warned, “if you bring that mask with you… I will personally throw it into the river.”
She left, door clicking shut.
Silence crept in again.
But this silence felt different. Thinner. Warmer. Expectant.
I stared at the mask.
Then reached for it.
Lifted it.
Turned it in my hands.
The metal was cold. Familiar. A relic of every cowardice I’d ever committed.
With a breath that scraped my throat raw, I set it on Adelia’s pillow.
“I’m coming for you,” I whispered.
A vow.
A prayer.
A rebirth.
For the first time in days, I stood. My legs trembled beneath me, weak from starvation and grief, but I stood.
Because love—terrifying, consuming, ruinous love—dragged me upright by the ribs.
I stepped to her vanity mirror. The face staring back was scarred, asymmetrical, stitched together with a madman's desperation.
Unlovely.
But mine.
And she deserved to see it.
I placed my palm to the mirror.
“I will find you,” I whispered. “And this time… I will not hide.”
Resolve burned through me—painful, cleansing.
And burning things move.
I left her chamber to wash. To dress. To become a man who could fight for her rather than fear her.
Losing her had nearly destroyed me.
Loving her would either save me—
—or finish what the loss had begun.
And either fate was better than this hollow, masked existence.
Chapter 10
Summary:
Adelia is only slightly better at managing her emotions than Adam.
Chapter Text
Adelia
A week can be a brief thing in the eyes of the practical world—seven rotations of the sun, seven quiet midnights, seven dawns tugging light across the horizon. Yet within me, the week since I left Adam’s manor stretched into something cavernous. A season. A lifetime. A hollow corridor echoing with unanswered questions and unresolved grief.
Phillip's estate had always struck me as beautiful, but upon returning, the beauty felt almost cruel. The place was bathed in soft luxury: wide windows draped in silks the color of rosewater, floors polished to a mirror-like sheen, the faint perfume of flowers drifting through hallways brightened by sunlight. Even the shadows here seemed warmer than the dim, brooding corridors of Adam’s home.
This was a house built for laughter. For family. For joy.
And it hurt to be in it.
Every corner reminded me of everything Alice had and everything I did not.
She glided through her domestic world like a swan through still water—graceful, luminous, untouched by the storms that shadowed my marriage. I watched her sometimes from the landing above the central hall as she brushed Clara’s curls into a neat bow, or laughed as Daniel proudly showed her a frog he had snuck inside, or bent to lift little Nora, kissing the toddler’s downy hair with unguarded tenderness.
Alice was the sort of mother one found in illustrated books: patient, radiant, gentle.
And Phillip… God, Phillip was a portrait of everything a woman might reasonably hope for in a husband. His hair was a sunlit gold, his smile so constant that it cast warmth into every room. When he looked at Alice, he looked at her—truly saw her—with the kind of love that softened a man’s entire face.
They spoke in glances.
They moved as though their lives were threaded together at the seams.
They adored one another without hesitation.
I told myself I wasn’t jealous.
Yet jealousy curled bitterly beneath my ribs every time I saw Phillip kiss Alice’s temple, or when she rested her head on his arm during tea as though his presence alone steadied the ground.
I wanted a marriage like theirs.
I wanted… I wanted Adam.
And wanting him hurt.
I missed him with an intensity that felt indecent.
I missed the quiet way he occupied space beside me.
I missed the gentleness he tried to hide beneath the mask of aloofness and fear.
I missed the way his voice softened when he said my name, as though he were afraid it might break in his mouth.
But anger churned just as fiercely.
He had let me go.
He had let me walk out of his home, out of the terrible, hopeful story that was ours, without fighting for me—without breaking his silence, without removing his mask, without giving me anything but a haunted look and trembling hands.
He had chosen fear over me.
And I hated him for it.
I hated how he had sealed himself behind secrets so thick they suffocated us both.
I hated that my love for him had been met with locked doors and trembling refusals.
I hated that I couldn’t hate him entirely.
Some nights here, in the large canopy bed of the guest room Alice had prepared for me with embroidered sheets and delicate flowers on the bedside table, I pressed my palm to the pillow beside mine and imagined his head there, imagined turning to him, imagined the warmth of him, and I felt a hollowness so deep I thought it might swallow me.
Tonight was to be Alice’s summer soirée—a lavish thing she had been planning for months, long before my arrival. And though she tried to convince me I could decline to attend, she had that look in her eyes—the look she had when trying to cure a child’s fever with warm broth and stern affection. “Distraction,” she said. “Laughter. Music. It heals things you don’t expect it to.”
But tonight, I felt too heavy for distraction.
Too fractured for laughter.
Too brittle for music.
Still, I dressed.
Alice lent me a gown of dusky gold satin, its bodice embroidered with pearls fine as teardrops. A beautiful thing. It felt like wearing someone else’s skin. As her maids pinned my hair and draped a necklace of delicate opals across my collarbone, I stared at my reflection and barely recognized the woman who stared back.
The estate came alive as dusk pulled shadows across the sky. Lanterns were lit one by one, glowing like small, captured stars. Servants hurried past with bouquets of white roses, with silver trays stacked high, with bottles of wine so dark they looked like spilled ink. Somewhere deep in the house, musicians began tuning their instruments—sharp plucks, soft chords, a flutter of rehearsal that carried through the halls.
Guests began arriving before the first hour of evening.
Carriages lined the long drive like a procession of jeweled beetles, horses snorting into the warm air. Women in voluminous silk gowns stepped down with practiced grace, their jewels catching the last glimmers of daylight. Men in crisp waistcoats helped them along, murmuring polite compliments as if reading lines from a play.
Inside, the house bloomed with light.
Dozens of candles glittered within glass chandeliers, scattering warm golden patterns across the ceiling. Garlands of white and pink flowers draped over railings, their petals trembling in the subtle breeze created by shifting bodies and dresses swaying.
The quartet played a lively waltz—bright and dizzying.
Guests mingled in clusters, sipping champagne, their conversations floating through the air like ornamental ribbons.
“—the season is simply dreadful this year, dreadfully wet—”
“—she ordered her dress from Vienna, can you imagine the cost?—”
“—Phillip and Alice’s estate is the envy of half the county—”
“—we must do a hunt before autumn sets in—”
All of it felt unbearably shallow.
Their world of comfort and polished manners grated against something raw inside me. Their small inconveniences, their trivial gossip, their empty smiles—how could they speak so lightly, so effortlessly, when my heart felt like a cracked porcelain cup, its fractures widening with each beat?
I kept to the edges of the drawing room, my hands clasped before me so tightly my knuckles ached. The music hurt. The laughter hurt more.
It struck me with sudden clarity that I was jealous not only of Alice’s happiness but of everyone here. They lived without the weight of monstrous secrets. Their husbands laughed and danced and showed their faces without shame. They did not vanish behind locked doors. They did not hide from love.
I swallowed hard, blinking against a sudden burn in my eyes.
I thought of Adam again—his tall silhouette shadowed in the doorway of his manor, watching as my carriage rolled away. His stillness had been so stark, so absolute, that I wondered if he breathed at all.
My anger flared.
My sorrow twisted.
My longing hollowed me out all over again.
I needed air.
The ballroom felt like a cage—its chandeliers too bright, its music too sharp, its people too loud, too well-dressed, too oblivious.
I murmured excuses to no one in particular and slipped around a velvet curtain, down a quiet corridor lined with portraits of Phillip's ancestors, through a door half-hidden by a silk drape—out into the night.
The transformation was immediate.
Silence embraced me like cool hands.
The night breathed softly, pulling threads of moonlight across the lawn. Dew clung to the grass, turning the earth to a tapestry of silver. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron posts along the winding garden path, their flames wavering in the gentle breeze, casting moving shadows against trimmed hedges and blooming roses.
Somewhere far off, the music was muted to a faint ripple, like hearing a party from underwater.
I inhaled deeply, letting the warm air fill my lungs.
The world felt clearer here.
More honest.
More bearable.
I stepped off the veranda and walked toward the gardens, the sound of my slippers muffled against the damp ground. The scent of earth and night-blooming flowers washed over me.
Under the towering birch at the garden’s edge, I pressed my back to the bark and closed my eyes.
I wished—God, how I wished—that Adam had come after me. That he had chosen me over his fear. That he had let me see him fully, without the veil, without the secrecy, without the walls that kept him a stranger even as my heart began to shape itself around him.
I wished he had reached for me.
I wished he had—
A branch snapped.
My eyes flew open.
The sound came from the shadows beyond the lantern light—deep within the tree line.
Heavy.
Measured.
Large.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Hello?” My voice trembled, the word barely more than exhale.
Silence.
Then—
A shape moved.
A massive silhouette detached itself from the dark. Broad shoulders, imposing height, a hood casting the figure’s face into deep shade. The lanterns flickered, as though reacting to the presence of something immense.
I stepped back instinctively, heart thundering.
“Who’s there?”
The figure hesitated at the edge of the light, chest rising with labored breath.
And then he stepped forward.
My breath left me.
Only one man carried himself with that careful, heavy restraint, as though each movement threatened to shatter the world around him. Only one man seemed to war with himself simply by standing still.
My voice broke as it left me.
“Adam?”
He stopped, half-illuminated, half-shadow.
His hand—gloved, shaking—lifted to his hood.
Slowly, with deliberate dread, he pushed it back.
For a long heartbeat, I simply stared.
The hood fell back, and moonlight touched his features—features I had imagined a hundred different ways, but never like this. A small gasp escaped me, brittle and involuntary, as the truth of him struck all at once.
Adam’s face was a map of scars.
Deep, pale lines crossed his forehead in twin arcs, one longer than the other, as though two lives had once tried to claim the same space. Another scar ran down the length of his cheek in a jagged path, fading just before it reached the corner of his mouth. A thinner one traced over the bridge of his nose, like an old, half-remembered wound. The scars were not gruesome; they were simply there, woven into his skin like threads of silver.
His browline—strong, sculpted—was strangely bare, devoid of brows entirely. The smoothness of that space should have made him look unnatural, but somehow it only gave his gaze more gravity, drawing me straight to his eyes.
Those eyes.
I had seen them before, of course, through the slits of his mask—dark brown, deep as forest earth after rain. But unframed by silver and shadow, revealed fully, they were devastating. His lashes were thick and dark, almost too dark against the paleness of his skin, creating the illusion of softness around a gaze that held nothing but fear and yearning.
His jawline was strong but not symmetrical—one side slightly sharper, the other subtly rounded, as though shaped by different hands or different intentions. Yet the unevenness only added to his presence, to the sense that he was a man assembled from stories rather than born of them.
And his mouth—
My breath stumbled.
His lips were full, darker than the rest of his face, almost bruised in hue, as if permanently stained by something more vivid than blood. They were parted slightly, trembling with the breath he hadn’t yet released.
His skin—what wasn’t crossed by scars—had the pale smoothness of carved marble. Not the coldness of it, but the beauty. The stillness. The sense of something ancient and enduring.
He looked like no man I had ever seen.
He looked like no man anyone had ever seen.
And yet…
He was beautiful.
Shock fluttered in my ribs, sharp and breathless. I had braced myself for monstrosity—for some horror worthy of his fear, of his secrecy, of the way he flinched whenever I drew too close. But what stood before me was not a monster. What stood before me was a tragedy sculpted into a man, a face marked by suffering and strength in equal parts.
And as I looked at him—really looked—the shock softened. Shifted.
Something warm curled in my chest, something I hadn’t entirely expected.
Attraction.
It unfurled slowly, like a dawn spreading across a horizon, gentle but impossible to ignore. My throat tightened, my pulse stumbling into an unfamiliar, unsettling rhythm. I wanted to touch him—trace the lines of his scars, feel the warmth of his skin, cradle the face he had hidden from me as though it were something shameful.
Why?
Why had he concealed this?
Why had he feared this?
Why had he believed this face—this strange, striking, heartbreakingly human face—was something I could not bear to see?
He looked at me as though awaiting a scream that never came.
As though he expected revulsion, disgust, terror.
But all I felt was a kind of awe.
A deep, aching tenderness that caught me completely off guard.
“Adam…” I whispered.
His eyes flickered—pain, hope, dread—all warring within the depths of those dark irises. In the back of my mind, I noticed that his left iris was larger than his right.
And I realized, with a force that nearly knocked the breath from me: I was desperately in love with Adam Frankenstein.
And his voice—oh, his voice—when he spoke my name was soft, shattered, reverent.
“Adelia.”
The sound of it unraveled me.
Because he looked as though this week had destroyed him.
As though he had followed the pieces of me across counties and forests to gather them in trembling hands.
And the world held its breath.
I stepped toward him slowly, as if crossing a threshold I could never return from. The grass softened my stride, but Adam still flinched with every step, as though my nearness were something dangerous. Or perhaps… something he feared losing control under.
“Adelia…” he breathed, my name fracturing in his throat. His hands were clenched at his sides. He wouldn’t look at me.
I stopped mere inches from him, close enough that the edge of his cloak brushed my gown. His head remained bowed, long brown tresses of unbound hair shadowing the face he had been so certain I would recoil from.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice nearly breaking. “I’m so—god, Adelia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t trust you. I should have. I just… I didn’t know how.”
The words trembled out of him like something torn loose. He stepped back, retreating, but I moved with him instinctively, refusing to let him flee behind that wall of shame again.
“Adam.” I said his name softly, but it seemed to strike him like a blow.
He forced himself to look up. The effort showed in the tightness of his jaw, the way his shoulders curved inward, bracing—not for my touch, but for my rejection. His dark eyes flickered desperately over my face, then fell again as though he couldn’t bear the answer he might find there.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. It was wrong. I just—” His breath caught. “I couldn’t stay away from you.”
Something inside my chest cracked wide open at that.
Slowly, I reached up. His breath stilled. I felt the tension radiating from him—fear, guilt, longing—but he didn’t step back again.
My fingertips touched his cheek.
He gasped quietly, as if the contact hurt, yet he leaned into it before he could stop himself. His skin felt cool beneath my hand, but there was a faint, trembling warmth there too—life, emotion, vulnerability.
I traced the scar along his cheekbone, the raised line that told a story he had never trusted me with. I felt him shudder beneath my touch.
“Please don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t pretend. You don’t need to comfort me.”
“I’m not pretending.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. I brushed my thumb along the jagged scar at his temple, then over the bridge of his nose. “You’re beautiful, Adam.”
He let out a soft, broken sound—one that made my throat sting with sympathy. A tear welled and fell before he could blink it away.
“Adelia… don’t lie to me,” he pleaded. “Not about this.” His teeth were white, straight, perfect.
“I’m not lying.” I stepped closer, letting my other hand cup the side of his jaw. His lips parted in shock, breath shallow. “I’ve never lied to you.”
A second tear traced down his other cheek. His breathing grew uneven, his lips trembling as if he was fighting every instinct he had to pull away.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I don’t understand how you can look at me and say that.”
“Then let me show you.”
I lifted his face gently toward mine.
He stared at me—truly stared—eyes wide, almost terrified. His hands hovered beside me as if he longed to touch me but didn’t dare. His mouth quivered, scattering my heartbeat.
“Adelia…” he breathed again, barely audible. “I can’t—”
But I wouldn’t let him finish.
I rose onto my toes and pulled him down into a kiss.
He made a raw, strangled sound against my lips—shock, sorrow, relief all breaking free at once. He kissed me back tentatively at first, then with a desperate, trembling hunger that made my knees weaken. His hands finally settled at my waist, cautious, as if holding something too precious to risk breaking.
Tears slid between us. Some were his. Some, I realized dimly, were mine.
He kept trying to pull back—to apologize again, to tell me I shouldn’t want him—but I held him tighter, kissing him with all the certainty he couldn’t find in himself.
Because for the first time, I understood with devastating clarity that I did want him.
And for the first time, I could tell that Adam began—just barely—to believe it.
Chapter 11
Summary:
Sorry guys. But it will get better. I promise. You guys are in for a few chapters of good feelings here soon.
Also I've been awake for 27 hours straight just writing, if there's grammar errors shhh no there's not.
I'm gonna go pass out now.
<3
Chapter Text
Adelia
The world seemed impossibly still after our lips finally parted—so still that I could hear the soft tremor of Adam’s breath, the faint shiver running through him like he had never been touched before. His forehead rested against mine, and for a long, fragile moment, neither of us moved.
Warmth spread through me—slow at first, then rushing so fiercely that my skin felt too small to contain it. Something inside me melted and reshaped itself entirely, as if the kiss had unlocked some hidden heat I had been too afraid to name.
I wanted him. Not gently, not distantly.
I wanted him in a way that curled low in my stomach and ached between my ribs.
His hand lifted as though he meant to caress my cheek, then hovered, trembling. He looked at me like I was something he didn’t think he was allowed to touch.
“Adelia,” he whispered, voice raw. “Will you… will you come home?”
The question was so tentative, so vulnerable, that a knot formed in my throat. My heartbeat thundered. I could still taste him—salt and warmth and something uniquely his.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Adam, yes. Of course.”
Relief broke over him so powerfully he nearly doubled forward, shoulders shaking with a sound that was almost a sob. I reached for him instinctively, fingers finding his. He startled when our palms met—then tightened his grip with a hunger that mirrored my own. His hand was enormous around mine, but gentle, so gentle it made my chest ache.
I leaned back against the pale trunk of the birch tree, breath unsteady, and he stepped forward as though pulled by a tether between us. Our hands remained tangled, his thumb brushing the back of my knuckles in slow, reverent strokes that made warmth gather low in my belly.
My body felt too aware—of him, of the night air, of every inch of space between us that I wanted to erase.
I had never been looked at like this.
I had never felt like this—lit from within.
I was about to pull him toward me again, to kiss him until the rest of the world fell away, when the manor doors burst open behind us.
Music spilled out first—bright, obnoxious, glittering noise—and then a wave of voices, laughter, silk rustling. A flood of guests spilled onto the terrace in a drunken, glittering tide.
For a heartbeat, none of them noticed us.
I felt Adam tense, his hand tightening painfully around mine. His chest rose and fell too fast—panic blooming. The instinctive terror of a hunted animal.
And then—
A woman screamed.
It was shrill and piercing enough to silence half the crowd. Faces swung toward us. Another scream followed. Then another. A man cursed loudly. Someone shouted for Phillip. More cries—horrified, hysterical.
“God above—what is that—”
“Monster!”
“Keep it away from the ladies!”
Adam stumbled back as though struck. My hand slipped from his fingers.
“No—no, please,” I begged, reaching for him again. “Stop this! He isn’t—”
But no one listened. Panic spread like fire through dry brush.
A broad-shouldered man shoved his way forward—one of Phillip’s hunting acquaintances, already red-faced from drink. He planted himself between me and Adam, chest heaving.
“Stay away from her!” he snarled at Adam. “Do you hear me? Back away, fiend!”
“Don’t,” I cried, shoving past him. “Don’t you dare speak to him like—”
Adam lifted his hands in surrender, shaking his head rapidly, eyes wide with terror. “I—I’m not—please—”
“Monster!” someone shrieked again.
The man drew his pistol.
“No!” I screamed.
Adam froze.
The man didn’t.
Four gunshots tore the night apart, so fast I didn't have time to blink. Adam didn't have time to react.
The first hit Adam square in the chest — a deep, horrific thud that made his whole body jerk.
The second punched into him just below the first, tearing flesh and fabric with a wet snap.
The third struck his ribs; he folded violently, a strangled, breathless sound escaping him.
The fourth hit his throat.
A spray of blood arced into the lantern light, bright and sickening. Adam staggered backward as if pulled by invisible hands, his eyes wide with shock, his lips shaping my name but producing only a gurgling choke.
He collapsed to his knees.
Then to the earth.
“Adam!” My scream tore from my throat raw and wild. “ADAM!”
I hit the ground beside him so hard my palms scraped. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything except the horrifying warmth of his blood soaking into my skirts, pooling beneath him.
He was twitching, gasping, making that wet, rattling noise — neither breath nor voice, only struggle.
I rolled him onto his back, hands trembling uncontrollably. Blood bubbled from the torn hole in his neck, spraying onto my trembling hands as I tried to stop the bleeding.
His eyes fluttered, unfocused, his lips parted as he struggled to speak. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, running down his chin in dark, terrible streaks.
His lips worked, struggling to form words.
“I—I…” he choked, the sound catching on blood. “Ah—”
“No no no no no—Adam, stay with me, please—” My hands pressed desperately against the wound in his neck, but blood spilled between my fingers, hot and slick and endless. “Don’t leave me—don’t you dare leave me—”
He tried again.
His throat moved. His mouth formed shapes.
But the words dissolved into a bubbling rasp.
His hand twitched, reaching for me, trembling violently — and then fell.
The light in his eyes faltered.
“No—no, Adam, look at me—look at me!” I sobbed, gripping his face with blood-streaked hands. “Don’t you dare—don’t you dare—”
His chest rose once.
Fell.
Rose again, barely.
The third attempt at breath was only a faint flutter, like air slipping through torn lungs.
Then stillness.
A terrible, final stillness.
“ADAM!” The scream tore from me like something breaking. “ADAM! PLEASE—”
He didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe.
I folded over him, clutching his body, rocking him as my sobs ripped through the night.
Someone behind me gasped. Others whispered in horror.
“Fetch a doctor—”
“My God, he’s dying—”
“What is he?”
“He is my husband!” I shrieked, voice breaking into sobs. “He’s a man—he’s a man and you SHOT him—”
The shooter stood frozen, pistol limp at his side, face pale. “I—I was protecting you—”
“From WHAT?” I roared. “From my own husband?”
Phillip and Alice burst from the doors, pushing through the crowd.
“Adelia!” Alice shrieked. “What—oh God—”
Phillip’s face drained of color. He seized the shooter by the collar. “You bloody fool! What have you done?”
“He was—he looked—”
“Unhand him!” I screamed at Phillip, hysterical. “No—restrain him! Lock him in the cellar—I don’t care—just don’t let him leave!”
Phillip shoved the man into the arms of several other guests. “Hold him. Hard. If he moves, break his arms.”
The crowd murmured in shock but obeyed. The shooter protested weakly before being dragged away.
But none of it mattered.
Not the whispers.
Not the lanterns.
Not the music that had finally gone silent.
All that mattered was Adam’s stillness.
His chest no longer rose. His blood soaked through my gown, warm against my legs. His eyes were half-lidded, glassy. His mouth parted in an unfinished word.
“Adam,” I whispered, voice shattering as I gathered him against me, cradling his weight across my lap. “Please… please breathe—please, just one breath—”
I pressed my ear to his chest.
Nothing.
My breath hitched. The world tilted.
“No,” I choked. “No, no, no.” I rocked over him, sobbing so hard my ribs ached. “You can’t—not now—not after everything—Adam—Adam—please—”
I screamed his name again—hoarse, broken, full of a grief so brutal it felt like my bones were splintering from the inside.
He did not answer.
The night seemed to fold in around us.
And I, drenched in his blood, holding the man I had only just realized I loved, felt something in me tear open so violently that I wondered if I’d ever recover.
Because I had lost him.
***
I don’t know how long I screamed.
It might have been seconds. It might have been hours. The world had shrunken to the weight of Adam’s body in my arms—the unnatural stillness of him, the warmth of his blood slowly cooling against my skin.
Somewhere behind me, Alice’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding in a way I had never heard from her.
“Inside! All of you—inside, now! Phillip, help me—”
Phillip took up the call, barking orders with the clipped precision of a man used to being obeyed. “Herd them back to the hall—quickly! No one leaves, no one touches the body, and somebody fetch the constable!”
Their voices were distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears. The crowd was dissolving into frightened murmurs and jittery movements, aristocrats pale and trembling as they stumbled back toward the manor. Some covered their eyes. Others pointed at Adam’s blood-soaked form as if the sight alone had wounded them.
Two men approached—Phillip among them—hesitating before touching Adam. His body was heavy now, slack in a way that made something inside me splinter. They lifted him carefully, one beneath his shoulders, the other beneath his knees.
“Adelia,” Phillip murmured gently. “Let us take him inside.”
I refused to let go until the last possible moment. My fingers left smears of blood on Alice's sleeves as she gently pried me away.
Then I followed them, staggering like a ghost, my hands crimson, my gown ruined. Alice caught my elbow when my knees buckled and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close.
“It’s all right—oh, sweetheart—come on, we’ll take care of him,” she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the lie.
The party decorations blurred—the lanterns, the garlands, the glittering remnants of what had been a celebration all devolved into meaningless colors. My breath hitched in uneven sobs as we crossed the threshold of the manor.
The world smelled of perfume and wine and smoke.
Adam’s blood drowned all of it.
They carried him to a guest room off the east corridor—a quiet chamber with cream-colored drapes and a canopy bed untouched by the frivolity of the evening. The mattress dipped under his weight as they laid him down, his head lolling to the side.
He looked wrong that way.
Too still.
Too quiet.
I stumbled to the bedside and immediately crawled onto the mattress, gathering him into my arms again before anyone could stop me.
Alice tried. She stepped forward uncertainly. “Adelia—darling—”
But I clutched him tighter, my fingers circling his cold wrist. “No. No, don’t take him away. Don’t you dare.”
Alice backed away, tears filling her eyes. Phillip stood behind her, jaw tight, face ashen. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, though he never looked away from Adam.
The door creaked open, and Grace rushed in, her apron darkened from sprinting down the hall. Her dry humor—her constant armor—was nowhere on her face. She froze at the sight on the bed.
“Oh… my poor girl.” Her voice cracked.
I couldn’t look at her. I bent over Adam’s chest, pressing my forehead to the fabric that covered it, breathing him in like it might tether him to me.
“He’s gone,” I whispered. The words tasted like ash. “He’s gone, Grace.”
She came to the side of the bed, placing a trembling hand on my shoulder. “What… who...?" Her eyes widened. "Is that...?"
I lifted my head, choking on another sob. My fingers brushed Adam’s cheek, streaking blood across his marble skin.
“Adam.” I gasped.
Grace’s lips parted in horror. “Oh, Adelia…”
“They didn't listen. I tried to tell them. And now—now it doesn’t matter because he’s dead—he’s dead and—and I—”
My voice crumbled.
Grace leaned closer, trying to gather my hands into hers. “You need to wash, dear. You’re shaking. Come—let me help you change. There is nothing more to be done now.”
“No.” I recoiled violently, clutching Adam’s body as if they meant to take him from me. “No. I’m not leaving him.”
“Adelia—”
“NO!” My voice cracked so loudly it echoed against the walls. “I am not leaving my husband. Do not ask me again.”
Grace swallowed hard. The lines of age on her face seemed deeper in that moment, sorrow settling into them like shadows.
“I won’t force you,” she whispered.
Phillip approached cautiously, as though nearing a wounded animal. “Adelia… we can’t do anything more for him tonight."
“Then I will sit here until morning.” I pressed my cheek to Adam’s unmoving chest, fingers curling into the fabric over his sternum. “I will not abandon him. Not again.”
Alice stepped forward, tears streaking her powdered cheeks. She rested her hand in my hair, stroking gently even as her own voice trembled.
“Then we’ll stay with you,” she whispered.
“No,” I managed. “Please. Just… leave me. I need to be alone with him.”
Alice hesitated, torn. Phillip guided her toward the door.
“We’re just outside,” he said softly. “If you need anything—anything at all—call for us.”
Grace lingered last. Her fingers brushed my shoulder once more.
“My brave girl,” she murmured. “My sweet girl. I am so sorry.”
Then she left me.
The door shut with a quiet, devastating click.
Silence flooded the room. The kind that felt like an open wound.
I lay down beside Adam, my body curling instinctively toward his, as though my warmth could call him back. I rested my head on his chest.
Nothing.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
Not even the faint rise of air.
“Please,” I whispered to the hollow stillness. “Please wake up. Please don’t leave me. I don’t care about the mask. I don’t care about the scars. I don’t care who you were or what your father did. I love you. I love you—do you hear me?”
Only silence answered.
Tears soaked the front of his torn, blood-slick shirt as my sobbing slowed from violent to exhausted. My body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle drawn taut with grief until it all began to unravel.
My fingers found his hand. I laced our fingers together, clinging to the lifeless weight of them.
“Come home,” I whispered again, voice breaking. “You asked me to come home. Please don’t leave me alone.”
Darkness pressed at the edges of my vision, exhaustion dragging me down. I fought it as long as I could, as if sleep would be an act of betrayal.
But grief is a heavy thing, and sorrow steals strength as surely as time.
My eyes closed against my will.
Still clinging to him—head against the unmoving quiet of his chest, my body curled protectively around his—I finally slipped into unconsciousness, tears drying against skin that would never grow warm beneath me.
I fell asleep believing I would wake to a world without him.
Chapter 12
Summary:
Dyslexicwordsmith presents: finally one that doesn't feel like getting punched in the face.
For now.
Chapter Text
Adam
I surfaced into consciousness like a man dragged upward through deep water—slow, disoriented, heavy—my mind clawing toward awareness with aching reluctance. The world above was too bright, too loud, too real. I had lingered in the dark a long time. Longer than I should have. It had been years since my last death and subsequent resurrection. Apparently, my body was no longer used to it.
I did not dream in those intervals between death and the violent wrenching back into life. There was no warmth, no thought, no memory—no Adelia. Only a vast, empty hush. A place that knew me well.
I had always suspected it was where things like me were meant to stay, but never could. A purgatory of formless black, neither Heaven nor Hell. A void for mistakes.
But something always pulled me out of it. This time, however, it was not God. Not fate. Something… softer.
The first sensation that reached me was weight.
Warm weight.
Her.
Adelia.
Her presence pressed into me like an anchor, as if she had thrown her whole small body across mine to hold me against the earth, refusing to release me to whatever darkness had claimed me.
Her cheek lay over my heart—my chest?—I wasn’t sure which part of me she rested on. My awareness rolled in and out like an unsteady tide. But I knew her. My body knew her even before my returning mind did, before sensation reached my limbs or breath returned to my lungs.
My next thought was pain.
Not ordinary pain—the kind that flared and then receded. This was pain built into me, the pain of sinew pulling itself back together, of nerves reigniting, of torn flesh sealing itself in a frantic, unnatural stitch. It was a heat so sharp it left a trail of fire along my throat.
Then—
A sound.
Her voice.
“Adam… please…”
It pierced the fog instantly. It rewired me. If my soul had been drifting aimlessly between worlds, that single plea tethered me back to my body with brutal certainty.
My eyes snapped open.
The world slammed into place.
Sensation. Sight. Breath. Memories. A crush of images layered over each other until I could not tell past from present. The first thing I truly saw was her—Adelia—curled over me, her slight form trembling. Her hair spilled down like a curtain around my face. Her tears were wet against my neck—my whole skin felt scorching where her tears touched it.
A candle guttered low on the table beside us, throwing an anemic circle of honey-colored light that barely cut through the surrounding dark. Shadows twitched along the walls, shivering with every flicker.
Beyond the door came muffled voices.
Alice and Phillip.
Grieving for me.
For a long, suspended moment, I simply stared at the ceiling above her head. It was stained, cracked, fragile—like the world itself felt too brittle to hold what was happening.
I wanted to speak. To reassure her. To wipe her tears away. To tell her I was here, alive—or at least as close to alive as I ever was. But my throat was still knitting itself together, raw and half-sealed. My mouth filled with the metallic taste of old blood. My limbs lay like useless weights at my sides.
So I did the first thing my body would allow.
My hand twitched.
A spark of motion—barely noticeable. Then another. The numb heaviness of death slid off my bones one inch at a time.
Her breath caught. Inhaled sharply. Trembling.
“Adam?”
Her voice broke around my name, a fragile, hopeful whisper that nearly undid me.
My chest convulsed around a ragged inhale. Air grated through my throat, hot and sharp like fire going in and knives clawing out. My lungs seized, spasming with the force of their own return.
Then I coughed.
A harsh, cracking expulsion that ripped dried blood from my throat and spilled it onto the pillow beside her. Dark, rusty flecks scattered across the linen.
She cried out—not fear exactly, but something tangled, breathless, and aching. Wonder. Horror. Relief so fierce it bordered on agony. Her hand hovered over my face for a moment as though she feared touching me might undo whatever miracle she thought she’d witnessed.
I tried to reach for her. Tried to lift my hand, cup her cheek, brush the tears from her trembling lashes. But my limbs were slow, clumsy. They remembered death too intimately. They weren’t yet convinced the body was worth returning to.
Beneath my skin, the tearing, crawling sensation continued—veins reconnecting like vines, skin knitting with unnatural haste. It always felt wrong, even to me, as though some invisible force stitched me back together with crude, desperate fingers.
I hated that I could feel it.
I hated more that she could see it.
Impossible, I thought, even though I knew it wasn’t. Not for me. Not for what I was.
She witnessed the horror in real time. I watched it reflected in her wide, tear-bright eyes—horror, awe, and something like faith twisted together. It made my stomach knot.
I didn’t want to be looked at like that. Not by her.
If she was to look at me with anything extraordinary, I wanted it to be love, not reverence. Wonder I could not bear. Fear even less.
Finally, my mouth found shape enough to form a single word.
“…Adelia?” I rasped.
My voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
She broke.
“Adam! Adam, you’re alive—you’re alive—”
Her cry cracked open the world.
She flung her arms around me, her sobs shaking through my still-stiff body. She kissed me—my brow, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—uncaring of the blood or the coldness still clinging to my skin. She touched my face with such desperate tenderness that my vision blurred.
If I had been able, I would have wrapped her up and never let her go.
But my arms still lagged behind intention, like echoes of themselves. I raised one a few inches, then another. They trembled. They felt like they belonged to someone else.
Before I could gather myself enough to speak again—
The door burst open.
“Adelia!” Alice’s voice trembled, sharp with panic. “Darling, are you—”
She froze.
Phillip, right behind her, stumbled to a halt as though struck by lightning.
The silence that followed was not truly silent. It was a vacuum—a crushing, suffocating absence of sound. I had felt such silences before. They always meant danger.
Their eyes traveled over me, widening. Disbelief etched into their features like deep cracks spreading across ice.
Alice whispered, “No. No… that cannot be…”
Phillip’s voice cracked. “Adelia… my God, is this—are you… seeing what I’m seeing?”
I blinked at them, still dazed. Still feeling my skin tighten as it knitted. Still aware of the heavy press of Adelia’s body against mine—her warmth the only thing grounding me against the rising swirl of panic.
Alice’s hands shook violently. “He—he was cold. I checked— I checked myself. There was… there was no pulse. I felt nothing. I felt nothing.”
I wanted to tell her she had been right.
There had been no pulse.
There never was, after I died. That hollow stillness always preceded the violent pull back to existence. A cycle without end. A reminder that the heavenly Creator whose name they invoked had never claimed me.
I was fashioned from arrogance and ambition, not divine design.
In the past, after too many resurrections, I came to the realization that the darkness kept spitting me out because neither Heaven nor Hell wanted to house a creature so imperfect.
Phillip’s voice rose, cracking under the strain. “That wound went clean through. I— There is no physician, no surgeon alive who could have mended that. Not in minutes. Not in hours. Not ever.”
His gaze dropped to my throat.
Instinctively, I lifted a hand to touch the place where the bullet had torn through me. Smooth. Seamless. A faint heat still radiated from the freshly closed skin.
If they looked at it too closely, they would see the wrongness. The too-perfect seal. The almost wax-like smoothness of skin that had no right to exist.
Phillip’s face shifted—fascination first, then slowly, inevitably, fear.
Alice pressed trembling hands to her mouth. “Adelia… did you… did you do something? Did you pray? Did you call for someone? Did something answer you?”
“I didn’t,” Adelia said softly. “I only held him.”
Phillip shook his head violently. “That’s not enough. Not for this.”
He stared at me as though trying to force the world back into something understandable, something safe.
“In the name of God… I don’t understand. I don’t— How is he alive?”
“I… don’t know,” I said.
It was the only safe truth I owned.
Alice’s voice rose to a fevered whisper. “Phillip, the reverend spoke of miracles last Sunday… about the dead rising in Scripture…”
Phillip barked a laugh—sharp, choked, almost a sob. “Alice, Scripture is metaphor. Poetry. Not— Not this. Not him.”
“He’s breathing!” Alice cried, tears streaking her face. “Phillip, look at him! He’s breathing! He’s speaking!”
“People don’t just—just get up after taking bullets to the throat!”
“Unless God willed it!”
Their panic spiraled, clashing like two storms colliding—fear twisting itself into faith, faith twisting into terror. Every breath they took felt like it inched closer to the truth than they knew, and yet still swerved wildly away from it.
Adelia’s fingers tightened around mine, grounding me once more. She tilted her head toward me, silently begging me not to speak. She wanted to protect me. She didn’t even know what from.
The worst part was how badly I wanted to let her.
The room finally slipped into stunned quiet.
Phillip exhaled shakily. “God help me… I have no other explanation.”
Alice whispered, trembling, “It’s a miracle. A true miracle.”
Phillip swallowed, throat bobbing. He avoided my eyes as though meeting them head-on might bring about some sort of sacrilege.
“If it isn’t…” he said hoarsely, “then I don’t want to know what else it could be.”
He stepped forward hesitantly—slow, reverent, as though approaching a holy statue or a corpse. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach for me or recoil.
“Right then,” Phillip said, voice still shaking. “Come, lad. Let’s—let’s get you washed and find you clothes not soaked in… death.”
He reached out to help me up.
I let him.
It was easier that way. Easier to let him believe this was divine, not monstrous. Easier to play the part of miracle rather than abomination.
My legs trembled beneath me—not from resurrection, but from fear. Fear of what they might see if they stopped long enough to question. If they touched the wrong part of me and realized I was stitched together from at least two dozen sources. If they saw the scars running like rivers across my body, too many wounds for any man to have survived.
But I was no man.
Before Phillip guided me out the door, I turned back toward Adelia.
She looked at me—soft, breathless, eyes full of something too tender for me to bear.
I wanted to fall to my knees in front of her.
Later, her look said silently.
Later, I answered her the same way. I will tell you what I can.
Alice rushed to Adelia’s side, supporting her trembling frame as Phillip led me—half-stumbling—down the hall. Each step felt foreign, as though my body were still figuring out how to exist again.
Phillip said little. He didn’t need to. The quiet between us was thick, heavy with the weight of shaken faith.
He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye—as though he expected me to vanish again. As though he wasn’t entirely convinced I was real.
When we reached the washroom, the lantern light flickered across the basin, catching on the dried blood caked across my throat. Phillip swallowed hard.
“Sit,” he said roughly.
I obeyed.
He gathered a cloth, hesitated, then handed it to me instead. “I… don’t think I can—well. You’ll manage.”
I wiped at the blood. It smeared, dark and viscous. The water in the basin turned pink.
Phillip exhaled shakily. “I watched men die in the war. Watched men bleed out from smaller wounds than that. Watched surgeons give up on men with more breath left in them than you had.”
I said nothing.
“I’m not easily shaken,” he continued. “But that…” His voice trailed off. “That was something.”
Something.
Yes.
But not the something he thought.
Grace arrived with clothes—borrowed, too small. She avoided looking at my neck.
Phillip tried not to laugh when I tore a seam merely lifting my arm.
But beneath that brief strain of humor lived fear.
And beneath that fear were questions I could never afford to answer.
Chapter 13
Summary:
Adelia learns reading comprehension.
Chapter Text
Adelia
I had not realized, until the moment Adam disappeared through the doorway on Phillip’s unsteady arm, how hollow a body could feel while still sitting upright. His soft, lingering glance over his shoulder—half-apology, half-plea—lodged itself in the fragile cage of my ribs, and then he was gone, swallowed by the dim corridor.
The door clicked shut.
And the world collapsed.
Alice fell to her knees beside me with a sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. Her hands—warm, trembling—cupped my face. I hadn’t even realized I was crying until her thumbs swept the tears away.
“Adelia, sweet girl—look at me, look at me.” Her voice quavered with awe, disbelief, motherly panic. “He's alive. He's whole. My darling, he survived the impossible.”
I shook my head, babbling uselessly—about my torn dress, the blood, the mess, the shame of it. But she silenced me with a firm, affectionate tut, brushing hair out of my eyes as though I were a child waking from a nightmare.
“Clothes can be washed.” Her forehead pressed briefly to mine. “Dresses can be replaced. But you—” her voice broke, “you, my dear, cannot.”
I could only stare at her for a moment, her blurry outline slowly sharpening through the haze of shock. She guided me up, a steady arm around my waist, and I leaned into her without meaning to. The manor was too quiet—shivering, listening, as though even the walls were holding their breath.
She ushered me gently into my chamber. My legs wobbled beneath me, as though the solid floor had become uncertain terrain. Her movements were brisk but kind: fetching water, wringing cloths, brushing tangles from my hair, cleaning dried blood from my skin with the tenderness of someone tending a miracle.
A miracle.
That word hovered in the air between us like a candle flame, unsteady but bright.
When she left, promising breakfast and rest, the door shut with a finality that sent a shiver through me.
Silence returned.
Not empty—never empty again—but charged. Waiting.
I lifted trembling fingers to my lips. He had said my name when he woke—barely a whisper, raw and broken—but I remembered it perfectly. I remembered the way his hand had sought mine. The way he kissed me with newfound breath. The way he clung, desperate and disbelieving, as though he had returned from the void still certain he did not deserve to come back.
Joy swelled too full in my chest, painful, dizzying.
Adam lived.
I had him back.
And I would never again squander a moment of the life we might share—should he want it, should he accept that he deserved such a thing at all.
I pressed both palms to my chest to steady myself.
And then—
A small, intrusive whisper wormed its way into the fragile bliss.
Go to your trunk.
My heart jolted.
My gaze flickered to the far corner of the chamber. The trunk sat innocently beneath the window, half-tucked under the draped sill. I had not opened it in days—not since I’d hidden something inside it that frightened me more than anything in the waking world.
My feet moved before I consciously decided to stand.
Each step felt like walking through cold, rising fog. My fingers trembled when they reached for the latch. I nearly withdrew them—nearly pretended nothing called me here.
But truth has a magnetic pull, even when it terrifies.
The lid creaked open.
A faint scent drifted up—cedarwood, parchment, something older. Something that had once belonged to a man whose brilliance had corroded into madness.
Victor Frankenstein’s journal.
My breath caught. My pulse thudded loudly in my ears.
I stared down at the leather-bound volume, its edges cracked from years of wear, the burned edges black and forboding, its pages bright with a feverish, shaky script I had not let myself read fully until now. It lay nestled beneath gowns and trinkets like a viper hidden in cloth.
Slowly, I lifted it.
The weight of it settled into my hands like a confession.
I sat on the bed, spine straightening as the mattress dipped beneath me, and opened the journal to the earliest entry.
And I read.
Really read.
Not skimming this time. Not avoiding the parts that sliced too deeply.
The horror unfolded gradually, methodically—written by a man who had convinced himself that the pursuit of godhood excused any sin.
To conquer death, one must first understand its structure. The body is nothing more than material, faulty but improvable. A machine whose parts may be replaced. Even enhanced.
I swallowed hard.
Page after page illustrated diagrams—not artistic but functional, emotionless. Notes on sinew, bone, electricity, stolen flesh. Anatomical sketches annotated with clinical detachment. Experiments using cadavers from battlefields, from execution sites, from the unclaimed dead.
If I can control the cessation of life, Victor wrote, I can reverse it.
And then—
If the parts can be made pristine, the whole may surpass the original man.
I shut my eyes. My breaths came shallow, unsteady.
I had known, intellectually, what his work implied. But seeing the details—seeing the triumph in his handwriting—seeing the cruelty worn like a crown—felt like ice water pouring through my veins.
Still, I read on.
There were entries about his benefactor—Henrich Harlander—who supplied funds, corpses, legal protections. Entries about the small rural town Victor had terrorized with his nocturnal hunts. Entries about the assembling of… of someone.
Near the final quarter of the journal, Victor’s writing became manic, euphoric.
The body is complete. Not beautiful, perhaps, but functional. The musculature exceeds expectations. The heart—constructed with modifications—may withstand electric influx beyond human tolerance. If the nervous system awakens, the creature may exhibit superior strength, superior healing.
My heartbeat thundered.
Superior healing.
Strength beyond human tolerance.
Oh God.
The last coherent entry read:
I shall do it tonight. I shall ignite the spark of the new Promethean age. Should this succeed, the definition of ‘man’ will be born anew.
The journal shook in my hands.
Victor spoke of creating a superior being.
He spoke of building—not birthing. Of assembling—not raising. Of forging—not fathering.
A terrible, perfect click echoed through my mind.
Adam was not Victor’s son.
He was Victor’s creation.
Something hot pricked at my eyes. Disbelief, horror, grief—all tangled into one knot deep in my chest.
And yet—
Love did not recede in the face of truth.
If anything, it sharpened, steadied, clarified.
Adam’s fear. His self-loathing. His hesitance. The shadows behind his smile. His reactions when I touched the parts of him he hid. His reluctance to speak of death—or of life. His strength. His endurance. His scars.
All of it made sense now.
All of it pointed to this.
He was living proof of a man’s ambition.
No—he was a man in spite of it.
I slid the journal beneath my pillow the moment I heard a gentle, hesitant knock.
My breath stalled in my throat.
Adam.
I smoothed my skirt, quickly wiped my cheeks, and forced calm into my voice.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Adam stepped through with immense care, closing it quietly behind him as though afraid he might shatter something simply by entering the room.
My breath caught painfully.
He looked… vulnerable.
Not physically—though the borrowed shirt strained across his shoulders and left his wrists exposed—but emotionally. His posture was cautious. His eyes flickered to me, then to the floor, as though he feared my gaze.
I felt the journal’s presence beneath my pillow like a brand scorching through the mattress. I curled my fingers into the blanket, praying he would not see the guilt in my face.
He approached the bed slowly. As though every movement was a question he feared to ask.
“Adelia,” he whispered.
The sound of my name in his voice nearly undid me. Raw. Breathless. Like he had woken from death still fearing he dreamt.
I reached for his hands.
He let me hold them.
His palms were warm—warmer than before—alive with returning strength. His fingers trembled when they threaded with mine.
We sat in silence for a long moment, looking at each other as though relearning familiar features.
Then his hair, unbound and loose, fell in waves around his face. A streak of white shone starkly among the chestnut from his right temple.
I lifted it gently.
“This was always here?” I asked.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Why hide it?”
His lips pressed together. “People think it strange.”
I twirled the white lock around my finger. “I think it’s beautiful.”
He inhaled sharply—half surprise, half something deeper. A softness I rarely saw in him illuminated his eyes, like he was witnessing something he had never dared hope for.
I cupped his cheek.
He leaned into my palm, breath trembling.
And I kissed him.
Softly.
Tenderly.
He tasted of warmth and fear and hope and something sweet beneath it all. His lips parted on a quiet, startled sound. Then, carefully, almost reverently, he kissed me back.
It was not desperation—it was gratitude.
When we parted, our foreheads touched. His breath shuddered against my lips.
“How are you alive?” I whispered.
He stiffened.
Not in anger—but in dread.
“I… don’t know how much of the truth you want,” he murmured, voice barely formed.
“All of it,” I said.
He closed his eyes.
The hesitation in the silence was heavier than any words.
Finally, he spoke.
“I cannot die.” His throat bobbed. “Or… more accurately… I cannot stay dead.”
A shiver ran through me—not of fear, but awe.
“The bear,” I whispered. “The strength you have…”
He nodded faintly. “I’ve always been strong.”
“Stronger than a man.”
His silence was answer enough.
“Adam,” I breathed, “what are you?”
His fingers curled tightly around mine, as though he feared I might pull away.
“I know only what he told me,” he said, voice hoarse. “My Father.”
Victor.
I swallowed.
“Tell me about him.”
He flinched.
Not visibly—but in the tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders crept upward, the smallest recoil in his posture. Pain radiated from him like heat.
“You asked once before,” he whispered. “I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was ashamed.”
“Please,” I said softly. “I won’t turn away.”
He breathed in—slow, trembling.
“Victor wanted to conquer death.”
My pulse hammered.
“People believed he meant curing sickness,” Adam continued, voice tight. “But they were wrong. He wanted… to reverse it.”
A nauseous knot twisted in my stomach.
“He used corpses,” Adam said. “Parts of them. From charnel houses. From battlefields. Execution blocks. Unmarked graves. Anything he could take from.”
My chest constricted.
“Why?” I whispered, already knowing the truth, but needing it from Adam's lips.
“He believed,” Adam said quietly, “that a man could be rebuilt. Improved. That if he stitched together the finest pieces, he could make something superior.”
The mattress felt suddenly too small, the air too thin.
"Did he succeed?" I asked, voice trembling.
He stared at our joined hands.
“He succeeded,” his whispered agreement hit like a strike of lightning.
I swallowed.
“Adam,” I murmured. “Are you the result?"
He went still.
Completely, utterly still.
Like a deer frozen under an arrowhead. Like he was bracing for the blow of rejection.
“I…” He tried to speak, voice collapsing. “I—”
“Please,” I whispered, lifting his chin with trembling fingers. “Look at me.”
He did.
And something inside him broke. His whispered confession came as though he thought it a death blow.
“…yes.”
The word hung fragile in the air.
He flinched as though struck.
“I’m sorry,” he choked suddenly. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to look at me and see—see a thing Victor made.”
He gestured weakly at himself. At the broad line of his chest, the scars at his throat, the veins still faintly pulsing from recent resurrection.
“I’m not even a man,” he whispered. “Not properly. I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re Adam,” I said firmly.
He shook his head, tears slipping. “You deserve someone whole. Someone real. Someone—not made of parts.”
“Adam,” I breathed, taking his face in both hands. “Listen to me.”
His breaths came uneven, shattered.
“You speak,” I said. “You think. You feel. You love.”
His eyes widened, shimmering.
“You are real,” I whispered. “So incredibly real.”
He made a sound—a sob, broken and raw—and I kissed his cheek. Then the other.
“Your creation does not define you,” I said. “Your heart does.”
His chest seized with a trembling inhale.
“I love you,” I whispered against his skin.
He stilled.
Every muscle froze.
Then he crumbled.
A sob escaped him—quiet, disbelieving, aching—before he pulled me into his arms. Not forcefully, but with a desperate gentleness, as though terrified I might vanish.
“I love you,” he whispered into my hair. “Adelia—God—I love you so much it hurts.”
Tears filled my vision. I curled into him, held him as tightly as he held me.
We kissed again.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
He trembled with every touch, every breath, like he could not believe any of this was real—that love could be something offered to him, freely and without fear.
I rested my forehead against his. “You deserve everything good,” I murmured.
His breath hitched.
He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to my brow.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled—a trembling, fragile surrender—and wrapped his arms around me.
We stayed like that, holding each other in the quiet glow of candlelight. The pain of his past, the horror of truth, the fear of what tomorrow might bring—none of it vanished.
But for the first time, hope rose to meet it.
Slow. Fragile. Trembling.
But real.
Adam pressed his cheek to my temple, his breath warm against my skin.
“I love you,” he whispered once more, as though anchoring himself to the words.
I smiled against him. “And I love you.”
He made a soft, broken sound—a quiet hum of contentment, almost a purr—and I felt the last of his tension melt.
I laid my head against his shoulder, his arms tightening protectively around me.
For tonight, for this moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
There was only us.
And the hope that, despite everything, love could grow in the shadow of impossible truths.
Chapter 14
Summary:
Another dual POV
A metric fuck ton of fluff. You guys deserve it.
Chapter Text
Adam
I woke to warmth.
Not the rough, uncomfortable heat that summer brought—thick air clinging to skin, heavy night giving way to a hotter morning—but a gentler warmth. One that pulsed softly against my ribs and breathed in slow, steady rhythm.
For a moment I did not open my eyes. I simply lay still, feeling it.
Her.
Adelia.
My wife.
Four months married, yet this was the first time I had ever woken with her in my arms. The first time I had ever felt her body curve so trustingly against mine. The first time I had ever held her through an entire night—fully clothed, but close enough that the warmth of her seeped into my bones.
Only then did I open my eyes.
Her cousin’s guest room was awash in early summer light—thin gold filtering past lace curtains, catching the dust in the air.
But all of that faded the moment I looked down at her.
Adelia was nestled against me, her cheek pressed to my chest as if she had always belonged there. Her hair lay loose around her shoulders, soft waves spilling over my shirt. The summer warmth had flushed her cheeks, lending her a softness that threatened to undo me entirely.
One of her hands—small, delicate—lay curled in the fabric over my heart.
As if she had been holding me there.
As if she feared I might slip away again.
My throat tightened painfully.
I had died yesterday.
I had looked into her eyes as my life left me, had watched her run toward me with terror twisting her beautiful features. And then—God above—she had held me as though the world were ending, and when I returned to breath, she had kissed my face, a woman welcoming a miracle.
For the first time since I had discovered it, my immortality did not seem like a curse. It would have been cruel to finally be embraced permanently by death at the very moment I truly had begun to live.
She had seen my face last night—truly seen it. I had lowered the hood myself, hands shaking, certain she would recoil. Instead, she had touched me with such reverence it had nearly broken me.
“You’re beautiful, Adam” she had whispered.
She had meant it.
Even now, my chest ached at the memory.
The pale dawn light revealed details I had never imagined I would see with her: the way her long lashes brushed her cheek, the way her lips curved ever so slightly in her sleep, the faint sheen of sweat from the summer heat catching the hollow of her throat.
I should not have stared.
But I could not stop.
She shifted slightly, unconsciously drawn closer, her knee brushing against my thigh beneath the sheet. Every muscle in my body went rigid, not with discomfort—but with something far more overwhelming.
Desire.
Fear.
Hope.
We had been married for months, yet I had scarcely touched her. An arranged union—one I had assumed she entered with equal reluctance. I had kept my distance out of shame, out of terror, out of misplaced honor.
She had kept hers out of compassion for a man she barely knew.
But now…
Her breath stirred the fabric of my shirt. Her fingers flexed in her sleep, tightening around me. Her forehead nudged lightly against my chest, as though she were searching for the heartbeat she had once feared lost.
If she woke and pulled away—if she remembered the strangeness of me, the unnaturalness of my resurrection—I could not blame her. But the very thought carved a hollow ache through me.
God, let her stay.
Let her want to stay.
Unable to stop myself, I lowered my chin. My lips brushed the crown of her head so lightly it was barely a touch at all—just a whisper of contact, reverent and terrified.
Her scent—soft and faintly floral even after a night of tears—flooded through me until I felt unsteady.
“Adelia…” I breathed, though she did not stir. “I pray you don’t regret this.”
The sun crept higher, warming the room, warming us. Cicadas buzzed distantly in the trees outside, their drone melding with the slow thud of my heartbeat under her ear.
I tightened my arm around her, instinctively protective, helplessly devoted.
She had called me beautiful.
And lying here with her in my arms—sleeping peacefully, trustingly—I felt, for the first time in my existence, that perhaps it could be true.
Perhaps I was becoming more than what I had been made to be.
Perhaps I was becoming hers.
I felt her move before I heard her breath catch.
Her eyelashes fluttered against my chest, then lifted slowly. The morning light gilded the edges of her lashes, warmed the curve of her cheek. Her eyes opened, heavy with sleep, and for a moment she looked around — at the curtains, at the quiet room — before they settled on me.
“Good morning,” she whispered, voice soft and a little uncertain.
My pulse hammered. My heart, for all its unnatural rhythms, felt like a hammer beating against worn metal, each strike echoing with a mixture of awe and fear.
“Good morning,” I murmured back, carefully, as though the words themselves might shatter something fragile.
She sat up, stretching, the sheet slipping slightly across her shoulders. I found myself holding my breath, watching the play of light along her skin — the faint pink flush of dawn in her cheeks, the gentle rise of her collarbone, the soft grace of her movements.
My fingers twitched. I wanted — everything.
But I held still. Respect grew in me in the moment I opened my face to her, accepted by her — a respect born of reverence and fear.
She rested her hand over my heart, gentle as a sigh.
“I dreamed…” she said quietly, voice still husky from sleep. “I dreamed you were hurt again. And I woke, and I found you beside me. Alive.”
I closed my eyes, pain and gratitude coiling together in my chest.
“I thought I had lost you,” she continued, a tremor in her voice. “But you… you are here.”
I swallowed hard. The scarred skin of my lips worked, but the words felt small, unworthy.
“I am here,” I whispered. “If you still wish me to be.”
Her fingers slid gently into mine, lacing our hands. She half-smiled — a small, sad thing, like a delicate bird after a storm.
“You are here,” she said again. “And…” She hesitated, looking down at our joined hands. “And you are not less for all that has happened to you. Not to me.”
A rush of heat flooded me, warm and light. Hope, sharper than any fear.
I drew her closer, until her head rested on my shoulder once more. The room smelled faintly of summer — fresh linen, summer rain on old wood, the wild sweetness of flowers pressed just beyond the windows.
“Adelia,” I whispered, “you do not know how much that means.”
She shifted, turning in my arms so she faced me more fully, one hand still on my chest, the other brushing a stray lock of hair from my brow. Her fingers traced the faint scars there — gentle, curious, reverent.
“You don’t need to ask forgiveness,” she said softly. “I love you, Adam. All of you.”
The words landed like petals across my heart, soft but trembling. I closed my eyes, afraid — afraid of the wild longing stirring inside me, afraid of what I had been, afraid of what I might still be.
But even more afraid of letting her go.
“Then… may I ask something of you?” I said slowly. “May I… hold you?”
She nodded, her eyes bright with morning light and something deeper — longing, perhaps fear, but also trust.
I curled my arm behind her back, drawing her closer. Tighter. Her skin was warm, soft. Her breath came in gentle waves against my neck, and I felt a steady pulse beneath her temple.
We lay there a long time, simply holding each other, letting the early summer day rise around us. I felt the weight of my past — the scars, the secrets, the unnatural promise of my existence — but beneath it all was something real. Something human.
Something hers.
I kissed her — slow, reverent, gentle. Not because I demanded anything, but because I needed her to know what she meant to me.
Her lips softened under mine. She didn’t draw away. Instead, she responded — softly, a warmth spreading between us, gentle and slow like dawn itself.
She murmured my name on her breath.
I closed my eyes and held her tighter, as though if I did not, she might vanish again.
But she didn’t.
The heat of summer pressed against the windowpanes. The sound of distant birds drifted through the open shutters.
Inside, all that existed was the hum of my heartbeat, the softness of her body, and the fragile bloom of something sacred.
Because I was alive.
Because she accepted me.
Because she loved me.
And I would not waste it.
***
Adelia
The day after Adam’s impossible return dawned with a hush that seemed to hold its breath around the manor. The air was crisp with sunlight, each blade of grass rippling, giving the illusion of green rippling water. I told myself I had come out to the gardens for fresh air, for clarity, for anything that might make sense of the night before. But the truth was simpler:
I needed to see him—awake, walking, alive.
To confirm that the warmth I’d felt in his chest wasn’t merely the fading echo of a dream.
I found him near the rose trellis.
He stood half-shadowed beneath the arching vines, sleeves rolled, dark hair catching the sun at the tips. There were still faint signs of strain around his eyes, and his movements were careful—as though not all of him had fully returned to life yet—but he was there. Breathing. Looking impossibly…normal.
Well. As normal as a man could appear after surviving what should have killed him twice over.
I almost called his name, but a burst of laughter broke across the lawn.
A small figure shot past me—Daniel, all flailing limbs and bright energy, barreling toward Adam with the reckless enthusiasm that only a six-year-old possessed.
“Adam!” Daniel skidded to a stop at his boots and pointed triumphantly at his own mouth. “Look! I lost another tooth!”
Adam blinked down at him, startled by both noise and proximity. “Another?” he echoed softly. “Were you planning to keep any of them, or do you intend to live on soup forever?”
Daniel burst into giggles and held up the tiny tooth in his palm like a prized jewel. “Mama says I’ll grow new ones. Grown-up teeth. Big ones.”
Adam crouched down—slowly, with that careful deliberation he always used when he feared startling someone—and examined the gap in Daniel’s mouth with surprising seriousness.
“New teeth,” he murmured. “Imagine that.”
His voice carried an odd note—wistful, almost hollow. As though he were speaking of something long lost to him. I watched the smallest shift in his eyes, a flicker that said he was remembering another life, another world, another version of himself that had never been allowed such simple miracles.
Before I could move toward him, another voice chimed in.
“Daniel, don’t run off without us!”
Clara arrived with the graceful confidence of a girl already older than her nine years, curls bouncing, a book clutched protectively to her chest. Trailing behind her was little Nora, toddling with her arms outstretched for balance, face bright and rosy from exertion.
They stopped when they saw Adam.
Children usually hesitated around grown men—especially large, scarred ones. But the Hartwell children only stared for a heartbeat before Clara stepped closer.
“Good morning, Mr. Frankenstein,” she said politely, smoothing her dress. “Mama said you weren’t feeling well yesterday.”
Adam looked as though the very idea of being addressed so formally by a child had caught him off guard. “I am… much improved,” he managed, voice gentle. “Thank you, Clara.”
Nora, meanwhile, marched boldly up to him and placed her chubby hands on his knee as though claiming a throne.
“Up,” she demanded.
My breath hitched.
Adam froze.
Not in fear—not exactly. More like someone struck by a memory so old and tender it hurt to touch. His eyes softened in a way I had only ever seen when he looked at me. A slow, careful smile—small, almost shy—touched the edges of his lips.
“You wish to be lifted?” he asked.
Nora nodded with the solemn authority of a toddler accustomed to being obeyed.
Adam glanced toward me—seeking permission? Reassurance?—before turning back to her. Then he slipped his hands beneath her arms and lifted her with a ease that did not match his tentativeness.
Nora squealed with delight.
And Adam—
He looked utterly undone by the sound.
Not frightened. Not uncomfortable.
Just… overwhelmed.
As though he’d stumbled into a moment he never believed he would be allowed to hold.
Clara giggled. Daniel clapped. Nora patted Adam’s cheek like she’d discovered a particularly interesting piece of furniture.
And Adam… laughed.
A soft, stunned little exhale of a laugh, as though it escaped him without permission.
Something inside my chest twisted almost painfully.
He looked… right like this.
Not monstrous.
Not cursed.
Not the lonely, haunted figure who prowled the west wing at night.
But a man. A good man. One who instinctively knelt to speak eye-level with a child, who handled them with a gentleness that made my throat ache.
I felt heat rise in my face. A wish—fierce, fragile, —bloomed sharp beneath my ribs.
He would be a wonderful father.
The realization struck so hard it stole my breath.
I watched him shift Nora onto his hip as though she weighed nothing at all. To him, with his immortal strength, she probably didn't. Daniel tugged on his sleeve, asking if he could be lifted next. Clara shyly presented him with her poetry book, asking if he’d ever read Byron.
He answered them all. Patiently. Kindly. With a quiet earnestness that made something inside me tremble.
And all the while I stood frozen in the shadow of the pear tree, fingers pressed to my lips, watching a life I hadn’t dared imagine paint itself in colors I could suddenly feel—
Our estate.
Soft morning light.
A baby—our baby?—reaching for him.
His smile.
His hands.
A warmth only he could give.
A future that would have seemed impossible even yesterday.
A future I wanted with a hunger that terrified me.
Nora tugged at a strand of Adam’s hair, and Adam winced playfully. “You, little one, are far stronger than your size suggests.”
Clara whispered conspiratorially, “She likes you.”
Adam blinked, startled by the idea. “Does she?”
“Yes,” Clara said with absolute certainty. “Very much.”
Daniel added, “She only pulls the hair of people she loves.”
Adam looked down at the toddler clinging to him like a barnacle. Then, slowly—almost imperceptibly—his expression softened with an emotion that made my breath hitch.
He swallowed hard.
Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Love…”
My heart cracked open.
He turned, finally noticing me. His eyes widened—caught in the act, like a shy schoolboy rather than a creature who had faced horrors beyond comprehension.
“Adelia,” he breathed.
He said my name like it was something holy.
I stepped closer.
The children, sensing a shift in the air, scattered into the lawn—Clara chasing after Daniel, Nora toddling after her siblings with determined little stomps.
And then it was just the two of us in the space beneath the rose arch, the air trembling between us.
I swallowed. “You’re… very good with them.”
He looked down at his hands, as though seeing Nora still perched in them. “They are unafraid,” he said quietly. “Children often are… until they are taught otherwise.”
“You don’t frighten them.”
He hesitated. “Is that surprising?”
“No.” My voice softened. “Not to me.”
He dared to meet my gaze then.
And in it I saw something raw. Unshielded.
A longing as deep as my own, shadowed by the fear that he had no right to it.
“Adelia,” he whispered, voice frayed, “do not— do not look at me as if I am meant for… this. For families. For laughter. For…for anything gentle.”
I stepped closer still.
His breath caught.
“Why not?” I asked.
Silence trembled between us.
He swallowed. “Because I was not made for gentleness.”
“No,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “You chose gentleness. That is its own kind of miracle.”
His eyes closed as though my words hurt him.
Or healed him.
Perhaps both.
When he opened them again, the yearning there nearly brought me to my knees.
“Adelia…” His voice was barely a whisper. “If I could have been a man who deserved such a life—children, a home, laughter—I would have wanted it more than anything.”
I placed my hand over his.
Warm. Solid. Alive.
“You deserve every good thing,” I said. “More than any man I’ve ever known.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand what I am.”
A shiver ran through me—not of fear, but certainty.
I did understand—at least more than he believed.
And I would understand everything, soon enough.
But for now, I only tightened my fingers around his.
“You are Adam,” I said softly. “And that is enough.”
He stared at me as though I had placed eternity in his hands.
In the distance, the children’s laughter rang like bells across the garden.
Adam looked toward the sound.
And for a fleeting, fragile moment—I saw the man he might have been, the man he still could be, painted golden by morning light and possibility.
And I fell in love with him all over again.
***
The road shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, long ribbons of brightness stretching ahead of the carriage as it rattled gently toward home—his home, our home. Two days had passed since everything unraveled and then astonishingly knit itself back together again, and I still felt suspended somewhere between disbelief and hope.
Adam sat beside me, his shoulder broad and warm through the summer-weight fabric of his shirt. Grace, perched across from us with her ever-present look of faintly amused skepticism, dabbed at her brow with a handkerchief and muttered something about “July behaving like a boiling pot left unattended.”
Adam had laughed—actually laughed—and the sound had been so unexpected and soft that my heart tripped over itself.
Now they were speaking easily, our carriage swaying rhythmically around them.
“And you’re certain you don’t remember dying?” Grace asked dryly, arching one grey brow. “Because I cannot imagine many men stand up after a bullet, much less behave as though they’ve woken from a nap.”
Adam shifted, not uncomfortably but with that old flicker of wariness. I felt it through the seat, through the air. I slid my hand toward his, letting my fingers brush his knuckles. A quiet reassurance. He didn’t look at me, but his hand turned, palm up, and accepted mine.
“My memory is clear,” he replied with a gentleness that still startled me sometimes. “I did die. That much is true.”
Grace blinked.
“But by God’s grace alone,” he continued, the lie not quite coming out smoothly, “I was restored. I cannot pretend to understand why, only that it happened.”
I felt Grace’s eyes flick between us, measuring the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them. She had been with my family long enough to recognize half-truths—but also long enough to know when to leave them be.
“Well,” she sniffed at last, folding her hands. “If the Lord gives back what He takes, I suppose it’s not my place to question the return policy.”
Adam startled into a laugh again—warm, real. Grace gave him a pleased little smirk as if she’d just coaxed a shy animal from the brush.
I watched them both, my heart full in a way I hadn’t expected. Only a few days ago, he could barely speak without trembling. He had shown me his bare, scarred face in the dark—intentionally, with no mask, no cover, offering me a truth that had nearly broken him. I had touched the ridges and stitching with my lips and whispered to him that he was beautiful, and he had believed me enough to cry.
We had slept tangled together, fully clothed but close in a way we had never dared before. His arms wrapped around me; my face in the warm curve of his shoulder. It was not passion, not yet—though I felt its stirrings quietly, insistently—but trust. Real trust. Something far deeper.
Adam's face had fell back into shadows, thoughts overtaking him. I squeezed his fingers.
Grace squinted at Adam over her fan. “So tell me, My Lord—do all miracles rise from the dead looking perpetually troubled, or is that a talent unique to you?”
Adam blinked. “I wasn’t aware I looked troubled.”
“You do,” she said. “Like a man debating whether to leap from the carriage or wait for it to crash.”
He considered this, and the corner of his scarred mouth lifted in a smirk. “Which option would you recommend?”
“For you? The crash. You seem quite resilient.”
Adelia smothered a laugh behind her hand as Adam's face cleared of any dark thoughts plaguing him.
Here he sat, exchanging witticisms with Grace as though he’d done it all his life.
My throat tightened.
If he noticed me staring, he made no sign—except his thumb, now leisurely stroking across the back of my hand.
I shouldn’t have been so happy. Not with the weight of Victor’s journal pressing against the side of my consciousness like a guilty heartbeat. I had tucked it back into my trunk before we left my cousin Alice’s estate—hidden beneath folded petticoats.
I wasn’t ready for Adam to know I had it. Not when telling him might betray the tenuous trust Constance had placed in me. Or worse, make Adam angry with me for reading his secrets I should never had been given access to without his permission.
But I wanted the choice to be mine.
I glanced out the carriage window, letting the warm wind ruffle my hair. Alice had embraced me so tightly this morning I thought she might lift me off my feet. Once, I envied her—the kind of envy that stung like nettle—but that had dissolved into something gentler. Something grateful.
Phillip had squeezed Adam’s hand, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Take care of her.” And Adam, with a sincerity that quieted the entire moment, had answered, “With every breath.”
Grace snapped her fan open, breaking the reverie.
“Mr. Frankenstein,” she said, eyes glinting, “you are rather more talkative today than usual.”
Adam’s lips twitched. “I fear your company brings out dangerous tendencies.”
“Dangerous?” Grace scoffed. “Adelia and I are a package deal. I've cared for her since her first breath. You’ve been married four months. If conversation with me dangerous now, what shall we call it in four years?”
“Heroic?” he offered.
“Oh, heaven help me” she muttered.
I laughed—bright, unguarded. Adam turned to me instantly, as though drawn by the sound, his expression softening into something that made heat flood through me despite the warm day.
His hair was loose today, brushing his shoulders in dark waves. And there, by his right temple, the little shock of white I had noticed the other night gleamed like a secret. I wanted to reach out and touch it again. Curl it around my finger, kiss the place where it sprouted.
His hand squeezed mine discreetly, and I knew—knew—he was thinking of thr last few nights too.
I leaned against him, letting the carriage’s rocking press us more firmly together. Grace pretended not to see, but her small smirk betrayed her approval.
We were going home.
And for the first time, the word didn’t feel like a place, but a person.
Someone sitting beside me with gentle hands, a scarred face I adored, and a heart stitched together more tenderly than any surgeon ever could.
Adam leaned his head briefly against mine, and I breathed him in, letting the moment settle around us like a promise.
Hope—warm, bright, terrifying—unfurled quietly in my chest.
Romance would come.
Slowly. Carefully.
But it would come.
Chapter 15
Summary:
The road home is a bumpy one.
Chapter Text
Adelia
The road changed when the sun slipped beneath the treeline.
I felt it before I understood it—an almost electric tightening in the air, as though the world itself drew breath and held it, waiting. One moment the last amber rays of dusk shimmered across the leaves, the next the forest seemed to swallow them whole, plunging us into the kind of darkness that felt deliberate.
The carriage lanterns flickered, casting thin ribbons of gold across Adam’s face. He sat beside me, shoulders relaxed, hands folded neatly in his lap as though nothing at all was amiss—but I could feel him tense. Not visibly, not even physically, but in the subtle way he stilled. Completely. Like a creature freezing to better hear a predator.
I squeezed his hand.
“Adam?” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the dark road ahead. “Something is wrong.”
Grace snorted softly from across the carriage. “You’ve said that at every creaking branch for the past three miles.”
“Not like this,” he murmured.
I turned toward the window, peering into the dense forest pressing close to the road. Nothing but shadows. Nothing but darkness. Yet my heartbeat had already started to climb, fluttering too fast, too light.
“Is it an animal?” I asked.
“No,” he said. His tone changed—lower, colder, instinctual. “Not an animal.”
The horses whinnied up ahead, their hooves clattering nervously against the packed dirt. The carriage slowed. A snap broke through the night—wood? Rope? My breath caught in my throat.
Grace straightened sharply. “Driver? Is all well?”
No answer.
Only the sound of the horses huffing, agitated.
Then—
A voice. Not our driver’s.
“Stop the carriage!”
My blood went cold.
Grace lunged for the window, but Adam caught her wrist, gentle but firm. “Don’t,” he said. “Get back.”
There was shouting outside now—multiple voices, rough, male, violent. The horses bucked. Something hit the side of the carriage, hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Adam—” I whispered.
He had already shifted his body in front of mine, shielding me. “Stay behind me. No matter what happens.”
Grace’s breath shuddered. “Oh dear Lord.”
The carriage door was ripped open.
A man filled the frame—wild beard, filthy coat, a knife glinting in the lantern light. “Evening,” he sneered. “We’ll be taking your valuables. Cooperate and you won’t—”
He never finished the sentence.
Adam moved so fast I barely saw it.
One moment he was seated. The next his hand shot forward, clamping around the brigand’s wrist and yanking him inside the carriage as though he weighed no more than a child. The man howled. The knife clattered to the floor.
“Get away from them,” Adam said, voice low, almost a growl.
The man swung with his free hand. Adam caught that too. Twisted. Something snapped—something in the man’s arm, something unmistakably human—and he screamed.
Grace slapped both hands over her mouth.
“Adam—Adam, don’t—!” I gasped, reaching for him, but he was already moving.
He hurled the brigand out of the carriage.
The man hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Shouts exploded across the night.
“Kill him!”
“Get the horses!”
“Grab the women!”
My pulse roared in my ears. I tried to grab Adam’s sleeve. “There are too many—”
His eyes—God, his eyes—were not the gentle ones I knew. They were dark, furious, animal. The mask he had always worn had fallen away, leaving behind something ancient and terrifying. Not monstrous—not to me—but powerful enough to freeze the blood.
“They will not touch you,” he said.
Then he launched himself out of the carriage.
Grace sobbed once, clutching my arm as we scrambled toward the far wall, huddling behind the bench. Outside, chaos erupted.
A gunshot cracked the air.
Horses screamed.
Men shouted orders, curses, threats.
And Adam—my Adam—let out a sound I had only heard once before, when the bear attacked us. A deep, rumbling snarl, torn from some primal place inside him.
I pushed up onto my knees. “Adam—!”
Grace yanked me down. “Are you mad? Stay hidden!”
But I couldn’t. I had to see him. Needed to see him.
I crawled toward the open door, heart slamming. The night outside blazed with violence.
Adam had one brigand by the throat, lifting him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. The man kicked wildly, clawing at Adam’s wrist.
Two more rushed him with clubs.
He didn’t even flinch.
He threw the first man into them so hard all three collapsed in a tangled heap.
“God above…” Grace whispered behind me. “This cannot be real.”
Another brigand charged from the left—Adam turned, caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, and drove his own fist into the man’s stomach. The crack echoed. The man folded, crumpling to the dirt.
Someone screamed, “Shoot him!”
I barely had time to inhale before—
Gunfire.
Adam jerked. Not badly—only slightly—as a bullet grazed his shoulder. He turned, eyes blazing.
Then he roared.
Not shouted. Not growled. Roared.
Every man within ten yards froze.
He seized the shooter by the collar and slammed him against a tree trunk so violently the bark split.
More shouting. More gunfire. More chaos.
The horses bolted, but the brigands had tied the carriage wheels. We were trapped.
Grace clutched her head. “Adelia—we must run—”
“We can’t leave him!”
“He’s fighting a dozen men!”
“Yes,” I breathed, “to protect us.”
Another gunshot.
Adam staggered.
“No—” I choked.
He didn’t fall. But he weakened—just slightly, just enough.
Three brigands rushed him at once, beating, grappling, striking him with clubs. He threw them off, smashing two together with enough force that one crumpled unconscious. But a fourth man blindsided him with the hilt of his pistol.
He hit Adam behind the ear.
Adam dropped to one knee.
“No—no, Adam, get up—get up—” I whispered, grabbing the carriage door, desperate to go to him.
A man climbed inside instead.
Grace screamed as he seized her hair and slammed her head against the carriage wall.
“GRACE!” I lunged, but he caught my wrist and twisted until I cried out.
“Sweet little thing," he hissed, breath rancid. “Pretty. She’ll fetch a fine ransom.”
“Let me go—!”
“She’s awake,” someone outside shouted. “The older one’s down.”
Grace slumped in the brigand’s grip, limp, blood trickling from her scalp.
“No—Grace—Grace, wake up—!”
“Forget her,” the man holding me snarled. “Just grab the young one—”
Another gunshot cut through the night.
I whipped my head toward Adam.
The moment burned itself into my mind with cruel clarity.
He was standing—barely—blood running down his temple. He turned toward the sound of my voice, reached out as if to come to me.
And a brigand placed a pistol to the side of his head.
“NO!”
The shot detonated.
Adam’s body jerked violently.
He dropped without a sound.
For a heartbeat—just one—I forgot how to breathe.
Then the scream ripped out of me, raw and broken, torn from the deepest part of my soul.
“ADAM!”
His body lay motionless in the dirt.
The man holding me laughed. “That’s the end of him. Bag the girl.”
I thrashed wildly, kicking, clawing, biting—anything to reach Adam—but hands swarmed me, rough and merciless.
“Let me go! LET ME GO—ADAM—!”
Grace lay unconscious beside me as they dragged us both out of the carriage and into the cold dirt.
Men scrambled through the carriage, grabbing trunks, jewelry, Grace’s satchel, my cloak, anything of value.
Another pair of hands seized me by the waist.
“Hold her still,” someone growled. “We’re taking her.”
“Alive?”
“For now.”
The world spun as they hauled me toward a waiting horse.
Adam’s body lay motionless in the dust behind them, blood darkening the ground around his head.
I screamed until my voice broke, until my throat felt raw, until the night swallowed the sound whole.
And still he did not move.
He was dead.
For now.
And I was disappearing into the darkness without him.
***
The struggle through the forest was a nightmare made tangible—branches grasping like hands, roots coiling beneath my feet, the night thickening until even the moon seemed to recoil from what was happening.
The groans of the men Adam had wounded echoed off the trees. He had died because he had shown restraint. He had only killed one. I wish he'd killed them all. I hoped he would once life returned to him.
Grace hung in the arms of one of the brigands, her head lolling, grey hair matted with blood from the blow that had felled her. She was alive—her chest rose and fell in shallow, shivering breaths—but she was limp, unresponsive.
I forced myself not to think the word dying.
Two men dragged me forward between them, their grips bruising my upper arms. My feet stumbled over rocks and wet earth, the hem of my dress snagging and tearing on thorns. But I kept walking because I had no choice. Because Grace needed me conscious. Because I knew something they did not.
Adam was not gone.
Not truly.
Not permanently.
He would awaken—slowly, disoriented, in agony—but he would awaken.
And he would come for us.
That knowledge pulsed inside my chest like a second heartbeat. It was not comfort; it was a terrifying, fragile thread of hope, the only thing that kept my lungs moving.
If the brigands realized what Adam was—what he could do—
If they saw him rise from a gunshot wound to the skull—
They would burn him, dismember him, hide the pieces—
No.
No, I couldn’t let my mind go there.
He would awaken in hours. His body took time to knit itself back together. But he would rise. He always did. And he would track us. He would tear through the world to reach me, if he had to.
If he survived long enough to come back.
A choked sound scraped from my throat.
One of the brigands—tall, copper-haired, with the greasy gleam of someone who delighted in cruelty—gave a harsh tug to my arm.
“Keep quiet,” he growled. “Or I’ll give you reason not to talk.”
Another man snorted beside him, smaller but more vicious around the eyes. His breath stank of rot and cheap liquor. “Girl’s already scared half out o’ her mind. Look at her. Shakin’ like a leaf.”
“I’m not—”
The words tangled in my raw throat. I swallowed them.
They didn’t deserve my voice.
Behind us, someone cursed loudly.
“Did you see that bastard fight?” one brigand muttered, kicking a fallen branch out of the path. “Never seen a man throw Boyd into a tree like that.”
“That weren’t a man,” another scoffed darkly. “People don’t growl like that. Thought a damned wolf had leapt into our midst."
A chorus of uneasy mutters followed.
“He snapped Roderick’s wrist like it were a twig—”
“He near crushed my throat—”
"Shame about Parker though, poor lad. Skull, smashed like a pumpkin."
“And what kind of man laughs after takin’ a blade in the ribs?”
“He weren’t laughin’. That was—hell if I know what that was.”
They fell silent a moment, the memory of Adam’s last roar echoing in their minds. The sound had been primal, animal, something torn from the depths of a being who had known far too much violence for far too many years.
I had never been afraid of him—not truly—not even then. Even as he ripped one brigand, Parker, from the carriage and crushed the man’s skull against the door frame, I had felt horror at the violence, yes, but fear of Adam?
Never.
He had been defending me.
Defending Grace.
Trying to keep us alive.
One brigand spat into the leaves. “Don’t matter what he was. Shot through the head drops any creature. He’s buzzard food now.”
A sharp, involuntary spike of rage shot through me.
I wrenched my arm, glaring up at him. “You know nothing of him.”
He bared yellowed teeth. “I know enough.”
No. You know nothing.
If I had the strength—or even the smallest chance of success—I would have clawed at his face until my nails cracked. But I had Grace to protect. And I had to survive long enough for Adam to find me.
A few paces behind, two brigands wrestled with the chest they’d stripped from our carriage: the jewelry casket, the coin purse Phillip had given me for travel, Grace’s sewing kit, even the silver haircomb Alice had braided into my hair that morning. It glittered mockingly in the thief’s pocket, the moonlight catching on its polished edge.
I focused on breathing, on staying upright, on listening.
The more they spoke, the more I would learn.
The small brigand—Daniel, they had called him, though the name tasted foul now—grinned sideways at me. I hated that he shared a name with my Alice's beloved son.
“You’re a pretty thing. Bet you fetch a fine price.”
A sick hollowness dropped through my stomach.
Copper-hair elbowed him. “Not our call. We take ’em to camp. Boss’ll decide what’s what.”
The “boss.”
He said it with a mix of fear and anticipation.
My skin crawled.
“Should’a killed the old woman,” another muttered, shifting Grace’s limp form higher onto his shoulder. “She’s dead weight.”
I lunged before I could think, a snarled, broken sound ripping from me. “Don’t you touch her—!”
Copper-hair yanked me back so hard pain shot through my shoulder.
“Easy there, dove,” he sneered. “She’s not dead. Yet.”
I struggled, teeth gritted, fury flooding my limbs. “If you harm her—”
“Girl,” he said, leaning close, breath hot and foul against my ear, “if you don’t keep still, we’ll harm you just to make the trip quieter.”
A shudder ran through me, but I forced myself to stop fighting. Grace needed to be dropped carefully, not tossed to the ground in retaliation.
We trudged deeper into the woods, the darkness thickening until the lanterns they carried did little more than push back the shadows a few paces. The forest felt ancient, watching, its branches arching overhead like ribs of some enormous beast. Moisture clung to the air, cool and damp, smelling of soil and pine and death.
My mind drifted back—unbidden—to Adam in the instant before the gunshot.
His eyes had met mine.
There had been shock, yes—but also something deeper. Final. Apologetic.
A plea.
Then the crack of the pistol.
Searing light.
A spray of blood arcing through the air.
The horrible, shuddering collapse of his body against the ground.
But now—now that I knew what he was—what Victor had done to him—
I knew the truth as surely as I knew my own name:
He will rise.
He always did.
He always would.
Still, I knew I would never be able to get used to seeing him crumple, like a marionette with it's strings cut.
But the fear remained, clinging to the inside of my ribs like cold fingers. Because even if Adam could not truly die, he could still suffer. He could still be captured. He could still be torn apart.
And these men were cruel enough to try.
I had to buy him time.
I had to keep Grace alive.
I had to survive.
A low whistle sounded ahead, and the procession slowed. A lantern swung higher. In the clearing just beyond, faint orange light flickered—tents, a fire pit, rough tables, shadows moving around them.
A camp.
Large.
Too large.
Daniel grinned, showing blackened gums. “Home sweet home.”
My heart plummeted.
Copper-hair shoved me forward. “Hope you’re ready to meet the boss, girl. He’ll be right pleased with what we found tonight.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my chin lifted.
Adam will come for me.
Adam will wake.
Hold on. Breathe. Survive.
But even that fragile hope trembled as we stepped into the clearing, torches flaring bright, shadows stretching long across the dirt.
Because the man who emerged from the largest tent—the “boss”—was already watching me.
And he was smiling.
They dragged us into camp the way hunters haul in wounded game—carelessly, impatiently, as though every moment exposed them to danger. And perhaps it did. The woods seemed to press inward as we arrived, the trees hunched like silent witnesses around a clearing that was little more than a patch of hard earth encircled by thorn-thick undergrowth.
The men moved with hurried familiarity, scattering to their tasks.
A fire had already been built earlier in the day, the blackened ring of stones still warm at its edges. One of the men knelt to coax it back to life, striking flint with an anxious rhythm. Sparks leapt, caught, and soon the flames curled up, gold and hungry, illuminating their faces with jittering light.
The camp itself was an ugly thing—three bedrolls, a tangle of rope, empty bottles, and the lingering smell of smoke and sweat. No order, no comfort. Just survival.
And fear.
Their fear hung thicker than the smoke.
The leader—the boss, as the others called him—paced beside the fire instead of helping, jaw tight beneath a patchy beard. He was tall, but malnourished, his cheeks hollow and his eyes too bright, like a wolf pushed to desperation.
“We don’t stay long,” he muttered aloud, mostly to himself, though the others strained to hear. “Just enough time to rest the horses and check the ransom letter is delivered.”
My stomach dropped.
Ransom.
That was what they wanted.
Not me.
Not Grace.
Money. From Philip. From the manor. From anyone who would break their own bones before letting two of their household disappear into the night.
One of the men—Samuel—laughed low. “If Hartwell pays half of what his reputation suggests, we’ll be living like kings.”
“You’re not a king,” the boss snapped. “You’re barely a man. And if you keep your mouth open any longer, I’ll remind you of both those facts.”
Samuel shut it. Quickly.
I kept my place near a fallen log where they had shoved me, my wrists bound but not tightly enough to cut circulation. Barely enough to keep me from running.
They thought I wouldn’t try.
They thought fear had crushed me flat.
They were wrong.
My eyes flicked toward Grace.
They had laid her beside the fire, not gently but without the same contempt they used on me. Perhaps unconsciousness made her less threatening; perhaps the bruise swelling along her temple made even them uneasy.
Her breathing was shallow but steady. Her lips were pale. The dried blood in her hair gleamed darkly whenever the fire flickered.
A wave of guilt crashed through me so hard I almost doubled over.
She followed me.
She wanted to protect me.
And now she might die because of it.
If I could have torn my own beating heart from my chest to wake her, I would have.
Instead I forced myself to think—clearly, coldly, though terror gnawed at the edges of every thought.
Escape.
Get her out.
Somehow.
But the truth rose unwanted and sickening:
Adam would not wake for hours.
I had seen it before—after he pushed himself beyond the limits of any living man. After wounds that should have killed him outright. He did not bleed the way mortals did; his strength was ghastly and awe-inspiring, his endurance unimaginable. But when violence felled him, when he finally collapsed…
His body became stone.
Still. Cold. Unresponsive.
Death-like.
And tonight, I knew with dreadful certainty:
He would not rise. Not yet.
The boss stopped pacing and glared down at me.
“You Hartwell folk,” he said, “you’re all the same. Silks and fine words. Never worked a day’s sunburn in your lives. Tell me—d’you think your fancy employer will miss you? Or will he replace you like broken furniture?”
“He will pay,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my bones. So he did not know who I was, then. “But only if you do not harm us.”
He barked a laugh. “You think you’re the one making terms?”
A second man, stocky with a scar splitting his brow, spit into the fire. “Boss, maybe we should’ve snagged Hartwell’s daughter instead of this one.”
My heart stammered. Not Clara, or God forbid, little Nora.
“Shut up,” the boss growled. “She’s worth enough.”
Worth.
As if I were a coin purse.
The indignity would have flared hotter if not for the gnawing worry for Grace. Every few minutes I watched her chest rise, fall, rise again. Her lashes fluttered once but she slipped deeper into unconsciousness.
She needed medical care.
Warmth.
Water.
A bed.
Not dirt and firelight and men who would leave her behind if she slowed them further.
The boss crouched in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees.
“You’re quiet,” he said. “Too quiet. Usually the little noble ones cry. Or beg.”
“I am thinking,” I said truthfully.
“About escape?”
“About survival.”
“Same thing,” he smirked. “A clever girl.”
His hand lifted toward my chin and I jerked away instantly.
He laughed again—not kindly. Not cruelly. Almost… curious.
“What’s that look for? You think I’m going to hurt you?” He spread his hands innocently. “Not if your people pay.”
My blood chilled.
Grace moaned softly.
I couldn’t help it—I shifted toward her.
The boss saw.
“Oh,” he said slowly, smile turning sharp, “worried for your friend, are you?”
“She needs help.”
“She’ll live.” He shrugged. “Or she won’t. Either way, you’re the one with the price on your head.”
The world tilted.
They didn’t even care.
Grace was incidental.
Collateral.
“I need to give her water,” I said, pushing forward.
He caught my shoulder in an instant, grip bruising. “You’ll do nothing unless I tell you.”
His breath smelled of old tobacco and arrogance.
For a moment, dread stole every word from my mouth.
He could kill me right here.
He could hurt Grace.
He could—
No.
Think.
Think.
I swallowed. “If she dies before morning, Hartwell will pay less.”
His grip faltered.
“Less?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, mind racing. “Grace is part of the household. They will want her alive as well. Two hostages bring more money than one.”
He hesitated.
Samuel chimed in. “She ain’t wrong, boss. If we ask more, we get more.”
The boss glared at him—but the seed was planted.
He released me.
“Fine. Give her water. But no tricks.” He pointed to the scarred man. “Watch her.”
The man with the brow scar stood close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath and untied my bound hands. I knelt beside Grace. They had left her hands bound, but loosely. I lifted a tin cup of lukewarm water to her lips. At first she didn’t respond, water dribbling down her chin, soaking her collar.
“Grace,” I whispered. “Please.”
Her lashes trembled. A weak swallow.
Relief surged through me so intensely I nearly cried.
Not dead.
Not yet.
The scarred man nudged me with his boot. “She awake?”
“Barely.”
He grunted, unimpressed.
I wiped the water from her chin, smoothing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. The bruise was swelling fast—purple, angry, ugly against her fair skin.
My throat tightened.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathed.
She didn’t hear.
And even if she had, even if she’d been strong enough to speak, I knew what she would say.
This isn’t your fault.
Don't blame yourself.
But it was my fault.
I had insisted on traveling today, desperate to return home, to the Frankenstein manor. To begin my life with Adam.
I had been too comfortable, too unafraid, too foolish.
And now Grace might die for it.
Behind me, the men bickered over the ransom amount, each number larger than the last, each plan more reckless.
“We can’t stay till morning—Hartwell’s men are tracking us already.”
“It’ll take them hours. These woods go on forever.”
“Still too risky.”
“Don’t be a coward. We wait for the letter to be delivered.”
“Boss, what if they send soldiers?”
“We’ll be gone before that.”
Their voices blurred and sharpened in waves, the fire throwing their silhouettes tall across the trees.
I searched the woods again.
No sign of movement.
No unnatural stillness.
No hint of life or… unlife.
Adam was far from here, motionless, caught in that heavy, deathlike repose.
My mind flicked back to him lying in the dirt, blood glistening at his temple, limbs askew in a way no living man should survive.
He had not stirred.
He would not stir for hours.
My heart broke anew at the memory.
I needed him.
Grace needed him.
But he was not here.
We were alone.
Completely, terrifyingly alone.
I heard the woosh of the club, too fast to react. Lights popped behind my eyes and pain crackled across my skull, and darkness overtook me.
Chapter 16
Summary:
Adam is really, really pissed off.
Chapter Text
Adam
Consciousness returned like fire in my veins.
Not gently.
Not gradually.
Not with the fragile, agonized heave of lungs rediscovering breath as it sometimes did.
No—this time it came violently, a brutal seizure of the world, as though my body had refused to remain dead a second longer than absolutely necessary. Life slammed back into me with savage insistence.
My eyes flew open into darkness.
For a heartbeat I did not know where I was—only what I smelled. Blood first, thick and coppery. Gunpowder, acrid and burned. Splintered wood. Crushed lavender from the satchel Adelia had packed that morning, its soothing scent mangled beneath boots and violence. And beneath it all—faint but unmistakable—the trace of her.
Warm skin. Fear. The oil she combed through her hair.
Memory came crashing down.
The brigands.
The rifles.
Her scream.
Grace collapsing.
The flash of muzzle fire.
The impossible, swallowing silence as the bullet tore through my skull.
Adelia’s hands reaching for me as I fell.
A sound tore out of my chest as I lurched upright—half snarl, half roar. The world reeled violently. Darkness clawed at the edges of my vision. My limbs trembled with the shock of resurrection, but beneath it surged something new—something stronger. My body felt denser, heavier, as though death itself had tempered me.
Bone ground softly as it knit together beneath my scalp, sealing the wound that had killed me only hours ago.
But I was alive.
Alive—and she was gone.
A roar ripped itself out of my chest before I could stop it. Not human. Not controlled. The kind of sound an animal makes when its mate is dragged into the jaws of something monstrous. The forest swallowed it, but the earth itself seemed to shudder beneath it.
The carriage lay destroyed around me. Lanterns shattered. One wheel torn clean from its axle. The seats were soaked through with blood—not mine. My blood had already darkened and dried along the exterior wall, but Grace’s was fresh, vivid, streaking the floorboards in violent arcs.
She had bled.
Adelia had screamed.
I forced air into my lungs. Forced thought into my mind.
The forest stank of men— many of them. Sweat. Old ale. Gunpowder. Leather oil. Fear, faint but present. They had not bothered to conceal their trail. They believed me dead.
A fatal mistake.
I stood, rising to my full height. The last tremors of resurrection rippled through my limbs like lightning finding ground. Rage burned behind my eyes—hot, metallic, corrosive. My hands clenched, fingers aching with the need to break something.
I would kill them.
Every last one.
I stepped into the night.
The moon hung pale and veiled above the trees. Shadows clung thickly to the forest floor, stretching like grasping hands. The undergrowth fell unnaturally quiet as I moved, animals retreating instinctively.
Good.
Let the forest bear witness.
Let them be afraid.
Tonight, I was not a man.
Tonight, I was what Victor had made.
***
The brigands’ trail carved an obvious wound through the woods—snapped branches, deep boot prints, churned earth. They had taken everything from the carriage.
Everything. Even her.
But her they could not keep.
I followed at a silent, loping run. My strides devoured distance with terrifying ease.
My body was faster now—stronger. Resurrection had left something burning in my muscles, something new. A wildness with sharp edges. I embraced it.
Smoke reached me first. Then voices.
Laughter.
My lips peeled back from my teeth.
The camp sprawled carelessly in a clearing—three fire pits burning low, bedrolls strewn in careless circles, crates of stolen goods stacked like trophies. Lanterns hung from branches, swaying gently.
Grace lay bound near one of the fires. Her head lolled to the side, temple bruised and swollen—but her chest rose and fell.
Alive.
Then I saw Adelia.
She was tied upright to a rough-hewn post. Her wrists were bound, her dress torn at the hem and smeared with dirt. A faint cut traced her hairline. She was unconscious—but breathing.
Relief struck me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
A man stepped close to her—their leader, thin-faced with a scar splitting his brow. He gripped her chin, forcing her face up to examine the cut.
She flinched even in sleep.
Something inside me broke.
“Feisty little dove,” he laughed. “Your freak husband’s wolf shit by now. No sense fighting.”
The sound in my chest deepened—no longer a roar, but something darker.
My fingers dug into the tree bark so hard it splintered. The urge to explode into the camp, to tear them apart with sheer rage, nearly drowned me.
No.
Not yet.
I dropped lower, crawling through the brush, as silent as a hunting cat, and began to move.
Two sentries stood watch at the camp’s edge.
The first never knew he was dead. My arm locked around his throat, lifting him clean off the ground. I felt his feet kick uselessly before I twisted. His spine gave with a dull, wet sound. I laid him gently among the ferns.
The second turned too late.
He saw my face—just long enough for terror to bloom.
“What in—”
I slammed him into a tree. The trunk shook. His skull split with a sound like dropped pottery.
Two down.
I became a shadow.
A strange clarity washed over me—cold, focused, lethal. My senses flared wide. Every shift of grass, every whisper of wind through the leaves, every intake of breath in the camp sharpened into precise detail.
One man wandered from the fire to piss against a tree. My hand closed around his jaw, and I drove his own knife up beneath his ribs. He sagged without a sound.
Another followed—throat opened before he could speak.
Death came quietly at first. Efficiently. Almost merciful.
Then a twig snapped beneath my foot.
A small sound.
Enough.
“Who’s there?” someone called.
A man stepped into the dark—and saw the bodies.
He inhaled to scream.
I hit him like a battering ram.
We collided, knocking him backward. But he managed a strangled cry before my hand closed over his mouth. Bone splintered beneath my fingers.
The camp erupted.
“What was that?”
“Who’s out there?”
“Torches—now!”
Damn.
I tore the man’s knife from his belt, shoved his collapsing body aside, and sprinted into the clearing.
Six men remained. The boss stood at their center, holding a rifle and a horrified expression.
"That... that's impossible." He stuttered.
I snarled in reply.
The camp exploded into chaos.
The rifle fired. The bullet tore through my shoulder, spinning me—but I stayed upright. Pain flared white-hot, then dulled beneath the flood of rage.
Another shot grazed my ribs. I barely felt it.
I roared—a sound that shook the leaves, a furious, primal thing—and slammed into the closest man.
My fist crushed the man’s jaw. Another swung a club. I ducked beneath it, grabbing him by the coat and hurled him bodily into the firepit. Flames devoured his screams.
Someone leapt onto my back. I reached over my shoulder, seized his skull, and smashed it backward against my own.
Three more fell beneath my hands—bones breaking, bodies thrown like dolls.
They circled me, shaking, terrified, desperate.
I towered over them—seven feet of fury and death, blood running down my arms, eyes burning.
One charged with a dagger. I let him stab me, then wrapped my hand around his throat and crushed until his body went slack.
I yanked the blade free from my side with an unholy howl and flung it from myself.
Only the leader remained.
He fired again. The bullet struck my sternum.
I snarled, pain ricocheting through me.
I did not stop.
I walked through the smoke toward him.
“Stay away!” he screamed. “Devil!”
I reached him before he could fire again.
He swung the rifle like a club—cracking it across my face. My vision flashed white. I seized the barrel, ripped it from his hands, and snapped it in half.
He screamed and drew a knife.
I charged.
We collided with brutal force, grappling, rolling across the dirt and leaves. He slashed wildly, the blade catching my cheek. I barely felt the pain. The world had narrowed to one single objective:
End him.
His knee drove into my ribs; mine slammed into his thigh. He punched, snarling. I pinned his arm, slammed him on his back, and struck—blow after blow, relentless, merciless, until his knife fell from his hand.
He gasped for breath. “W-wait—please—”
I grabbed him by the front of his coat with one hand and l dragged him upright as I stood, lifting him into the air, his feet dangling a foot off the ground.
He stared into my eyes.
And he understood.
I was not a miracle.
Not God’s work.
Not man.
But something else entirely.
His voice broke. “What… are you?”
Heat roared in my chest. Not fire—wrath. Wrath older than this forest. Older than his cruelty. Older than my fear.
“I,” I said, voice low and shaking with fury, “am the man you should have left alone.”
One last strike. I felt the wet squishing splinter of gore and bone as my arm went through his ribcage and my fingers curled around the frantically beating organ within. I pulled, ripping the heart from its place, blood spraying in a nauseating, satisfying gush. I needed to destroy him. Utterly.
His eyes flared wide, staring at his own heart. Then the light drained from them.
His body sagged in my grip, lifeless.
I let him fall.
I dropped the organ next to him, letting it roll in the dirt.
Silence dropped across the camp like a curtain.
My breath heaved. Blood dripped from my hands, from my clothes, from wounds that were already beginning to close. The rage still crackled under my skin, searching for an enemy that no longer lived.
Then—
A faint cry.
Grace.
And beyond her—
Adelia.
Her heartbeat.
Rapid.
Terrified.
Alive.
I moved.
Not running.
Not stumbling.
But with purpose—toward her, toward the woman whose name had become the only thing anchoring me to this world.
Toward the reason I would burn the whole earth if I had to.
***
Adelia
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not a peaceful silence—not the hush of evening wind, not the stillness of a sleeping forest.
This silence felt carved, hewn brutally out of the world. The kind that follows agony, not precedes it.
Then came the smell.
Smoke. Blood. Sweat. Something sharp and metallic that clung to the back of my throat. The dying crackle of a fire. The low groan of a man who wouldn’t live long enough to finish it.
I opened my eyes, my head throbbing.
And saw hell.
Bodies were strewn across the clearing like discarded dolls—limbs at angles no living joints allowed, faces slack and sunken, mouths frozen in shapes of terror. Some lay crumpled near the fire pits; others half-hidden in brush where they’d fallen trying to flee.
Not killed cleanly.
Not in fear.
They had been hunted.
My breath caught. My heart pounded so fiercely it hurt.
Grace was beside me, still unconscious, slumped against her bindings. Alive—thank God—but pale, with a bruise blooming across her temple. I shifted toward her instinctively, testing my own ropes again. They held firm. My wrists burned from struggling earlier.
But now I froze.
Because from the far edge of the camp, between the dying fire and the brush, something moved.
A shadow first.
Then a man.
No—not a man.
Adam.
He stepped into the firelight, breathing hard, steam rising from his skin in the cold night air. His shirt was torn open, splattered with blood—some his, most not. Three long gashes streaked across his cheek, already knitting. His knuckles were torn raw, dripping.
His eyes—
God help me, his eyes weren’t human.
They burned.
Wild.
Glittering with a sharp, feral light.
He looked… larger somehow, as though rage alone had given him shape, carved him out of darkness. Every line of him coiled, furious energy not yet spent.
I had never seen him like this.
I had seen him mourn, fear, tremble, smile.
I had seen him weakened by shame and warmed by tenderness.
I had seen him laugh softly, startled by joy.
But this version—the one who walked through corpses with blood drying on his face—
this was the creature Victor had stitched into being.
He was terrifying.
He was beautiful.
And he was coming straight toward me.
My breath hitched—fear and relief knotting so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart. Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
He saw it.
He stopped.
Just… stopped.
Ten paces from me.
Not breathing.
Not moving.
As if worried that one more step might frighten me beyond repair.
His chest heaved once, twice. He blinked hard, like a man waking from a nightmare he created with his own hands.
“Adelia.”
My name sounded broken in his mouth. Raw.
Like a prayer ripped from someone who had never learned how to pray.
My whole body shook. I wanted him near me, wanted him to cut the ropes, to hold me, to breathe against my neck so I could feel he was real—
But my voice trembled. “Adam… what have you—”
He flinched.
Not from accusation—not exactly.
From the realization that I had seen what he’d become.
“I had to,” he whispered, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands lifted—bloody, trembling—and then lowered again, uncertain. “They took you. They hurt Grace. They—” His voice cracked. “They shot me. They thought you were theirs. I… I couldn’t let that happen.”
His breath hitched, and he looked at the bodies again. His entire posture tightened with shame.
“I wanted to be gentle,” he said—though not to me. Maybe not to anyone. “I always want to be gentle.”
God.
My heart split clean in two.
He knelt beside me, and though his fingers shook, he cut through my bindings with a practiced sweep of a stolen knife. Once my hands were free, he didn’t touch me—not until I reached forward and placed my hand firmly against his jaw.
His eyes closed immediately, breath shuddering out as though I had opened a valve inside him.
“It’s all right,” I whispered, guiding his forehead to rest against mine. “Adam, look at me.”
He did—cautiously, painfully.
“You saved my life, you saved Grace's life."
“I lost myself. I..." he looked down at his hands, slick with blood.
"It does not make me love you any less."
His breath broke.
For a moment, he simply stared, as if afraid to believe the words. As if the love he had always feared he did not deserve was suddenly within reach and one touch away from vanishing.
Slowly—carefully—he leaned forward and gathered me into his arms.
His body trembled violently. Not anger anymore.
Shock.
Fear.
A wild, terrible relief.
I held him tightly, burying my face in the crook of his neck despite the blood, despite the trembling of his muscles beneath my palms.
“You came for me,” I whispered.
“I always will,” he murmured, voice so low it was barely sound. “I don’t care if I die every time. I will always come back for you.”
My throat burned.
Behind us, one of the half-conscious brigands groaned.
Adam’s entire body tensed—
I cupped his face, forcing him to look at me, not them.
“It’s over,” I said firmly. “Stay with me.”
His breathing slowed. He nodded.
Then his gaze shifted to Grace.
“We have to wake her,” he said softly.
“Together,” I answered.
We moved to her side, Adam lifting her with such gentleness it broke me further. He, who had torn through armed men like a storm, now cradled her as delicately as if she were a child.
Grace stirred, groaning. Her eyes fluttered open.
The second she saw Adam—covered in blood, eyes still wild—she jerked back in terror.
“It’s all right,” I whispered quickly. “Grace—it’s all right. We’re safe. Adam saved us.”
Grace blinked hard, confused, pale. “He—he’s alive?”
Adam managed a tortured, weary smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
She fainted again.
I caught his arm to steady him as laughter—half hysterical, half exhausted—escaped me.
He stared at me as though it were the first sound of life in the world.
Not disgust.
Not fear.
Not revulsion for what he had done.
Just… me.
Alive.
With him.
And God help me—
I had never loved him more.
***
The forest was quiet now. Too quiet. The wind whispered softly through the trees, carrying the faint smell of smoke and iron, the echoes of what had happened hours ago. I could still hear it in my mind—the snarls, the screams, the sickening thuds of men striking earth where Adam had thrown them.
We were on foot now, Adam carrying Grace as if she weighed nothing, leaving the carnage behind, moving carefully along a narrow game trail. Adam had insisted we take nothing with us except the essentials; every item left behind was evidence, and the thought of anyone else stumbling across it—alive or dead—made him tense. His body had begun to cool, the feral energy of the attack ebbing into exhaustion, but I knew him well enough to see the muscles beneath his torn shirt still quivering, still coiled as though waiting to strike.
I walked beside him, hand pressed against his forearm, feeling the tremor there. He had saved us both, and yet the price of that protection lingered in his every movement. His face was streaked with dried blood, the fresh scabs of earlier wounds glinting in the moonlight. The shock of it should have repulsed me—others might have looked away—but I could not. I traced the lines of his scars, each one a story, each one a testament to the life he had survived. Each one a reminder of what I loved about him.
“Adam,” I said softly, my voice catching. He looked at me, one brow slightly raised, exhaustion etched into the sharp angles of his face. “You don’t have to speak. Just… be here.”
He nodded once, slow, deliberate. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly at my touch. I marveled at the duality of him: the man who could tear through armed brigands with brutal precision, and the man who could sit silently beside me, letting me hold him, trusting me to be his anchor.
We walked in silence for a while. The forest was a cathedral of shadows, the moonlight pooling in the gaps between the trees like liquid silver. I listened to Adam’s slow, even breathing, and let my mind wander—recklessly, dangerously—toward the life I wanted with him.
I imagined a future I had barely allowed myself to consider before: our home, children tumbling through the gardens, Adam teaching them to climb trees, to ride horses, to read and write and play like ordinary boys and girls. I saw Clara, Daniel, and Nora again, bright-eyed and laughing, and I imagined him guiding them with patient strength, his scars unremarkable to them, his unusual nature nothing more than a curiosity. My heart ached with yearning.
But then I remembered the reality pressing in—the journal I had hidden, the truths we had barely begun to confront. Adam was immortal. He could die, but only temporarily. Every death left him changed, hardened, more dangerous than before. And now, with what had happened tonight, that knowledge weighed heavier than ever.
I tightened my grip on his arm. “We’ll make it back,” I whispered. “Together.”
He turned his head slightly, brushing a lock of damp hair back from my forehead. His lips barely touched my temple, a ghost of tenderness, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“I will always protect you,” he murmured. “No matter the cost.”
I swallowed hard, tears threatening despite the cool night air. “I know,” I said. “And I… I’ll protect you, too. We’re not just… just surviving, Adam. We’re living. Even if the world doesn’t make it easy.”
He exhaled sharply, almost a sigh, and I could feel the weight he carried—the guilt, the fear, the unending responsibility of being what he was. I pressed closer, letting my forehead rest against his shoulder. The warmth of him, the steady pulse beneath his skin—even if unnatural—was my tether to reality.
We didn’t speak for long after that. Words felt unnecessary, even dangerous. There was too much left unsaid, too much that could unravel if spoken aloud. Instead, we walked side by side, leaning on each other, letting the silence carry our unspoken promises.
At times, I caught him staring at the horizon, eyes dark and distant, as if calculating threats that only he could see. I knew what he was thinking: the brigands might be gone, but the world was not safe, and we were vulnerable. That knowledge settled heavily on my chest. I wanted to scream at him to rest, to allow himself a moment of peace, but I knew that peace was foreign to him.
Instead, I reached out, taking his hand in mine. His fingers closed over mine—tentatively at first, then with the strength and certainty of a man who had faced death and returned, unbroken.
“You’re still here,” I whispered. “You came back. You always do.”
His lips pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of my hand. “I always will,” he said again.
I let my head rest on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly ebb. For the first time since the attack, I allowed myself a small measure of relief. Adam was alive. Grace would recover. And though the future was uncertain, I knew one thing beyond doubt: we would face it together.
The forest around us seemed to exhale with us, the night no longer quite so oppressive. And in that moment, I allowed myself to hope—not for safety, not for comfort, but for the life we could carve out from the chaos.
A life with him.
My husband. My protector. My love.
I closed my eyes and held him close, the steady rhythm of his pulse a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable violence, we could endure. We could survive. We could—somehow—thrive.
And tomorrow, whatever it brought, we would face it together.
***
The town revealed itself reluctantly, as though it had been carved out of the night rather than built within it—a stubborn knot of lanternlight clinging to the road, defiant against the encroaching forest. Pines pressed in close on all sides, their black spines rising like watchful sentinels. The cobbled street gleamed faintly with damp, each stone catching the amber glow of hanging lamps that promised shelter, warmth, and the fragile illusion of safety.
My hand found Adam’s as we stepped from the shadow of the trees.
The night carried many scents—woodsmoke, wet earth, horse sweat, the faint sweetness of bread still baking somewhere behind shuttered windows—but the strongest clung to him. Blood. Old and new. Rusted and sharp. It soaked his coat, matted his dark hair at the temples, streaked his hands and throat. It dried in thick, cracked smears along his sleeves and collar, blackened where it had soaked deepest. In the lanternlight, he looked less like a man than something dragged from a battlefield—or a grave.
Grace had awakened not long before we reached the town, pale but resolute. Despite her injury, she refused Adam’s offer to continue to carry her, leaning instead on my shoulder with grim determination. Her pride, I suspected, had been the only thing holding her upright.
Adam walked slightly behind us, his stride long and deliberate, every movement controlled. At seven feet tall, he could not have blended into the night even if he were clean and unscarred. As it was, his appearance drew eyes from behind curtains and half-open doors—quick glances that slid away just as quickly. The scars that mapped his face, throat and hands caught the lamplight in sharp relief, deep against his pallid skin, each one a silent testament to violence endured rather than inflicted.
I felt the tension in him through our joined hands. His fingers flexed now and then, twitching as though braced for another attack. I squeezed gently, a wordless reminder that we had reached civilization, that for this moment at least, the night had loosened its grip.
The inn stood at the town’s center—a broad, timbered structure with a sagging porch and lanterns swinging above the door. Light spilled warmly from its windows, laughter and the clink of crockery muffled within. It felt like a sanctuary.
Until the door opened.
The innkeeper’s gaze swept over us—and stopped dead on Adam.
His expression changed instantly. The practiced welcome froze on his face, replaced by something raw and unmistakable: fear. His eyes lingered on the blood, the scars, the sheer unnatural scale of my husband’s body filling the doorway. His hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles whitening.
“Rooms?” he asked, though the word came out thin, uncertain.
“Two,” I said, stepping forward before he could reconsider. I lifted my chin, steadied my voice. “One for my handmaiden. One for my husband and myself.”
The word husband seemed to unsettle him further.
His gaze flicked back to Adam, then to me. “Your… husband?” he asked carefully, as though naming Adam as such might invite some curse upon his threshold.
“Yes,” I replied, sharpness edging my tone. “He defended us on the road. Attacked by a wild animal in the forest. He killed it.” I did not look away. “The blood is from that encounter. He saved our lives.”
Adam said nothing. He stood like a dark monument behind me, head slightly bowed, eyes shadowed, hands held deliberately still. The blood made him monstrous; the silence made him worse.
The innkeeper swallowed. His eyes darted once toward the common room, where laughter had faded to an uneasy murmur. At last, he stepped aside, gesturing stiffly inward.
“Mind yourselves,” he muttered. “No trouble.”
The warmth of the inn closed around us like a held breath. Firelight flickered across polished floors and heavy beams, and the scent of burning wood wrapped around my lungs, grounding me after the nightmare of the forest. Conversations resumed in hushed tones as we passed. I felt eyes on Adam’s back the entire way.
Grace was shown to her room quickly—mercifully—where she collapsed onto the bed with a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. I helped her settle, adjusted her pillows, drew a blanket up to her chin. She caught my wrist before I could rise.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered, though I could not tell if she meant herself or us.
“I know,” I said, and kissed her brow.
Our room lay at the end of the hall.
Adam lingered in the doorway once inside, his massive frame half-blocking the light from the corridor. He did not step fully in until I closed the door behind us, sealing out the world.
Only then did he seem to fold inward.
“I should not have let it happen,” he said quietly. His voice was low, roughened by shame rather than fatigue. “The blood. The violence. That you saw me like that…” He looked down at his hands, still darkened and cracked with gore. “I am… undone by it.”
I crossed the room without thinking, lifted my hand, and touched his shoulder.
The blood was dry and rough beneath my fingers, flaking away like rust. My pulse leapt—not in fear, but in something warmer, more dangerous.
“You protected us,” I said softly. “There is no shame in that.”
Yet even as I spoke, memory stirred—the way he had moved in the forest, unstoppable and terrible, the sound of his roar tearing through the trees. My breath caught, heat rising unexpectedly to my cheeks.
“I was afraid,, but not of you. Of the violence, yes.” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I would be lying if I said there was nothing else. Something… compelling.”
His eyes lifted to mine, wide and uncertain, as though he feared mishearing me.
I led him toward the basin. He followed without resistance, lowering himself carefully, as though afraid of breaking something simply by existing. I dampened a cloth and began to clean the blood from his skin, slow and deliberate. The water darkened quickly, streaked red and brown, dripping softly onto the wooden floor.
He shuddered once as my fingers traced the scars beneath the blood—old wounds, deep ones. Markings of his creation. His hair fell loose over his brow, dark waves casting shadows across his face as the white lock on the side caught the lanternlight.
The act felt intimate in a way that startled me. Reverent. As though I were tending something sacred.
When I lifted my gaze, he was watching me with an intensity that made my breath falter.
“You are here,” I said. “Alive. That is enough.”
“I wish I could unmake the night,” he murmured. “Erase the fear. The things I had to become.”
I reached up, traced the line of his jaw. “You did not become something else,” I said. “You revealed what you already were. A brave man, a good man, willing to do anything to protect the people he loves." His breath hitched. "But you do not scare me." I leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.
"I killed them." Shame curled around his words.
"You protected us."
"Still, I killed them. They were men."
"They were monsters, Adam."
His dark gaze snapped to mine.
"Then what does that make me?" He whispered.
The answer came easily, my heart thundering as I looked into the eyes of the most apex predator on the planet.
"Mine."
The claim hung heavy between us.
I did not possess the courage to tell him what seeing him like that had truly made me feel. Overwhelming desire. His absolute power, the lethal edge that he tried so hard to bury. I knew, deep in the waters of my soul, that there was no place safer than with Adam. His instinct screamed to protect me, and nobody on this earth could stop him.
His eyes softened and his fingers traced my cheek, his body heavy with exhaustion.
We lay down together afterward, the violence washed away as best it could be. I curled against his side, my head resting against his chest, the bloodstains on the fabric crusted against his skin. I didn't care. His arm came around me tentatively, then with quiet certainty.
Nothing more passed between us—and yet everything did.
Outside, the town slept. Inside, wrapped in the aftermath of terror and survival, we found a fragile, luminous peace, held together by blood, devotion, and the absolute truth that no matter what else he was… he was mine.
Chapter 17
Summary:
Safety at last.
Chapter Text
Adam
Morning came to me quietly.
That alone unsettled me.
I woke not to pain, nor to the familiar jolt of consciousness dragging itself back from death, but to the slow, ordinary return of awareness—the hush of breath, the muted creak of timber, the faint murmur of a town beginning its day beyond shuttered windows. Pale light seeped through the thin curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in its path. For a long moment, I lay still, cataloging the room by scent and sound, ensuring the night had not followed us inside.
Beside me, Adelia slept.
She lay curled toward me, one hand resting at my chest as if to anchor herself there. Her brow was smooth now, the fear eased from her features, her lashes casting faint shadows against her cheeks. The warmth of her body was real, undeniable, and the steady rise and fall of her breath grounded me more surely than any proof of my own existence ever had.
I did not move.
I scarcely dared to breathe.
The ease with which the world had taken her from me the night before—how quickly violence had risen to meet us—left me unwilling to trust even daylight. My arm remained curved protectively around her, every sense sharpened, listening for footsteps that did not belong, for voices raised too loudly, for the wrong kind of silence.
Memory stirred despite my efforts to keep it at bay.
The forest.
The firelight.
The sound a man makes when his body fails beneath impossible force.
I closed my eyes.
A dozen men lay dead by my hand.
I told myself—again—that they had earned their ends. That they would have harmed her. That I had saved Grace’s life, saved Adelia’s. That any other outcome would have been unforgivable.
And yet.
The truth that haunted me was not that I had killed them.
It was how easily I had done it.
There had been no hesitation once I reached them. No faltering. My body had moved with dreadful certainty, as though violence were a language I spoke fluently, one I had never truly forgotten. Even now, in the quiet of the inn, I could feel it coiled beneath my skin, patient and ready.
I feared that part of myself more than I feared any brigand.
Adelia shifted, sighing softly, her fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt. The sound unmade me. Whatever monster lingered in me fell quiet at once, silenced by the simple fact of her presence.
I loved her.
The knowledge was not new, but it was newly sharpened, burnished by terror and relief. I loved her with a devotion that frightened me, because it meant there was no limit to what I might become in her defense. If the world demanded blood to keep her safe, I knew—now—that I would give it without pause.
That realization tasted like ash.
She woke slowly, blinking up at me, confusion melting into recognition. A small smile touched her lips, soft and unguarded, and it felt like sunlight breaking through storm cloud.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
I brushed my thumb gently along her knuckles. “You are safe,” I said, because I needed to hear the words aloud.
The inn stirred around us as the morning wore on. Grace joined us shortly after, moving carefully, her steps measured. The color had returned to her cheeks, but her eyes were dulled, her usual sharp commentary replaced by quiet nods and brief replies. She pressed a hand to her temple once, wincing slightly, and Adelia was at her side at once.
The head wound worried me. I watched Grace with the same vigilance I turned upon the road, alert to every sway, every pause. Healing came slowly to mortals. I had been forced to learn that, again and again.
The innkeeper was cooler than before when we descended, his eyes flicking uneasily to my height, to the scars now clean but no less visible. He said little, and I was grateful for the restraint. After a brief exchange and more coin than was strictly necessary, arrangements were made.
A carriage waited for us by midmorning.
The town we left behind was modest but stubborn, its stone buildings pressed close together as if for comfort. Merchants called out beneath striped awnings, wagons creaked over cobbles, and smoke rose from chimneys in thin, hopeful lines. Life persisted here with quiet determination, and as we passed, I felt a strange pang—an awareness of how close this place had come to losing us, and how utterly unaware it remained of that fact.
The road unfurled before us, pale with dust and sunlight.
I rode opposite Adelia, one knee braced instinctively, my gaze fixed on the passing countryside. Fields rolled by in shades of green and gold, broken by stone fences and distant farmhouses. Birds lifted from hedgerows as we passed, and the sky stretched vast and unmarred overhead.
Nothing happened.
No gunfire.
No shouted threats.
No sudden movement from the trees.
And yet my muscles refused to fully loosen. Every bend in the road carried the echo of memory. Every stretch of shadow set my heart thrumming harder than it should have. I listened for the sound of pursuit that never came.
Adelia reached across the narrow space and laid her hand over mine.
I looked at her then—really looked—and felt something in me ease at last. The sunlight caught in her hair, turned her eyes bright and intent. She was alive. She was here. That truth anchored me more firmly than any weapon.
Grace dozed, head tipped carefully against the carriage wall, her breathing slow and even.
Hours passed.
When the estate gates finally came into view, relief crashed over me with such force that I nearly sagged under it. The wrought iron stood open, the drive curving upward through familiar grounds. The land itself seemed to recognize us—the hush of the trees, the slope of the path, the scent of earth and stone and old growth welcoming us home.
The manor rose beyond the bend, stately and enduring, its pale stone warmed by the afternoon sun.
But it was the oak that drew my gaze.
Ancient and immense, it stood at the heart of the garden, its broad limbs stretching skyward, leaves whispering softly in the breeze. I was so glad I had rescued it before her father had chopped it down. It was her refuge. Her constant.
As the carriage slowed, I felt something inside me finally unclench.
We had survived.
For now.
And as I helped Adelia down, my hand firm at her waist, I swore silently to whatever powers still watched this world that no violence—no matter how easily it came to me—would ever touch her again.
Chapter 18
Summary:
Safety at last.
Chapter Text
Adelia
The manor greeted us with its familiar hush, as though it had been holding its breath in our absence.
Marble floors cooled the soles of my boots as we crossed the threshold, the scent of old wood and beeswax polish wrapping around me like an embrace. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air, utterly indifferent to the violence we had survived. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed the hour—steady, dependable, unchanged.
Home.
***
The room we had given Grace was smaller than mine, and much more so than Adam’s, but warm—one of the eastern guest chambers that caught the last of the afternoon light. The fire had been lit low, more for comfort than necessity, and the curtains were half drawn, muting the world outside into a hush that felt earned after the violence of the road.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders bare where her dress had been unfastened and folded away. Her hair had been loosened from its pins and fell in dark disarray down her back, a sight so rare it made my chest tighten. She looked smaller like this. Mortal. Not the indomitable presence who had been at my side for as long as I could remember, but a woman who had bled for me in the forest and nearly paid for it with her life.
“Hold still,” I murmured, dipping a clean cloth into the basin. The water was tinged faintly pink now, though I had changed it twice already. “I won’t be long.”
Grace huffed softly. “You’ve said that three times.”
“And I meant it each time,” I replied, though my mouth trembled as I wrung the cloth out. I stepped closer, careful, reverent, as though one wrong movement might break something precious. The cut along her temple was shallow but ugly, the skin there darkened and swollen, stitched clumsily in the carriage with shaking hands and borrowed thread. It looked better now. Cleaner. Less frightening.
I lifted the cloth and dabbed gently around the wound.
Grace sucked in a breath despite herself.
“I said hold still,” I scolded quietly.
“I am holding still,” she protested. “You’re the one hovering like a mother hen.”
“Don’t ruin this,” I said.
That earned a soft laugh, which quickly faded when my fingers brushed too close to the tender edge of the injury. Grace winced, then sighed.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, not unkindly. “That’s my job.”
I frowned without looking up. “What is?”
“Taking care of you.” She tilted her head back slightly so I could see better. “I’m your handmaiden. I’m meant to be the one fetching water and binding wounds and making sure you eat when the world goes to pieces. Not the other way around.”
“Be quiet,” I said at once.
Grace blinked. “Adelia—”
“I said be quiet,” I repeated, firmer now, though my voice shook. “You were hurt. You nearly—” My throat closed, and I had to stop, pressing the cloth too hard for a moment before I realized and pulled back, horrified. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Grace reached up instinctively, catching my wrist before I could retreat. Her grip was warm, steady.
“Hey,” she said softly. “I’m here.”
My eyes burned. I stared at her hand around my wrist, the familiar shape of it, the calluses earned from a lifetime of work done without complaint. This hand had braided my hair when I was small. This hand had steadied me when I learned to walk in heeled shoes, when I cried over scraped knees, when my mother died and no one knew what to do with a girl who refused to speak.
“You scared me,” I whispered.
Her expression gentled. “I know.”
“I thought I’d lost you,” I went on, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “When you fell, I thought—” My breath hitched. “You don’t get to tell me whose job it is to care for whom after that.”
She smiled sadly. “You always were stubborn.”
I finally looked at her then, really looked. There were lines at the corners of her eyes I hadn’t noticed before. Gray threading through the dark of her hair. Time, I realized with a dull ache, had been passing all along, even when I wasn’t paying attention.
“You’re not my blood," I said quietly, as if confessing something shameful.
Her smile faltered, just a little.
“But you’re my family.” I finished.
The silence that followed was thick and fragile.
She swallowed. “I held you the day you were born,” she said after a moment. “Do you remember that?”
I shook my head. “I was busy being born.”
She laughed softly. “Fair enough. But I remember. Your mother was exhausted, and they placed you in my arms first because I was closest. You were so small I was afraid I’d drop you.” Her voice wavered. “I promised then I would keep you safe. Every day since.”
I resumed tending the wound, gentler now, my touch sure despite the tears slipping down my cheeks. “You did,” I said. “You do. Over and over again.”
She lifted her free hand and brushed at my tears with her thumb, the gesture so intimate it nearly undid me.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “Not loyalty. Not gratitude. I chose this.”
“I know,” I replied. I tied off the clean bandage carefully, my fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “but I still choose to."
She closed her eyes at that, as though the words were a benediction.
For a long while, we stayed like that—one seated, one standing between her knees, the world narrowed to breath and warmth and the quiet assurance that, despite blood and fear and the long road still ahead, we had made it home together.
***
Adam still lingered just inside the doors, his presence filling the space instinctively, as though he were bracing himself against some unseen blow.
I was shocked that he had waited for me while I had tended to Grace, but he seemed rooted to the spot, unable to leave the drawing room.
I approached him, his eyes a storm of thoughts I couldn't quite read.
"I called for the physician. He'll be here in the morning to take care of Grace. She'll be okay." He said, voice thick with exhaustion.
"Thank you, Adam." I said, not just for that, but for everything he had done for me. I reached out, my fingers brushing the sleeve of his filthy shirt. He nodded stiffly, and I knew he still felt guilt for the men he had slain.
Though most of the blood had dried and flaked away during the journey, dark stains still clung stubbornly to his cuffs and collar, ghosting the fabric no matter how the light shifted. Against the pale walls of the manor, it looked even more stark.
“I should bathe,” he said at last, voice low, careful. “Wash the rest of it off.”
The words carried more weight than they should have. Not just blood, I realized—but the night itself.
“I can help,” I offered without thinking.
He stilled.
For a heartbeat, I feared I had overstepped. Then he looked at me, something uncertain and vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.
“…If you wish,” he said after a moment. “If you are certain.”
I nodded, pulse quickening. “I am.”
He led me through the corridors with measured steps, past shuttered rooms and familiar alcoves, until we reached his chambers. It bore unmistakable signs of him: heavy furniture built to withstand his size, tall windows that let in generous light, dozens of shelves lined with carefully tended books, and still piles of them at every turn.
He stopped near the hearth, hands clenched loosely at his sides.
“There is… more,” he said quietly. “Beneath the shirt. My face is not the worst of it.” His gaze dropped, shoulders drawing inward despite his immense height. “The rest of me is a fright.”
My heart tightened.
“I don’t care,” I said, stepping closer. “Adam, I don’t.”
He searched my face, as though trying to find the lie in it. When he did not, he nodded once—sharp, almost bracing himself.
I reached for the buttons of his shirt.
My fingers trembled slightly as I worked them free, not from fear but from the intimacy of the act. The fabric parted slowly, inch by inch, until I could ease it from his shoulders.
My breath caught.
His chest bore the unmistakable truth of him.
A long, precise scar bisected him from collarbone to navel, a pale seam drawn cleanly down the center of his body. It was not the jagged mark of an accident, but something deliberate—measured. Strips of stitched flesh crossed his shoulders and biceps, darker in places, lighter in others, as though borrowed from many different lives. Some scars were rough and uneven, others neat and intentional, mapping him like a cruel cartography.
Above his heart sat a square patch of skin, its edges starkly visible, the shape too exact to be anything but purposeful. I knew, without needing to ask, what it had been for.
He inhaled sharply, as though expecting revulsion.
Instead, I lifted my hand and touched him.
His skin was warm beneath my palm. Solid. Real.
Hard muscle beneath the patched and sewn flesh made my heart stutter.
Adam flinched at first, body tightening, but I did not withdraw. I traced the line of the central scar gently, reverently, as one might follow the grain of ancient wood. Awe bloomed in my chest—at what he had endured, at what he had survived, at the impossible miracle of his existence.
“You’re beautiful,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His breath stuttered. "You keep saying that."
"And I will continue until you start to believe me."
I saw the same tapestry of scars when he turned slightly, when the light shifted across his back—stitched seams running along his spine, across his ribs, remnants of a life assembled piece by piece.
The bath waited in the adjoining room, steam rising in slow, ghostly curls. The air was heavy with citrus and bergamot, bright and clean, a deliberate contrast to the iron tang that had clung to Adam since the forest. Candlelight glimmered along the tiled walls, catching in the faint ripples of the water, turning the surface into molten gold.
Adam stopped at the threshold.
For a moment, he looked almost small despite his size, shoulders drawn inward, hands flexing as though he did not know what to do with them. The scars on his chest were stark in the softened light, dark seams against pallid skin, each one a testament to something taken apart and forced back together.
“I—” He hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You may turn away. I would not have you feel… obliged.”
“I don’t,” I said gently. “But I can, if you wish.”
His jaw worked, emotion flickering behind his eyes. After a beat, he nodded.
I turned, giving him what modesty I could, though my pulse skittered traitorously as I listened to the soft sound of water shifting when he stepped into the bath. My cheeks heated despite myself. I was not ready—not yet—to cross that final threshold, though the thought lingered, insistent and undeniable.
The scent of soap grew stronger, mingling with steam, wrapping the room in warmth.
“Adelia,” he said quietly, once settled. “You may look.”
I did.
He sat with the water drawn just high enough to cover his lower body, broad shoulders rising from the bath like carved stone. Steam kissed his skin, softening the hard lines of him, blurring scars into something gentler, almost luminous. Candlelight traced the planes of his chest, the long scar down his center catching the glow like a seam of silver.
I knelt beside the tub, my skirts pooling on the tile. For a moment, I simply watched him breathe.
“May I?” I asked, lifting the cloth.
“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “Please.”
I dipped the cloth into the warm water and wrung it out slowly, deliberately, drawing out the moment. When I touched it to his shoulder, he stiffened—not away, but as though bracing himself.
“It’s all right,” I murmured, more to him than to myself.
I washed him carefully, reverently, letting the cloth follow the curve of muscle and scar alike. My fingers brushed his skin more often than strictly necessary, each accidental touch sending a quiet awareness through me that settled low and warm. He was solid beneath my hands, unyielding and alive, and the knowledge of it made my breath come a little shallower.
When I traced the long seam down his chest, he inhaled sharply.
“Does it hurt?” I asked at once.
“No,” he said. “It has not, for a very long time.” After a pause, he added, “But I feel it. When you touch it.”
I swallowed and continued, slower now, my thumb following the scar’s path as though committing it to memory. When I reached the square patch above his heart, I hesitated.
“That is where he—” I began.
“Yes,” Adam said softly. “It was… practical.”
My chest tightened. I rested my palm there briefly, over the patch, feeling the steady, impossible pulse beneath it.
“I’m glad it beats,” I whispered.
His eyes closed.
I moved behind him then, careful of the water, and began to wash his back. The scars there were numerous, crossing and overlapping, a map of violence and intention. I traced them gently, soap slick beneath my fingers, learning the shape of him as one might learn a language—slowly, with reverence.
His shoulders loosened gradually beneath my touch.
When I worked the soap into his hair, he leaned forward instinctively, granting me better access. My fingers threaded through the dark strands, massaging his scalp, rinsing away the last traces of blood and ash. He exhaled a low sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a moan—and went still.
“I have never…” he began, then stopped.
“Never what?” I asked quietly.
“Been tended to like this.”
Something tender and aching unfurled in my chest.
I rinsed his hair slowly, watching water bead and trail down his skin, catching on scars before slipping back into the bath. The intimacy of it left me lightheaded, my thoughts straying dangerously close to paths I was not yet brave enough to walk.
When I finally rose, my knees weak, I fetched fresh clothes from his wardrobe—clean linen, soft and unmarked. I set them within reach and turned away once more as he stood, steam clinging to him like a veil.
By the time he emerged, dressed and clean, the man before me seemed changed—not less formidable, but quieter. Grounded.
And when his eyes met mine, there was something there that had not been before: trust, fragile and luminous, shared between us in the lingering warmth of the room.
Chapter 19
Summary:
Isn't communication awesome?
😉
Chapter Text
Adelia
The room was hushed, bathed in the fading light of late afternoon. The tall windows of Adam’s chambers framed the deepening sky, the soft hues of rose and violet painting the walls in shadows that seemed almost alive. Outside, the gardens whispered in the gentle wind; the great oak tree loomed beyond the terrace, its gnarled branches swaying faintly, a sentinel watching over us. Every rustle of leaves, every faint cry of distant birds, seemed amplified in the stillness. The world beyond the manor had receded, leaving only the two of us in the quiet gravity of the room.
Adam sat on the edge of his bed, the sheets tucked neatly behind him. He had removed his shirt again, claiming the air was too warm, but I hadn't missed his faint smirk as he had done so. Clearly, I wasn't as good at hiding my emotions as I thought. Not that I was trying too hard.
His scars gleamed faintly in the waning light, pink and ivory streaks across his arms and chest that spoke of suffering and endurance. The long central scar bisecting his chest, the stitched flesh across his shoulders and biceps, the patch above his heart that marked him as Victor’s creation—all were visible now in the soft light, reminders of the horrors he had survived.
The sight made my skin grow hot.
He was clean of blood, the remnants of the forest’s violence washed away, and yet, he still carried himself as a man burdened by the weight of guilt.
I drew a slow, steadying breath and stepped closer, nerves twisting in my stomach. Every instinct whispered caution, yet my resolve pressed me forward. He was my husband, and I would not let fear, shame, or the shadows of his past silence the truth that had grown inside.
“Adam,” I began, my voice soft, almost tremulous, yet firm enough to pierce the quiet, “I want to speak with you… plainly. Without hesitation, without fear.”
His gaze lifted slowly, dark eyes shadowed with uncertainty, flicking toward me as if measuring whether my courage was real. “You always speak truly,” he said, low and deliberate, a faint rasp to his voice. “Do you need to say more?”
“Yes,” I said, taking a careful step closer, closing the distance that had always felt both intimate and terrifying. I reached for his hand, letting my fingers slide into his, brushing over the ridges of scar and the heat of his skin. The contact was electric, and I felt a shiver run up my spine at the simple act of holding him. “I need you to hear me.”
His brow knit slightly, a subtle tension in his shoulders as he shifted to meet me fully. He had the posture of a man who had learned, too well, that the world feared him, that it did not grant him closeness easily. “Then speak,” he whispered, almost reverently, as if afraid the words themselves might break some fragile equilibrium.
I closed my eyes briefly, inhaling the warmth that emanated from him, the faint scent of citrus lingering from his bath, mingling with the subtle musk of him that no soap could fully mask. I pressed a fingertip against the back of his hand, the roughness of his scars a reminder of all he had endured—and of all he had done to survive. “Adam,” I said, voice steady now, “I want… I want us to be married in every sense. Not just in name, not just in legality. I want us… truly. I want to share our lives, our nights, our mornings, our homes. I want to build a family with you. I want to sleep beside you, to wake beside you, to wake knowing you are near.”
The words lingered between us, weighty and potent. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath my gaze, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands tightening around mine. His eyes darkened, searching mine for meaning, for truth, for permission to hope that he could dare to accept what I offered.
“You… mean all of that?” His voice cracked slightly, low and uncertain, each word heavy with disbelief. “Even… knowing what I am?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Even knowing what you are. Because you are not a monster, Adam. You are the man who saved me. The man who loved me. The man who has endured more than anyone should, and yet here you are, still capable of tenderness, of devotion… of love.”
He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the bed, one hand covering his face briefly before he removed it to rest over mine. “I… I do not know if I deserve that,” he murmured. “I have… done things—seen things… been made… to be…” He hesitated, voice tight, “to be a thing unnatural. Something unfit for love. Something… dreadful.”
I lifted my hand to his face, fingers tracing the familiar lines of scar and ridge, letting him feel my certainty through touch. “I do not see dreadful,” I whispered. “I see what I love. Every scar, every stitch, every shadow of your past—it is yours, and I choose you nonetheless. I choose you fully, Adam. I want all of you.”
His lips parted slightly, a soft, breathless sound escaping him, as if the weight of my declaration was both a relief and a terror. “You… you truly mean that?” he asked, almost a whisper.
“Yes,” I said, stepping closer until I could feel the warmth of him radiating against me. “Truly. I want to be your wife in every way possible. I want to share everything with you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing, and I could see the storm of emotion passing through him: guilt, fear, wonder, awe. His body trembled faintly beneath my hands, a taut coil of strength and vulnerability. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned toward me, closing the remaining distance.
Our lips met, hesitant at first, brushing in a tentative dance of touch and taste. I felt the tension in him, felt the restraint and fear in the gentle press of his lips, and I mirrored it with my own certainty. His hands came up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks, and the kiss deepened, still slow, still careful, but alive with the heat of everything we had been too long afraid to name.
I pressed closer, hands sliding into his thick, still slightly wet hair, tugging slightly as he exhaled against me. A low, almost imperceptible groan escaped him, and my pulse leapt. There was a danger in this closeness—a heady, electric awareness—but nothing beyond the boundary of our resolve. Our lips parted briefly, but our foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing in tandem.
His hands bracketed my hips and pulled me into his lap. I gasped against his mouth, and felt heat pool between my legs.
I shivered as I settled my weight upon him, legs bracketing his, the thick hardness swelling between his legs pressing into me.
It was intimate in a way that terrified me. There was lust, desire, but also the raw honesty of two hearts finally unburdened, allowing themselves to exist fully in each other’s presence. I could feel the depth of his awe, the tremor of guilt slowly giving way to trust, and the fragile thrill of desire mingled with reverence.
I ground my hips against him, eliciting a delightful purr that rumbled deep in his chest.
His lips grazed my throat and I melted, my fingers tightening in his damp hair, a soft whimper escaping my lips.
His fingers tightened, pulling me harder against him. I guided his face closer into my neck, and he obliged me with relish, his kisses sending tremors through my entire body.
I felt him buck up into me, the handle on his restraint dangerously loose. My head spun at the feeling of him, the careful strength. I wanted more.
I needed more.
And then—a sharp knock at the door shattered the spell.
We jumped apart, both of us flushed, fumbling slightly with clothing, straightening the folds of fabric as we tried to regain composure. Adam’s hand lingered on mine for a moment longer, grounding me even as the tension of interrupted intimacy remained between us. My heart raced, my blood thrumming in my ears. I could feel the slickness on my thighs as I shifted, trying to cool the flames.
“Adelia, a letter,” Constance’s voice called, steady and unflinching, as the head housemaid entered the room. She held the envelope delicately, her eyes flicking toward Adam, noting his partial undress for just a heartbeat before meeting mine.
I took it with trembling fingers, breaking the seal with care. The handwriting was unmistakable—familiar, precise, and laden with menace. My father’s.
Dearest Adelia,
I trust this note finds you in reasonable health, though I cannot help but wonder at the burdens you must carry in the vast solitude of your husband’s estate. It is, I am certain, a comfortable place, yet comfort is often a veil for certain necessities—those obligations which, if neglected, may grow insidiously until they can no longer be ignored.
I write to inform you of my intention to visit in person, for there are matters of considerable importance that cannot, in my estimation, be entrusted to the impermanence of letters or the ears of a servant. These matters are delicate, requiring the full attention of those involved, and I trust you will receive me with due courtesy, as a daughter ought.
You understand, I am sure, that circumstances rarely remain static. What was once sufficient may become wanting. What seemed secure may prove precarious. I have found myself in such a position, one in which I must navigate challenges both unforeseen and relentless. Friends have failed me, investments faltered, and opportunities, once taken for granted, now demand careful tending. I am certain you, with your keen insight, will appreciate the subtlety of these concerns.
It is my hope that during my visit, we may speak frankly—openly—without the hindrance of intermediaries or the half-truths that so often accompany correspondence. It would be most regrettable if misunderstandings arose in my absence, particularly when clarity may yet avert unnecessary complications. I have every confidence that you will prepare accordingly, and that you will see the wisdom in ensuring matters proceed without discord.
Know, my dear daughter, that my intentions are not unkind, though prudence demands firmness. I do not presume to direct the life you have chosen, nor to diminish the autonomy you now exercise, yet one must consider the influence of circumstance, and the consequences of choices made in isolation. It is with this in mind that I anticipate our conversation.
I shall expect your hospitality and attention, Adelia, for there are points which must be addressed, and opportunities which must not be neglected. Your estate is vast, your household considerable, and I have no doubt you will ensure that all is arranged suitably for my arrival.
Until then, I remain, with the affection a father bears his daughter—ever devoted, ever watchful, and ever mindful of the responsibilities that bind us both.
Your devoted father,
E. H.
A chill rippled down my spine despite the warmth of the room. The words were formal, polite even, but beneath the veneer there was something darker, something insistent and calculating. It was not simply a father wishing to see his daughter; it was a summons, a statement of intent.
Adam’s eyes met mine, dark and steady, but I could see the tension returning, the shadow of unease that never fully left him. I swallowed hard, feeling the residual heat of our closeness still clinging to my skin, a bittersweet comfort in the face of looming dread.
“We cannot ignore this,” I murmured, my fingers tightening around the letter. “He does not intend a mere visit. This… this is something else.”
Adam’s hand covered mine, warm and reassuring, squeezing with quiet strength. “Then we will face it together,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “Whatever comes, side by side.”
I nodded, leaning into him, letting the last tremors of the intimate confession and kiss settle into a quiet, protective glow. The manor seemed to exhale with us, the shadows of the room deepening, the great oak outside watching over us like a silent sentinel.
And though dread lingered, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I would face whatever came next with Adam, my husband, my protector, the man I had chosen—and who had chosen me.
Chapter 20
Summary:
Listen Adelia's father is a shit and I thought everyone should know.
Chapter Text
Adelia
The carriage arrived without ceremony.
There was no herald’s trumpet, no servant rushing ahead with breathless urgency, no shouted announcement of importance. Only the dull, uneven clatter of wheels over gravel—an ungainly, workaday sound that felt grotesquely out of place against the measured quiet of the estate. I noticed it first because the birds fell silent.
The finches that nested along the hedgerows near the south lawn scattered all at once, wings flashing pale in the afternoon light, as if startled by something unseen. Their sudden absence left a hollow quiet behind, a vacuum that pressed against my ears. Even before I reached the window, before I parted the velvet curtain, I felt it settle into my bones: the unmistakable sense of intrusion.
I stood at the tall window overlooking the drive, fingers curled tightly into the heavy fabric, and watched as the carriage lurched to a halt before the manor steps.
It was a modest thing—too modest.
Its paint had long since begun to fail, peeling in weary strips that revealed raw wood beneath, bleached and weathered by neglect. One wheel sat at a permanent, apologetic angle, warped just enough to wobble when the carriage settled, as though even the axle had grown tired of pretending at usefulness. The horse that drew it was thin at the flank, ribs faintly visible beneath its hide, tack worn nearly smooth from years of use without proper care.
Everything about it spoke of decline.
Not the honest poverty of misfortune or ill luck, but the slow decay of waste. Of excess spent carelessly, of resources drained without thought for consequence. It was the carriage of a man who had once had enough—and then more than enough—and had chosen to treat both as inexhaustible.
It did not belong here.
The estate seemed to know it as keenly as I did. The air felt suddenly compressed, as though the house itself had drawn a shallow breath and was holding it. The gardens below lay unnaturally still. Even the great oak at their heart—ancient, patient, its leaves rarely at rest—seemed to pause in its endless whispering, branches held in a tense, listening stillness.
Behind me, Adam stood in silence.
I did not need to turn to know where he was; I felt him the way one feels the presence of a wall at one’s back, or the steady ground beneath one’s feet. His height and breadth altered the very shape of the room, as they always did. Shadows adjusted themselves around him. Space bent, subtly, in acknowledgment of his mass.
But today there was something else beneath his stillness.
Wariness.
Readiness.
“You do not have to see him,” Adam said gently.
His voice was low, carefully neutral, but I heard what lay beneath it. The unspoken promise. The quiet certainty that if I chose to turn away—if I said the word—my father would not be permitted past the gates. Adam would see to it personally.
“I do,” I replied.
The words left my mouth before I could soften them, sharp with inevitability. I did not look at Adam when I spoke, though I felt his attention sharpen, felt the subtle shift in his posture as he accepted my choice.
This was mine.
The carriage door opened with a groan of protesting hinges.
My father stepped down with practiced ease, boots finding the stone steps as though he had stepped onto far finer ground than he deserved. He paused only briefly, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat, straightening his cuffs, adjusting himself as if he were about to enter a ballroom rather than the estate of the man to whom he had sold his daughter.
Time had not been kind to him.
He looked thinner than I remembered, his face drawn taut over bone, cheek hollows deeper, jaw more sharply defined. Lines bracketed his mouth now, etched by years of dissatisfaction and entitlement. His hair, once meticulously groomed, bore streaks of gray he had made no effort to conceal. And yet his posture was unchanged—straight-backed, confident, certain of his right to occupy whatever space he chose.
His eyes flicked immediately to the manor.
They roamed its façade with naked hunger—the breadth of the stonework, the symmetry of the windows, the careful preservation that spoke of wealth not merely acquired, but maintained. His gaze slid from the house to the land beyond it, the rolling acres, the tree-lined paths, the distant glimmer of water catching the light.
Calculation passed over his face.
Then affection—well-practiced and hollow—returned to take its place.
“Adelia,” he called, his voice warm, resonant, pitched perfectly to carry without shouting. “My girl.”
The words struck me like a misremembered tune—familiar, once comforting, now profoundly wrong.
I did not correct him.
Adam moved to stand beside me as we descended the steps. The sunlight caught the scars that mapped his face and throat, throwing them into sharp relief. He made no effort to hide them. He never did. Not anymore.
My father’s gaze slid to him—
—and faltered.
The transformation was instantaneous.
The smile froze, caught halfway between charm and politeness. Color drained from his cheeks, leaving behind a sickly pallor. His eyes widened—just slightly—before snapping away again. For the briefest of moments, something raw and unguarded broke through his composure.
Fear.
Then, just as quickly, it vanished.
He bowed stiffly, shallow and perfunctory, like a man acknowledging something he would rather deny existed at all.
“Baron,” he said, his tone polite but somehow the title sounded more like profanity coming from him.
He did not use Adam’s name.
Adam inclined his head in return, a gesture of restrained courtesy that only emphasized the disparity between them. Where my father’s civility felt brittle and performative, Adam’s was deliberate—chosen.
We did not linger outside.
The servants opened the doors, and we entered the manor together.
Inside, the cool hush of stone and polished wood closed around us, the familiar scent of beeswax, old books, and lingering citrus from Adam’s chambers grounding me. My father’s footsteps echoed too loudly against the marble floor, the sound of them intrusive, ill-matched to the space.
We were shown into the receiving room.
Tea was brought. Porcelain cups were placed with care. Steam curled faintly in the air, carrying the scent of bergamot. None of it was touched.
My father sat as though he belonged there, settling into the chair with proprietary ease, legs crossed, hands folded loosely in his lap. He did not ask permission. He never had. Adam remained standing for a moment longer than necessary before taking the seat beside me. His presence at my side was a comfort I did not attempt to hide.
My father noticed, of course. He always noticed leverage.
“My circumstances,” my father began after a suitably heavy pause, “have… worsened.”
He sighed, long and theatrical, eyes lifting briefly to the ceiling as if appealing to some higher authority for patience.
“Investments gone awry,” he continued. “Friends less loyal than expected. Times are uncertain, Adelia. You must have noticed.”
I met his gaze steadily.
“I have noticed,” I said calmly.
He blinked, momentarily thrown by my tone, then recovered with a thin smile. “Then you understand why I have come. I would not trouble you if I had another choice.”
“You always have another choice,” I replied. “You simply prefer this one.”
The air in the room tightened.
My father shifted in his chair, fingers tapping once against the armrest. “That is an unkind way to speak to a man who ensured you were well married.”
“Well sold,” I corrected quietly.
His lips thinned. “Words like that suggest ingratitude.” My father’s expression hardened, charm slipping at the edges. “You speak boldly for a girl who owes her comfort to my sacrifices.”
Adam stirred beside me. I placed my hand over his before he could speak, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.
“Your sacrifices?” I scoffed. “You sold me! I was just lucky that it was to a man as kind as him.” I glanced at Adam, grounding myself in the steadiness of him. “No. I owe you nothing.”
Silence fell, heavy and deliberate.
My father studied me as though reassessing an investment that had unexpectedly grown a spine. Then his gaze slid to Adam—over his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the scars that marked his face. This time he did not bother to hide his scrutiny. Disgust crept into his eyes, mingled with calculation.
“I see now why you are… grateful,” he said softly. “Such a man would inspire dependency.”
I felt Adam go very still beneath my hand.
“You mistake me,” my father went on smoothly. “I do not wish to reclaim what has already been… exchanged.” His eyes flicked meaningfully between us. “But families must continue to support one another. That is how society functions.”
“No,” I said. “That is how you function.”
His smile returned, brittle and thin. “Call it what you like. The truth remains: you are secure. Comfortable. Protected.” His gaze sharpened. “And I am not.”
Adam finally spoke, his voice low and controlled. “You are asking for money.”
My father inclined his head, as though conceding a trivial point. “Assistance,” he corrected. “A temporary loan. An investment, if you prefer. I would, of course, repay it when my fortunes recover.”
“When?” I asked.
He waved a hand. “In time.”
“In time,” I repeated. “The same promise you made when you took the bride price.”
His jaw tightened. “Mind your tone, Adelia.”
“Mind your greed,” I shot back.
That was when Adam stood.
The room seemed to shrink around him. The change was immediate, physical—like a storm front rolling in, unannounced and impossible to ignore.
“I will not give you money,” Adam said quietly. “Nor will my wife.”
The word wife struck the air like a thrown stone.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The silence rippled outward, taut and fragile, as though the room itself were bracing for impact.
Then my father laughed.
It was not amusement. It was not warmth. It was a sharp, barking sound—dry and sudden—like brittle glass cracking under pressure. The sound echoed unpleasantly off the stone walls, too loud, too raw for a place meant to house reverence.
“Wife,” he repeated, tasting the word as though it offended him. His smile twitched, stretched thin, then vanished altogether. Something darker surged up to replace it—an anger long restrained now snapping free of its leash. “Yes,” he said, voice rising, the careful civility stripped away. “Yes. About that.”
He pushed himself to his feet so abruptly that his chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound jarring and irreverent in the holy stillness. His attention was fixed—burning—on us.
On me.
“There are questions,” he said, each word sharpened to a blade. “Concerns that cannot simply be brushed aside with sentiment and defiance.” His gaze cut toward Adam then, lingering with open contempt on the scars, the seams, the undeniable wrongness of his form. “A union such as this—this grotesque farce—does not exist beyond scrutiny. It cannot.”
His hands curled at his sides, fingers flexing as though resisting the urge to strike something—someone.
I was stunned. My father was the reason I'd married Adam to begin with, now he threatened to tear us apart because we refuse to fund his frivolity?
“You stand there,” he went on, voice rising now, echoing through the nave, “and dare to deny me what is owed? After everything I have sacrificed? After the arrangements I made, the alliances I forged, the reputation I risked?” He laughed again, louder this time, bitter and unhinged. “Do you have any notion of what it costs to maintain position in this world?”
His eyes snapped back to me, blazing.
“You were meant to secure our future,” he snarled. “That was your purpose. That was the agreement. You were not meant to entangle yourself with—this—and then hide behind sanctimony when the bill comes due.”
His restraint had shattered completely, revealing the raw, grasping fury beneath.
“You think refusal absolves you?” he demanded. “You think love—love—will protect you from consequence?” His voice dropped suddenly, dangerously low. “I can unmake this. Do you hear me? I can take this mockery of a marriage and reduce it to nothing but ink and ash. I can leave you with nothing—no protection, no standing, no refuge. There are other suitors. I will not let this investment sour."
The threat hung heavy in the air, no longer subtle, no longer disguised as concern or counsel. It was naked now. Desperate.
I did not move.
Instead, I reached for Adam’s hand again, deliberately, unmistakably. My fingers threaded through his with calm certainty, a quiet, irrevocable choice made visible. I felt the tension in him, the stillness with which he endured my father’s venom, and I anchored myself there—beside him, with him.
Then I lifted my gaze to my father and held it.
Unblinking.
Unyielding.
“Then you should prepare yourself,” I said softly, my voice steady where his raged, “for disappointment.”
The words did not rise. They did not need to.
They fell like a final door closing.
And for the first time, my father looked not powerful—but cornered.
***
Adam
We did not speak until the chamber doors closed behind us.
The sound was final, the iron latch biting home—and it struck me with the peculiar violence of endings. For a moment I stood utterly still, listening for pursuit that did not come, half-expecting her father’s voice to bleed through the corridor after us, sharp and venomous, claiming what he believed was still his.
Nothing followed.
The afternoon light filtering through the tall windows looked thin and anemic after the suffocating glow of candles, as though even the sun had withdrawn its favor. Dust motes drifted lazily, indifferent witnesses to what had just passed. I did not move until we were well clear of the house—until distance itself became a shield.
Only then did Adelia exhale.
It was a long, controlled breath, the kind taken by someone who has been holding herself together by force of will alone. I had learned to recognize it over these past four months. I watched her from a careful distance, as I so often did in moments of strain, afraid that if I reached too soon I would shatter something fragile. Her shoulders were squared, her chin lifted, her posture composed—but her mouth was too tight, her jaw set as though she were grinding down words she refused to give voice to.
“I am sorry,” I said at last.
The words felt inadequate the moment they left me, small and cowardly in the face of what she had endured, but they were all I could manage without unraveling entirely.
She turned sharply, brows knitting—not in anger, but confusion. “For what?”
“For him,” I answered. “For placing you back within his reach. For ever agreeing to let him come here.” I hesitated, bile rising in my throat. “For believing that a contract could protect you from a man like that.”
Her expression softened then, and the change in it hurt more than if she had struck me. Pity would have been unbearable. This was worse—understanding.
“Adam,” she said gently, and stepped closer. “No.”
She reached for my hands. Her fingers were cold from the air, threading through mine with a familiarity that still startled me. Four months married, and yet the simple fact of her touch retained the power to undo me completely. I was keenly aware, as I always was, of the difference between us—my hands too large, my skin wrong beneath her delicate grip—but she never flinched. Never hesitated.
“He sold me,” she said quietly.
There was no tremor in her voice. No bitterness. Just clarity, sharp and unadorned.
“Let us name it honestly. My father has no claim on me anymore. Adam—he sold me. He signed the papers, took the money, and congratulated himself on his cleverness. That was the end of it.”
The words landed like a blow to the chest.
“Yes,” I said hoarsely. “But I am the one who bought you.”
Silence fell between us, thick and immediate.
I had not meant to say it so bluntly, but the truth had lived like a splinter beneath my ribs for months now, working itself deeper every time I tried to ignore it. I had followed the advice given to me—by lawyers, by men who understood power and leverage better than conscience. They had spoken of necessity. Of protection. Of appearances. Of how such arrangements were made every day, how women like Adelia were safer under contract than at the mercy of fathers who saw them as currency.
I had listened.
And every night since, I had paid for it.
“I required the standing,” I continued, forcing myself to go on. “Your name. Your lineage. Without it, I would have been exposed. Vulnerable in ways I could not afford.” My voice dropped. “I entered the arrangement knowing exactly what it was. I told myself it was practical. That it would keep you safe. That it was better than the alternatives.” I laughed bitterly. “I have been telling myself that for four months.”
She searched my face then, truly looked at me, as though she were seeing not the husband the world recognized, but the man beneath the title—the creature who had been assembled, instructed, and unleashed without ever being asked what he wished to be.
“I do not regret marrying you,” she said carefully. “If that is what you fear.”
“I know,” I replied. “That is what makes this worse.”
The guilt had not been a single moment, sharp and clean. It had been a constant, gnawing presence—like acid slowly eating through iron. Every time she laughed with genuine ease. Every time she trusted me. Every time she laid her head against my chest as though it were the most natural place in the world.
I had bought her.
No amount of tenderness afterward could fully erase that fact.
“I was advised to do it,” I said. “They told me it was the only way. That once the papers were signed, once you were legally beyond his reach, everything else would follow naturally. Affection. Respect. Perhaps even love, if I were fortunate.”
I swallowed. “I have tried—God help me, I have tried—to push the thought away. To tell myself that what we have now is real enough to eclipse how it began. Some days I succeed. Others…” I gestured vaguely at my chest. “Others it feels like a brand burned into me.”
Her grip on my hands tightened.
“And if we had not fallen in love?” she asked softly.
The question caught me off guard, not because it was unthinkable, but because I had asked it of myself countless times in the dark.
“If I had wanted nothing to do with you,” she continued. “If I had resented you. Feared you. If I had asked to be left alone—truly alone—what would you have done?”
I did not hesitate.
“I would have let you go,” I said immediately. “I swear it to you.”
Her eyes widened slightly, as though she had expected evasion.
“You are your own person,” I went on, the words tumbling out now, urgent and raw. “You always have been. Contract or no contract. If you had wished to leave—if you had told me you wanted nothing of me—I would have arranged it. Quietly. Safely. I would have ensured you were beyond his reach and then removed myself entirely.”
She searched my face, testing the truth of it.
“I would have loved you anyway,” I admitted. “From a distance. Silently. I would have carried it alone and never made it your burden. Never demanded anything in return.”
The admission felt like laying my heart bare on stone.
“But I would not—could not—have forced myself into your life if you did not want me there. I am not your father. I refuse to be that man.”
Her eyes shone then, but she did not let the tears fall.
“I chose you,” she said firmly. “Not because of ink and signatures, but because you never treated me like something owned. Not even when you had the legal right to do so.”
She stepped closer, resting her forehead briefly against my chest, as though listening for proof.
“We cannot change how it began,” she continued. “But we decide, every day, what it becomes.”
I closed my eyes, resting my chin against her hair.
“We have not consummated the marriage,” I said quietly, the practical fear rising again despite the intimacy of the moment. “That alone gives him ammunition.”
Her cheeks colored faintly, though her voice remained steady. “We were not ready. We were learning one another. There is no shame in that.”
“No,” I agreed. “But the church does not care for readiness. Only proof.”
She drew back then, lifting her chin.
“Then we give them none,” she said. “No proof. No opportunity. I will let anyone take you from me. I will not let him sell me again. I won't."
I studied her—the woman who had been traded like coin and yet stood before me unbowed, her will intact, her eyes bright with resolve.
“What do you propose?” I asked.
She inhaled, steadying herself. “We stand together. We disappear if we must. We make ourselves indispensable to those who would defend us. And if the church comes, we meet them not as a bargain, not as a lie—”
“But as a marriage that chose itself,” I finished.
She smiled, small but certain.
Her hand found mine again, warmer now, and when she spoke next, her voice was unwavering.
“I would choose you again,” she said. “Even knowing all of this.”
The weight of those words settled over me—not as a chain, but as a vow.
And for the first time since Victor Frankenstein’s hands had shaped me into being, I allowed myself to believe that survival was not my sole purpose.
That perhaps love—chosen, imperfect, fiercely defended—might be enough to redeem even the ugliest of beginnings.
Chapter 21
Summary:
Take me to church (but significantly less sexy than Hozier)
Also Adelia's father is the OG r/entitledparent
Chapter Text
Adam
The church predated the town—older than its roads, older than its graves, older even than the stories men told themselves to explain why it still stood. Its stones bore the memory of centuries: weathered, hollowed, darkened by rain and smoke and the endless murmur of prayer. Moss crept along its seams like a patient disease, and the great archway yawned open before us, not in welcome, but in invitation to judgment.
I paused beneath it.
There was something deliberate about the threshold, as though the church itself understood the weight of what crossed into its keeping. Cold bled through the soles of my boots and climbed my legs, settling into bone and marrow. The air inside was thick with incense and beeswax and old wood—and beneath it all, the faint metallic tang of authority exercised without consequence.
Judgment has a smell. I have learned that.
I remained half in shadow, half in the trembling candlelight spilling outward, suspended between what I was and what they wished to name me. Adelia stood just behind me, her presence steady, her silence resolute. I could feel her there as surely as if her hand were already in mine—anchoring me, reminding me that I was not alone in this room, nor in this life.
Inside, three priests waited beside a long table scattered with parchments, seals, and leather-bound volumes whose spines were cracked from use rather than neglect. Wax dripped in slow, patient tears from the candles between them. Their robes were dark and heavy, swallowing the light, their expressions arranged into something meant to resemble impartiality.
Adelia’s father sat among them as though he belonged there.
Not merely present—installed.
He leaned back in his chair with proprietary ease, legs crossed, hands folded loosely in his lap. He wore the look of a man accustomed to being heard, to being believed. His face bore the careful lines of concern, the mild sorrow of a father supposedly forced into cruelty by necessity. It was a performance I recognized well.
When his gaze slid to Adelia, I saw the intent there beneath the practiced affection.
Ownership.
Assessment.
Calculation.
“You see,” he said smoothly, voice calm as still water hiding depthless rot, “this is precisely why I have troubled the church with this unfortunate matter. Appearances can deceive, but they also reveal. The man before you is… unusual.”
His eyes flicked briefly to my scars—lingering just long enough to invite speculation, disgust, fear.
“Violent by nature,” he continued. “Shaped by war. Hardened. Scarred in body and spirit alike. A man such as this does not lend himself to the sanctity of marriage.”
One of the priests shifted in his seat. Another made a quiet mark on the parchment before him.
“He is not of gentle birth,” Adelia’s father added mildly. “Nor gentle temperament. A union founded in fear and imbalance cannot be holy.”
He gestured vaguely in my direction, as though I were an object laid out for inspection.
“Look at him.”
The priests did, then.
Not fully. Not directly. But enough.
Their eyes slid over me—over my height, my breadth, the uneven lines of my face. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, the old, reflexive awareness of being weighed and found wanting before I had spoken a word. The judgment had been cultivated long before this moment—fed by whispers, implication, and her father’s careful poison administered drop by drop.
“The marriage,” one priest murmured at last, fingers interlaced tightly, “was arranged under… irregular circumstances. There are concerns that consent was influenced by necessity. Fear can masquerade as devotion.”
Another priest cleared his throat. “There are also rumors,” he said cautiously, “that a considerable sum changed hands prior to the ceremony.”
Certainty sharpened their words. There was no cruelty in them.
Certainty is far more dangerous.
Adelia’s father sighed, as if burdened by charity.
“I begged him not to,” he said. “I begged him to let my daughter remain under my protection. But desperation makes men reckless. He insisted on offering… compensation.”
Indignant rage sparked in me at the lie, but I held it back. I could not afford to lose my temper. Not now.
Adelia stepped forward before I could speak.
Her back was straight, her chin lifted, her hands calm at her sides. She stood fully in the light now, unflinching. When she spoke, her voice carried through the nave—clear, unshaken, resolute.
“I chose him.”
The words were simple. Final.
One of the priests frowned. Another leaned back, studying her more closely now, as though reassessing a witness.
Her father laughed once, sharply. It was a sound stripped of warmth, brittle as breaking glass.
“You were frightened,” he said. “Desperate. We were ruined. He had resources. Protection. That is not choice—it is survival. And survival does not sanctify a union.”
He turned slightly toward the priests, inviting them to share his indulgent pity.
“My daughter has always been obedient,” he continued, his voice tinged with false affection. “She confuses gratitude for love. It is a common failing in young women raised to endure rather than demand.”
One of the priests nodded slowly. “A daughter owes obedience to her father,” he said. “Especially when her future is at stake.”
Adelia’s fingers curled, just slightly.
“I am grateful,” she said evenly. “And I am not mistaken. I know the difference between obligation and devotion. Gratitude does not blind me—it clarifies.”
Silence followed—thick, resistant.
“And yet,” one priest said at last, carefully, “there are additional concerns. The legitimacy of the marriage. Whether it has been fully—”
“Consummated?” Adelia finished calmly.
The word rang through the nave like a struck bell.
One priest inhaled sharply. Another looked away.
Her father stiffened.
“Yes,” the priest said. “That.”
Adelia did not hesitate.
“It has been,” she said, without falter. “I will not allow my father to parade my private life as evidence of his grievance. My husband and I are lawfully wed in every sense recognized by church and crown.” I prayed they would not see through the falsehood.
Her father’s jaw tightened—just enough to be seen.
“That is a lie,” he said softly. Too softly. “You would not—”
She turned on him then, eyes blazing.
“You will not speak for me,” she said. “Not here. Not ever again.”
The silence that followed was profound.
I stepped forward at last, feeling the weight of every eye in the room settle upon me.
“My scars,” I said quietly, meeting the priests’ gaze, “were earned in service. I fought where I was sent. I bled where I stood. War marks men in ways that unsettle those who have never known it.”
The half-lie rolled easily off my tongue. In truth, I was mostly constructed from soldiers.
“I am no monster,” I continued. “I am a husband. And I have honored my wife in body, in spirit, and in vow.”
“And yet,” Adelia’s father interjected smoothly, “honor does not erase imbalance. He bought her. And what is bought can be sold again—if the church has the courage to correct its mistake.”
The word sold echoed unpleasantly.
One of the priests stiffened. “That is an… inelegant way to phrase—”
“A practical one,” her father replied. “There are men of standing who would see her properly placed. Men who can provide stability. Alliances. Contributions to the church that would not be… modest.”
The implication lay naked between us.
One of the priests studied me for a long moment. I held eye contact with him, begging silently. 'Please do not take her from me.' Another exchanged a glance with his fellows. They pressed their heads together, whispering so quietly I could not hear. My heart thundered against my ribs.
At last, the eldest spoke.
“The church does not exist to serve personal profit,” he said slowly, eyes shifting—just perceptibly—toward Adelia’s father. “Nor to dissolve marriages for convenience.”
My father’s smile froze.
“We find no cause for annulment,” the priest continued. “The marriage stands.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
I let out a breath I had not realized I had been holding, relief chasing out the tingling numbness that had overtaken my legs. I felt Adelia’s fingers slip into mine, and I gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
Then something inside her father broke—not loudly, not openly, but with terrifying restraint.
His hands curled at his sides. His breath went shallow. His eyes burned with a fury so intense it could scarcely be contained within his skin.
“This is a mistake,” he said tightly. “A costly one.”
“The matter is settled,” the priest replied.
My father stood with rigid precision, bowing stiffly. “Then God help you all,” he said. “You have chosen poorly.”
Outside, the doors closed behind us with a resonant finality.
The afternoon air felt sharp, cold, real.
My father turned on us the moment we were beyond the church’s reach.
His composure vanished.
“If I cannot reclaim what is mine through the church,” he hissed, stepping close, “I will take it through the town.”
I choked back the growl before it could rumble through me.
Adelia did not retreat.
“I will turn them against you,” he continued, eyes locked on me. “Whispers. Fear. Violence, if needed. You are a beast, Baron. A monster. And monsters do not belong among decent folk.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
“She is mine,” he said. “Wife or not.”
I felt Adelia’s hand tighten in mine.
“She is not,” I said, my lip curling.
His smile returned then—feral, desperate.
“We shall see,” he replied.
And with that, he turned away, already calculating the next bidder, the next lie, the next cruelty he would dress as necessity.
I did not let go of Adelia’s hand.
Whatever came next, we would face it together.
***
Adelia
The estate received us in silence.
Not the peaceful, lived-in quiet I had once associated with home, but something alert and watchful, as though the very walls had drawn inward, listening. The iron gates closed behind our carriage with a sound that felt too final, the echo of it lingering long after the wheels had rolled to a stop in the gravel drive.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
The lamps along the drive had not yet been lit. The manor loomed ahead in the gathering dusk, its familiar shape rendered strange by the way my heart refused to settle. I had spent years longing to escape my father’s house. I had never imagined I would fear that he might follow me into this one.
I did not realize how tightly I had been holding Adam’s hand until my fingers began to ache.
He glanced down at me then, concern flickering across his face. “We’re home,” he said gently, as if the words alone might conjure safety.
I wanted to believe him.
The manor rose before us—stone and glass and shadow, every window dark in the early evening. It should have felt like sanctuary. Instead, it felt like a chessboard, every square suddenly dangerous.
“He will not stop,” I said softly, almost to myself.
Adam did not pretend not to hear. His thumb brushed slow, grounding circles over my knuckles.
“No,” he replied. “He will not.”
Inside, servants moved quietly, casting careful glances in our direction. I caught murmurs cut short, heads bowed too quickly, eyes averted with the exaggerated politeness reserved for scandal. Word travels faster than horses in towns like ours; I could feel it already, the rumors coiling at the edges of the estate, waiting to be fed.
This is my fault, I thought.
Not because I had married Adam—I would choose him again in every lifetime—but because my father existed, because I had once loved him, because I had believed him.
Guilt settled heavy in my chest, a familiar weight. I had carried it since girlhood, though I had never named it until now. Guilt for surviving. For disappointing him. For failing to be enough to stop his hunger.
We had barely removed our cloaks when the carriage returned.
The sound reached me first—the strained creak of leather, the labored rhythm of hooves dragged rather than lifted. It struck something deep and instinctive in me, and before I understood why, dread flooded my veins.
I knew the sound of it at once—the uneven rattle, the labored pull of exhausted flesh. I went to the window before Adam could stop me, my breath catching painfully in my throat.
The horse.
God above.
Its ribs stood out like the slats of a broken barrel, its hide dull, its head hanging low as if even holding it upright required more strength than it possessed. Its legs trembled beneath it, knees locking and unlocking with each breath. The harness cut cruel lines into its flesh, dark with old blood.
My father descended from the carriage with theatrical slowness, straightening his coat as though he had arrived for dinner rather than confrontation. Even now, even after everything, he performed.
“I will speak to him,” Adam said quietly, already moving.
“I’m coming,” I said at once.
He hesitated only a moment, then nodded.
We stepped out together.
My father smiled when he saw us, wide and self-satisfied, as if the church’s refusal had merely delayed his victory.
“Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “It seems I am family still, whether the church wills it or not. I will require a room. And supper. It would be unchristian to turn away one’s own kin.”
Adam did not raise his voice.
“No,” he said.
The word fell clean and sharp between them, cutting through my father’s complacence like glass.
My father blinked, genuinely surprised. “Excuse me?”
“You will not stay here,” Adam continued, his tone calm but unyielding. “You have made your intentions clear. If you wish to turn the town against us, you may do so from the inn. I will not house a man who threatens my wife.”
I felt something in me loosen at that—my wife, spoken not as possession, but as shield.
My father scoffed. “You would cast me out?”
“I am refusing to invite a viper into my bedchamber,” Adam replied. “There is a difference.”
My father’s gaze slid to me. “Adelia,” he said, voice softening into the familiar, coaxing cadence that had once ruled my world. “You will not allow this.”
I looked at him. Truly looked at him. And saw no father there—only hunger. Not even anger. Just appetite.
“You are not welcome here,” I said. My voice shook, but it did not break.
His mouth twisted. “Then at least allow me to leave with dignity.”
I glanced again at the horse, at the way its flank fluttered with each shallow breath.
“No,” I said. Louder now. “You will leave on foot.”
Both men stared at me. Something softened in Adam's eyes. He had a deep fondness for all animals.
“That horse is dying,” I said. “You will unharness it. Now.”
My father laughed incredulously. “Over my dead body.”
Adam stepped forward then, and there was something in his expression that silenced even my father. Not rage. Not threat. Something colder. More certain.
“You will walk,” Adam said. “Or you will be carried. Choose.”
For a moment, I thought my father might challenge him. I saw the calculation flicker behind his eyes—the weighing of pride against consequence.
Then he saw the stable hands gathering, the servants watching, the weight of witnesses.
With a curse, he tore the reins free, the motion rough enough to make the horse flinch.
We watched him walk back toward the road, his fine boots sinking into the gravel, his back stiff with fury, his dignity bleeding away with every step.
Only then did I let myself move.
I went to the horse at once, laying my hands against its neck, feeling the heat beneath its skin, the tremor of exhaustion that wracked its frame. The stable boys worked quickly under Adam’s direction, cutting straps, easing the bit from its mouth. The animal sagged, nearly collapsing, and I pressed my forehead against its mane, whispering nonsense words, prayers, apologies I did not know how to stop.
“I am so sorry,” I murmured. “I am so sorry.”
As they led the poor creature away, Adam came to stand beside me, his presence steady as stone.
“He will not forgive this,” I said.
Adam’s sorrowful gaze followed the horse until it disappeared into the stables, as if he was looking into a mirror instead of at an animal. It made my heart clench.
“No,” he said. “Which is why we must prepare.”
“Prepare how?” I asked, though I already knew.
“We will hire guards,” he said. “Quietly. Men loyal to us, not to gossip. He will use fear. We will deny him opportunity.”
I exhaled shakily. “He’s very good at making people afraid.”
“So am I,” Adam replied, without arrogance. Only fact.
***
Night came heavily, pressing down upon the estate like a held breath.
By the time we lay in bed, the world felt too large, too sharp, every shadow too willing to become threat. Adam’s arms came around me, solid, warm, anchoring. I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in, trying to convince my body that I was safe.
I did not succeed.
The tears came without warning, hot and relentless, my shoulders shaking with the force of them.
“I’m sorry, Adam." I whispered.
“For what?” he asked, his voice gentle, his hand firm at my back.
“For him,” I said. “For all of it.”
He did not tell me to stop crying. He only held me tighter, as though he could keep the past from touching me if he held hard enough.
“My mother died giving birth to my brother.” I said after a long moment. The words felt strange in my mouth, as if they belonged to someone else’s life. “She tried again because he wanted a son. Again and again. Miscarriage after miscarriage. And then—then she carried my brother to term.”
My throat closed.
“He never breathed,” I whispered. “Not once.”
Adam’s hand stilled at my back, then resumed its slow, grounding motion.
“I was told it was God’s will,” I continued. “That my father drank and gambled and squandered everything because he was grieving.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “I believed that for so long.”
I pulled back just enough to look at Adam, needing to be seen.
“I don’t think he ever loved me,” I said. “I think I was a consolation prize. A disappointment that lived.”
Adam’s jaw tightened, pain flashing openly across his face now, but he said nothing, giving me the space to finish.
“I dreamed of planning my wedding,” I went on, the grief shifting, sharpening into something almost unbearable. “Of choosing flowers. Of my mother being there. Of joy. And even though I am happy with you—truly happy—it feels like that was stolen from me too.”
The sob tore free then, ugly and raw, ripping through whatever composure I had left.
Adam kissed my hair, my temple, my tears.
“We can have another ceremony,” he said softly. “One that is yours. One that is everything you dreamed of. There is no law that says joy must be rationed.”
I laughed through my tears, a broken, disbelieving sound. “You would do that?”
“I would do it a hundred times,” he said. “Until the memory of this one no longer hurts.”
I held him then, clinging as though he were the only solid thing left in the world.
“Will you tell me your story?” I asked after a while, my voice small now, careful. “All of it?”
I felt him hesitate, just barely—a pause heavy with things unsaid.
“Yes,” he said at last, old pain lacing his tone. "I will tell you everything."
Chapter 22
Summary:
Adam tells his story.
(Sorry for the short one guys)
Chapter Text
Adelia
The night felt reverent, as though time itself had stilled in acknowledgment. Our chambers lay steeped in shadow and firelight, the hearth reduced to a low, breathing ember. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, pale and distant, silvering the floorboards and the edge of the bed. The manor slept—no footsteps, no voices, no settling wood—nothing to intrude upon what he was about to surrender.
Adam lay beside me, propped against the pillows, his gaze fixed on a place beyond sight. I rested my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. It was strong, inexorable—but beneath it, tonight, ran a fragile tremor that frightened me more than silence ever could.
When I asked him to tell me his story, I had expected hesitation.
I had not expected fear.
“If I tell you everything,” he said quietly, eyes averted, “there will be no part of me left untouched by your knowing.”
I lifted my head and met his gaze. Darkness lived there—ancient, fathomless—and fear that hollowed my chest.
“That’s what marriage is,” I said softly. “Let me carry it with you.”
He closed his eyes. For a long moment I thought he might refuse. Then his breath changed, slow and deliberate, as though he were bracing himself against an internal storm.
“When I first became aware,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t understand that awareness was something that could exist.”
There was no before, he told me. No comparison. Only sensation. Pain without edge or mercy—everywhere at once. As he spoke, his fingers twisted into the sheets, and I felt the memory tightening his body even now.
“It was like being torn apart,” he murmured. “As if my body were pulled in a thousand directions. Everything burned. Everything hurt."
My grip tightened around his hand. My throat ached, breath turning shallow as though I could somehow share the weight of it. I hated the thought of him alone in that agony.
He told me his limbs moved without his consent, his chest convulsed as air was dragged into lungs that did not yet know how to breathe. He could see—blurred light and shadow—but nothing held meaning. Only the certainty that something was terribly, irrevocably wrong.
Hours passed before he gained enough control to stand. To rip the bandages from his eyes.
He told me of seeing the corpse first—a man sprawled on the floor, a dark halo blooming beneath his head. Of nudging him, confused, frightened, not understanding why he would not move. Of wandering the tower in growing terror, crying out for anyone, anything, desperate proof that he was not alone in his pain.
Then he found another man asleep in a bed. Papers scattered. Hands gloved red. Adam had not known who Victor was—only that he mattered. That he was breathing. That he was the only other living thing in the laboratory.
“I tried to reach him,” Adam said. “My half-numb legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me. My arms wouldn’t obey.”
His breath hitched. “I made a sound. I don’t know what it was.”
That woke Victor.
Adam’s eyes unfocused, the present dissolving.
“He was terrified,” he said. “He stumbled back. And then…” His voice faltered. “Then he laughed.”
Pain constricted my chest until it hurt to breathe.
“He touched me like I wasn’t real,” Adam continued. “My face. My hands. My chest. He kept repeating the same sound, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he stopped.”
He looked at me then, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“‘Victor,’” he said softly. “That was my first word. The first thing that ever meant something.”
My throat burned.
“He was euphoric,” Adam said. “He dragged me to the window. Talked endlessly—science, triumph, God, death. He showed me the sun.”
His voice softened despite himself.
“It was warm,” he whispered. “I remember thinking—if the sun feels like this, then the world must be good.”
I barely dared breathe.
“Then he saw himself reflected in my eyes,” Adam said, his voice darkening. “And something in him broke.”
Joy collapsed into horror. Victor recoiled as though struck, pacing, muttering. Calling Adam a monster. A mistake.
“That night,” Adam said, fingers tightening painfully around mine, “he chained me in the basement.”
Cold crept into my bones as he spoke of stone slick with damp, of time without measure. Of Victor returning only to observe. To test.
“He never named me,” Adam said. “I was ‘it.’ A thing.”
Silent sobs tore through me.
“He wanted me to speak,” Adam continued. “But he had no patience to teach me. When I said only his name, he grew violent.”
His jaw clenched.
“He shaved my head,” he said quietly. “Like he was erasing me. As if he resented me for not being human enough—yet refused to let me resemble one.”
My hand rose of its own accord, fingers sliding gently through his hair. The length of it made sense now—his first rebellion. His first claim to humanity.
Then his voice softened.
“Elizabeth came.”
The name twisted painfully through me, jealousy flaring before shame extinguished it.
“She didn’t recoil,” Adam said. “She didn’t look away. She asked Victor why I was chained up like an animal.”
His breath trembled.
“She was the first person who ever looked at me and saw someone.”
He told me how she returned at night. How she knelt beside him, placed his fingers against her throat, spoke slowly and patiently—teaching him how sound became meaning.
“My second word,” he whispered, “was her name.”
He broke then—shoulders shaking, breath shattering into sobs. I pulled him into my arms, his face pressed into my shoulder as though he might vanish if I let go.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”
When he could speak again, his voice was raw.
“Victor was enraged,” he said. “He beat me. He screamed that I was mocking him. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong.” His voice cracked. “Elizabeth left the next day.”
He told me of the kerosene—the stench of it soaking into stone and wood. Of the bargain.
“He said he’d spare my life if I spoke one word besides his name,” Adam said, swallowing hard. “I gave him ‘Elizabeth.’”
My sob tore free.
“He lit the match anyway.”
Fire burned in Adam’s eyes as he spoke of screaming Victor's name, of chains biting into his skin as the inferno rose around him.
“He never came,” he whispered.
He had torn himself free. Fell hundreds of feet into the lake below. Woke cold but alive, his memories shattered.
The year that followed spilled out in fragments—hunters firing at him on sight, flight, finding the cabin, hiding in the mill gears, learning language by watching a family through cracks in the walls.
“I befriended the mice,” he said quietly.
That small gentleness shattered me.
“I wanted to help them,” he said. “I brought firewood. Too much. I didn’t yet understand excess. I built a pen for their sheep.”
He told me of the family leaving gifts, of finding clothes and food, of believing—briefly—that he might belong.
When winter came, only the old blind patriarch remained.
“He called me friend,” Adam said, voice breaking. “He taught me to read. To think. What it meant to be human.”
His memories returned in splinters—fire, water, and one word echoing endlessly between them.
Victor.
Following that pull back to the burned remains of the tower. Learning what he was.
“There are times,” Adam admitted, flexing his scarred hand before his eyes, “when thinking too long about what I’m made of makes me sick. Knowing no part of me is truly mine.”
I threaded my fingers through his, but my voice failed me. There were no words that could make that right.
Then his voice collapsed entirely.
“When I returned to the cabin,” he whispered, “wolves had torn the old man apart. I killed them—but it was too late.” His eyes squeezed shut. “He called me friend with his final breath.”
He sobbed openly, and I held him as though love alone might mend what the world had broken.
He told me of the old man’s sons returning. Of their fear turning swiftly to blame.
“They shot me,” Adam said. “Stabbed me. I killed one of them without thinking. I was afraid.” His voice hollowed. “I died in the snow. I woke again. Immortal. Alone.”
Anger flared behind his eyes.
“I couldn’t face eternity alone,” he said. “I was selfish.”
He told me of hunting Victor. Of begging him for a companion—and of the shame that followed.
“I didn’t consider that I’d be condemning another to the same fate.”
Victor refused. Adam had unleashed his rage.
“Do you still wish he’d agreed?” I breathed.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But that want is far from me now.” He kissed my forehead gently. “I have you to thank for that.”
His voice broke again as he told me of Elizabeth’s death—of the bullet meant for him, of her dying in his arms, never knowing he could not be killed.
Of tormenting Victor across ice and sea, hoping his creator might also possess the power to unmake him.
Of dynamite. Of realizing nothing on this earth would grant him release.
Of the ship.
“I killed six men in blind rage,” he said, guilt heavy in his voice.
He spoke of drowning again and again beneath the ice. Of Victor dying—not by violence, but by pneumonia.
“He finally listened,” Adam said, tears streaking his face. “and he begged for my forgiveness.”
Adam had given it.
How he had done so, to forgive the man who had done him so much harm, I wasn't sure I would ever understand.
Victor died moments later.
“The captain gave me papers,” Adam said quietly. “Victor told him to burn them. He didn’t.” He inhaled shakily. “My name. My title. Everything. Adam Frankenstein.”
His voice steadied.
“And I chose to live.”
I pressed my forehead to his, tears falling freely.
He told me of returning to Geneva. Of rebuilding the family estate. Of the mask—advised, enforced.
“I thought it was refuge,” he said, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “But it was a prison. I will never wear it again.”
I smiled.
“What did you do with it?” I asked.
"About that," he flashed me that little smirk of his, the one that made my heart flutter.
He rose gracefully from the bed and returned with a rectangular wooden box, fitted with a metal latch.
“Open it.”
Inside lay a silver dagger upon a silk pillow.
It was not large, only five or six inches, easy to conceal. But it was beautiful.
“Oh, Adam,” I breathed.
The handle was etched with leaves and vines—the same design as his mask.
“I had the silver reforged,” he said. “I never want you to feel helpless again, the way you felt when you were... taken. When I was dead and I couldn't protect you." His eyes flickered with emotion, as if having been killed whilst defending me was something to be ashamed about.
“It’s perfect,” I whispered, gripping it by the hilt, feeling the balanced, solid weight of it in my hand. And in spite of everything that was happening, of my father, of my fear, I suddenly felt braver, stronger.
I set the dagger aside and pulled him back into the bed. He rested his head in my lap as I threaded my fingers through his hair. A soft purr rumbled deep in his chest.
“You are loved,” I told him fiercely. “You were always worthy of love.”
And I held him, knowing he had given me not only his story—
—but the cost of surviving it.
Chapter 23
Summary:
"It's a beast
He's got fangs
Razor sharp ones
Massive paws
Killer claws for the feast
Hear him roar
See him foam
But we're not coming home
Till he's dead
Good and dead
Kill the Beast!"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adelia
The house knew before I did.
It is a strange thing, to live long enough in one place that the walls begin to speak—not in words, but in tension, in the way sound travels differently when danger approaches. The manor had always been old, always settling, always breathing softly in the night. But now its sounds sharpened. Footsteps echoed too clearly. Doors closed with a finality that lingered. Even the hearth crackled like something nervous.
It had been a week since my father's threats, seven days of anxiety and tension that refused to dissipate.
Adam stood at the window for a long time without moving.
He was not looking at anything in particular. That frightened me most of all.
“What do you hear?” I asked him.
He did not turn. “Intent.”
I joined him, resting my hand lightly against his arm. His skin was warm, too warm, a steady heat that grounded me even as my pulse stuttered.
“I hear fear,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Theirs.”
Outside, dusk bled into evening in slow, bruised colors. The road beyond the trees lay empty, deceptively peaceful. No torches. No shouting. No movement at all.
That was worse.
Grace hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands until the knuckles shone pale. “My lady,” she said softly, “should we shutter the lower windows?”
Adam answered before I could. “No. Let them see light. Let them know we’re not hiding.”
Grace swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
She hesitated before leaving, her eyes flicking between us, as though memorizing the shape of us together. I felt a prickle of unease crawl up my spine.
Adam exhaled slowly. “She’s afraid.”
“So am I,” I admitted.
He turned then, cupping my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing the shadows beneath my eyes.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and urgent. “When this begins—and it will—you stay inside. No matter what you hear. No matter what they say. Do not come to me.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“I need you to try.”
“Adam—”
“If I lose control,” he continued, and for the first time I heard fear in him, “it will be because I am protecting you. But if you are not there—if I know you are safe—then I can endure anything they do.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” I whispered.
“No,” he agreed. “But I can.”
"Adam," I begged, "Don't let them make you into the monster they fear you to be."
A sound drifted through the evening air.
Not loud. Not yet.
Voices.
Distant, indistinct, but growing.
Adam stiffened.
“That’s them,” he said.
The first torch appeared at the bend in the road like a malignant star.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The sound swelled as they crested the hill—shouts bleeding together, a mass of breath and anger and permission. My stomach dropped as I recognized silhouettes among them: men I had greeted politely, women who had once admired the manor gardens, boys barely old enough to shave clutching pitchforks like talismans.
“They’re drunk,” Grace whispered from behind us.
“Some of them,” Adam said. “The rest are sober enough to be dangerous.”
The gates shuddered under the first impact.
Wood groaned. Iron screamed.
Someone laughed.
Another voice rose, sharp and ecstatic: “Bring him out!”
The chant caught almost instantly, rolling through the crowd like fire through dry leaves.
“Monster! Monster! Monster!”
The sound battered the manor walls, crawled through the windows, lodged itself beneath my ribs. I pressed my hand to my chest, breathing shallowly.
Adam kissed my forehead once—brief, fierce.
“Inside,” he said.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You are staying alive.”
He turned and strode toward the doors of the upper terrace with the terrible calm of someone who has already accepted what comes next.
I followed anyway.
The guards met the mob at the gates, shields up, shouting orders that dissolved beneath the roar. A stone flew through the air and struck one of them in the face. He went down screaming. Another torch sailed over the iron bars and landed in the hedgerow, flames blooming greedily.
Smoke curled upward, acrid and choking.
“Hold the doors!” someone shouted.
The gates gave way with a sound like bone snapping.
The mob surged forward, bodies spilling into the courtyard in a rush of noise and motion and flame. Adam stepped out onto the balcony before they could reach the manor doors.
“Stop,” he called, his voice carrying impossibly far. “This ends here.”
The answer was a stone to the shoulder.
Then another.
“His head!” someone screamed.
Adam staggered—but did not fall.
I yelled for him to come back inside, to stay safe. Immortal, yes. Immune to pain, no. To my surprise, he listened, retreating back inside and shutting the doors behind him his hand pressed to the spot the stone had struck.
And then—
The back door opened.
Softly.
Too softly.
I turned, heart slamming into my throat.
My father stood there, outlined by the lamplight, brushing dust from his sleeve as though he had merely come calling. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as the chaos outside crescendoed.
“Well,” he said mildly, “this is dramatic.” he stank of ale and entitlement.
I felt cold all over.
“You,” I breathed. “How did you—”
“Please,” he scoffed. “Do you think mobs forget their leaders?”
He stepped further into the hall, closing the door behind him with deliberate care, sealing us inside. He strode up the steps with the ease of a man who felt he was deserving of everything he wished.
Grace backed away instinctively.
Adam turned at the sound, his entire body locking as he took in the scene.
“You should leave,” Adam said, voice dangerously calm.
My father smiled. “No.”
Outside, the mob roared louder.
Inside, the trap closed.
And I understood, with sudden, sick clarity—
This had never been about Adam at all.
The sound of the mob battered the manor from all sides now—shouts and crashes and the unmistakable crack of wood splintering under force. The great doors shuddered in their frames, iron hinges screaming in protest. Each impact sent a tremor through the stone beneath my feet, as though the house itself were flinching.
My father did not even glance toward the noise.
He watched Adam instead.
“Extraordinary,” he murmured, circling him slowly, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor. “You’re standing in the middle of a lynching and still you won’t bare your teeth.”
Adam said nothing.
His eyes were fixed on my father with a focus so intense it made my skin prickle. I had seen that look only once before—when a wolf had wandered too close to the eastern fence, starving and desperate. Adam had not killed it. He had simply waited, unmoving, until the animal broke beneath the weight of being seen so completely.
My father mistook the silence for weakness.
“You know,” he went on conversationally, “most men would have snapped by now. A broken neck, perhaps. Or a crushed windpipe. You have the hands for it.”
“I will not touch you,” Adam said quietly.
“Ah,” my father smiled. “That’s what makes you interesting.”
He stopped in front of him, close enough that I could see the sweat shining on my father’s brow, the faint tremor in his fingers that betrayed the excitement coiled beneath his composure.
“You want to know what they’re thinking out there?” my father continued. “They’re waiting. They want you to give them permission. One broken skull. One scream. One moment where you remind them that they’re right to be afraid.”
Another crash shook the doors.
“Monster!” the mob roared.
Adam’s jaw tightened.
“You brought them here,” I said hoarsely. “This is your doing.”
My father glanced at me as though noticing a draft. “Of course it is.”
Grace whimpered behind me.
“You don’t deny it?” I demanded.
“Why would I?” he replied mildly. “Fear is a currency. You learn its value early, if you’ve ever been poor.”
Adam shifted then—just slightly, placing himself more squarely between my father and me.
“That ends now,” Adam said. “You will leave this house.”
“And go where?” my father laughed. “They won’t let me pass. I am far more valuable to them here.”
Outside, a scream cut through the night—high, sharp, abruptly silenced. I flinched.
Adam did not.
He stood like a wall, absorbing sound and threat alike, refusing to become what they demanded.
“Do you know what they’ll do to you?” my father asked him softly. “They’ll drag you through the courtyard first. Make a show of it. They’ll break bones to entertain themselves. They’ll argue about fire versus blade versus noose. Someone will suggest pulling you apart.”
I felt bile rise in my throat.
“And still,” my father added, leaning closer, “you won’t strike me.”
Adam met his gaze. “No.”
“Why?” my father demanded, the first crack of irritation bleeding through. “Why cling to restraint when it will cost you everything?”
“Because,” Adam said, voice steady but thick with something like grief, “violence taken freely is not justice. And violence taken from fear poisons everyone it touches.”
My father stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
A harsh, barking sound. “You think this is philosophy?” he sneered. “This is survival.”
He turned toward the doors just as they buckled inward again, the crack splitting the wood down the center.
“They’re almost through,” he said brightly. “And when they are, you’ll either fight—or you’ll die screaming.”
Adam said nothing.
The doors burst inward in a shower of splinters and smoke.
The mob flooded the hall.
Torches flared, casting wild shadows across the walls. Faces contorted with rage and triumph surged forward, weapons raised. The smell of sweat, smoke, and iron overwhelmed the air.
“There he is!” someone shouted.
Hands grabbed at Adam immediately—fists slamming into his chest, stones striking his shoulders and ribs. He staggered back under the onslaught but did not raise his arms.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Stop it!”
No one listened.
A club struck Adam across the back of the knees. He went down hard, the impact cracking loud enough to make Grace sob.
“Get up!” someone yelled. “Fight us!”
Adam pushed himself back to his feet, blood already seeping through his shirt where skin had split. His breathing was heavy now—but controlled.
“I will not,” he said, louder, forcing the words through the chaos. “I will not hurt you.”
A stone caught him across the temple. Blood streamed down his face, dark and slick.
The mob howled in approval.
My father stepped forward, his voice cutting through the din.
“You see?” he shouted. “He bleeds like a man! He falls like a man! And yet he pretends to be above you!”
Adam swayed, vision blurring. I saw it in the way his eyes struggled to focus.
“You don’t have to do this,” Adam said. “You can leave. You can stop.”
Laughter answered him.
Someone struck him again, this time with the butt of a pitchfork. I heard bone crack—felt it, like it happened inside my own body.
Grace screamed.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please—he’s done nothing—”
My father turned toward her slowly.
His eyes lit with something sharp and ugly.
“Well,” he said softly, “now. That’s an idea.”
“No,” I whispered.
He moved before I could reach him, seizing Grace by the arm and yanking her forward.
“Stop!” Adam roared.
The sound of his voice—raw, unrestrained—cut through the mob like a blade.
For a moment, they hesitated.
My father grinned.
“There it is,” he said. “That’s what they want.”
Grace struggled, terror widening her eyes as my father dragged her closer to Adam.
“Fight,” my father hissed. “Or watch her bleed.”
Adam froze.
I saw the war tear through him—every instinct screaming to act, every conviction chaining him in place.
“I won’t,” Adam said, voice breaking. “I won’t become you.”
My father’s smile vanished.
“Then you choose this.”
He drew his knife.
And everything broke.
Time fractured.
That is the only way I can describe it—how the world splintered into moments too sharp to touch, how sound stretched and warped until I could no longer tell which screams were Grace’s and which were my own.
My father’s knife flashed in the torchlight.
Not fast.
Not clumsy.
Deliberate.
“Stop,” Adam said again, hoarse now, desperation finally breaking through the iron discipline of his voice. “I am begging you.”
The word begging stunned me more than any blow had.
Adam did not beg.
Ever.
My father leaned close to Grace’s ear, his grip tightening around her arm until she cried out in pain.
“You hear that?” he murmured to her, almost kindly. “You matter just enough to make him suffer.”
Grace sobbed, shaking violently. “Please—please—I don’t want—”
The knife came down.
I don’t remember screaming, but my throat burned afterward, raw and ruined.
The blade sank into Grace’s side, not deep enough to kill, not shallow enough to spare her. Blood bloomed instantly, dark and shockingly bright against her dress. She gasped—a small, broken sound—and folded inward, clutching at the wound as my father released her.
She collapsed at my feet.
The mob went silent.
For half a heartbeat.
Then chaos erupted.
Some shouted in triumph. Others recoiled, horror breaking through their fury. A woman near the front screamed Grace’s name, covering her mouth as if realizing too late what she had helped unleash.
Adam moved.
Not toward my father.
Toward Grace.
The crowd surged instantly, hands grabbing at him, dragging him back, striking him again and again as he tried to reach her. He roared in frustration, pain finally tearing free, his body jerking under the blows.
“Let me through!” he shouted. “She’s dying!”
A club struck him across the face, snapping his head sideways. I heard the sickening crunch of cartilage. Blood poured freely now, blinding him, soaking into his collar.
“Monster!” someone screamed, almost hysterical. “Look at him!”
Adam dropped to one knee under the barrage.
I fell beside Grace, pressing my hands to her wound, slippery with blood. She was conscious—barely—her breath shallow and fast, eyes glassy with shock.
“Stay with me,” I sobbed. “Grace, stay with me—please—”
“I—I can’t feel my fingers,” she whispered faintly.
Panic exploded in my chest.
My father watched from a few steps away, chest heaving, eyes alight with a feverish triumph.
“There,” he said to Adam. “That’s what mercy buys you.”
Adam looked up at him.
And for the first time, I was afraid of him.
Not because he moved.
Because he didn’t.
Every instinct in him screamed to kill—to tear my father apart molecule by molecule—but he locked it down with a ferocity that left him trembling, his hands shaking violently at his sides.
“I will not,” he growled, voice shredded. “I will not give you that.”
The mob struck him again.
Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Another kicked him in the ribs. I heard the wet crack of bone breaking—not once, but twice.
Adam cried out despite himself, a sound wrenched from him against his will.
I tried to reach him.
Hands seized me from behind.
“No!” I screamed, struggling as someone dragged me backward, fingers digging painfully into my arms. “Let me go!”
My father turned toward me, breathing hard.
“Careful,” he said to the crowd. “She’s fragile.”
I thrashed wildly, skirts tearing, nails raking uselessly against unfamiliar arms.
“Adam!” I screamed. “Adam, please—!”
He tried to stand.
They knocked him down again.
Blood pooled beneath him, darkening the stone floor. His breathing was ragged now, each inhale a visible effort.
And still—
Still—
He did not strike back.
The mob began to falter then, unease creeping in as they realized something was wrong.
“He should be fighting,” someone muttered.
“Why isn’t he—?”
“He’s just letting us—”
My father sensed the shift immediately.
He grabbed me by the hair and wrenched me forward.
Pain exploded across my scalp as I cried out, hands flying uselessly to his wrist.
“Look!” he shouted, forcing my face toward Adam. “Look at what your mercy costs her!”
Adam’s eyes met mine through blood and smoke.
The devastation in them shattered me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Something inside me broke open.
My father shoved me to the ground.
I hit hard, breath knocked from my lungs, the world flashing white. I rolled onto my side, gasping, ears ringing.
When my vision cleared, I saw my father standing over Grace again, knife still slick with blood.
“She’s lived long enough,” he said casually. “And then—”
I didn’t think.
I didn’t hesitate.
I moved.
My hand closed around the silver dagger at my waist—the one Adam had given me, his gift meant for protection, not murder.
I screamed as I drove it into my father’s back.
Once.
He screamed—a high, shocked sound, utterly unlike the man who had terrorized us moments before.
I stabbed him again.
And again.
Blood soaked my hands, warm and horrifying.
He staggered forward, collapsing to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers.
The hall fell into stunned silence.
I dropped the dagger.
My father gasped, breath bubbling in his chest, blood spilling from his mouth as he turned to look at me.
“You,” he whispered, disbelief etched across his face. “You would—”
“Yes,” I said, voice shaking, tears streaming freely. “I would.”
He collapsed fully onto the stone.
Dying.
The mob recoiled.
Some fled. Others stared in horror at the blood on my hands.
Adam crawled toward me, dragging his broken body across the floor until he reached Grace and me. He gathered Grace gently, hands shaking as he pressed against her wound, murmuring her name over and over.
“She’s alive,” he said desperately. “She’s alive.”
I looked at my father’s body.
At the blood.
At what I had done.
And knew, with absolute certainty—
There was no going back.
For several heartbeats, no one moved.
The hall seemed to hold itself in suspension—firelight frozen mid-flicker, smoke hanging in the air like a held breath. My father lay sprawled on the stone floor, blood spreading beneath him in a dark, uneven halo. Each breath he took rattled, wet and shallow, his chest hitching as though surprised by its own failure.
I stood over him with empty hands.
They shook violently.
The mob stared.
Not as a single mind anymore, not as a roaring thing, but as individuals abruptly returned to themselves. I saw it happen in their faces—the moment when fear burned itself out and left only horror behind. Some dropped their weapons outright. Others clutched them uselessly, knuckles white, unsure what they had been for only moments before.
A woman near the back began to sob.
A man backed away from Adam as though realizing too late what he had done.
Adam was on the floor beside Grace, his body a map of bruises and blood and wrong angles. One arm bent unnaturally at the elbow. His ribs rose unevenly beneath his torn shirt. His face was so swollen I barely recognized him—but his hands were steady as he pressed them to Grace’s wound, murmuring to her in a voice so gentle it hurt to hear.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I promise.”
Grace’s eyes fluttered open.
She made a small, broken sound when she tried to breathe.
“Adam,” she rasped. “You’re—”
“I know,” he said softly. “Don’t look at me. Look at her.”
Her gaze slid to me.
Blood covered my hands, streaked my skirts, spattered my sleeves. My father’s blood. The realization hit me again, fresh and sharp, and my knees buckled.
Adam reached out with one trembling hand, catching me before I fell.
“I’m here,” he said, anchoring me against him despite his own injuries. “I’m here.”
My father groaned.
The sound crawled up my spine.
I turned slowly, meeting his eyes as he struggled to breathe. The fury was gone from his face now, stripped away by pain and shock. What remained was smallness. Fear. Something almost like confusion.
“You,” he whispered again, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “After everything… I made you…”
I knelt beside him.
Not out of mercy.
Out of necessity.
“So listen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but clear. “You did not make me. You tried to sell me. You tried to kill the man I love. You tried to murder an innocent woman to prove a point.”
His eyes flicked toward Grace, then back to me.
“You always were,” he coughed, “ungrateful.”
I leaned closer, tears falling freely now.
“You taught me exactly what you are,” I said softly. “And exactly what I refuse to be.”
Something flickered in his gaze—anger, regret, pride, I couldn’t tell.
Then his breath stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
And stopped.
Silence fell again—deeper this time. Final.
A cry rose from somewhere behind me.
Someone shouted, “She killed him!”
I stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
I turned to face the crowd, blood still dripping from my fingers, my heart pounding so hard I thought I might faint.
“Yes,” I said hoarsely. “I did.”
A murmur rippled through them.
“He stabbed my handmaiden,” I continued, my voice rising despite the tremor in it. “He brought you here with lies and fear because he wanted this house. This land. This man dead.”
I gestured to Adam, who had managed to sit upright now, his arm cradled against his body, blood still pouring freely from his wounds.
“He did not fight you,” I said. “Not even when you broke him.”
The word landed heavily.
“You saw him bleed,” I went on. “You saw him fall. You saw him refuse to strike back even when you begged him to.”
A man near the front dropped to his knees.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “God help me, I didn’t know—”
“You knew enough,” I said. “Enough to throw stones. Enough to cheer.”
Shame moved through them like a slow tide.
I lifted my bloodied hands.
“This is what fear makes of us,” I said. “This is what happens when we let it choose for us.”
Someone near the back shouted, “What do you want us to do?”
The question startled me.
I looked at Adam.
He shook his head faintly.
“Go,” he said, his voice weak but steady. “Go home. Take this with you and remember it.”
The mob hesitated.
Then, one by one, they began to retreat.
Torches lowered. Weapons discarded. Faces turned away.
No one met my eyes as they passed.
When the last of them was gone, the hall felt impossibly large.
Too quiet.
Grace whimpered softly.
Adam’s attention snapped back to her immediately. “Stay with us,” he murmured, pressing harder against her wound. “Please.”
She breathed shallowly, pain etched into every line of her face.
“I’m… not going anywhere,” she whispered, forcing a faint smile. “Someone has to keep you two from destroying yourselves.”
I laughed once—broken, hysterical—and then sobbed into Adam’s shoulder.
He held me despite everything, his body trembling as the strain finally caught up with him. I felt his injuries beneath my hands, the wrongness of bone and muscle, the depth of what he had endured without complaint.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I killed him. I—”
“I know,” Adam said softly. “And I would still choose you.”
Later—much later—the servants returned, pale and shaken. A physician was summoned for Grace. They bound Adam’s wounds with shaking hands, marveling at how quickly the bleeding slowed, how his breathing steadied despite injuries that should have killed any other man.
No one asked questions.
Not yet.
As they carried Grace away, she caught my hand weakly.
“Don’t let this harden you,” she murmured. “Promise me.”
I squeezed her fingers. “I promise.”
When we were finally alone, Adam collapsed onto the steps, exhaustion dragging him down. I knelt beside him, cradling his face, brushing blood and dirt from his scars.
“They tried to make you a monster,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes briefly. “And you stopped them.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You did. By refusing.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me.
And I saw it—the cost, the grief, the knowledge that immortality did not spare him from pain or fear or love.
“We survived,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, pressing my forehead to his. “But nothing will ever be the same.”
Outside, the fires burned low.
Inside, we remained—bloodied, shaken, bound together not by innocence, but by choice.
Notes:
They owe Grace a trip to the freaking Bahamas, and literally anything else she asks for actually ever.
Full stop.
Chapter 24
Summary:
The wedding. Take two.
This chapter ended up being so much longer than I expected. I already had it drafted out but man a lot got added while editing.
Y'all are going to love the next chapter tho 😏
Chapter Text
Adam
Grace healed slowly.
Not because her body could not mend—though the wound had been deep, ugly, and treacherously placed—but because healing is not only flesh remembering itself. It is fear unlearning the shape of pain. It is breath relearning how to deepen. It is trust deciding whether it dares to return.
I knew this, intimately. My own body had taught me so. I had been assembled from scars and sutures, from violence masquerading as salvation. I had learned, long ago, that wounds close faster than terror does, that the body is merciful in ways the mind rarely permits. And yet knowing a truth does not lessen its cruelty when you must watch it unfold in someone you love.
Grace lay propped against pillows in the eastern bedchamber, sunlight spilling generously across white linens, catching in the fine dust that drifted lazily through the air. The room smelled faintly of herbs and clean cloth, of boiled water and crushed leaves—healing scents, meant to soothe. The windows were open, though the day was cool, because Grace refused to feel caged by her own recovery. Pale curtains stirred with the breeze like slow, careful breaths.
She had not commented on the fact that I had been fully healed by the morning after the attack, despite having seen my injuries first hand, hearing the crack of my bones beneath the hands of the mob. It was entirely out of character and extremely appreciated. I knew we would have to tell her the truth, about me, about all of it. But not today.
Her skin was still pale, but no longer waxen. The sharpness had returned to her eyes, that familiar clarity that missed very little and forgave even less. Exhaustion lingered beneath it, pooling in the hollows of her cheeks, in the way her lashes rested just a moment longer before lifting again. But she was alive. Alive in a way that felt nothing short of miraculous.
The physician had gone not an hour before, leaving behind instructions that Grace ignored with the same practiced ease she had always applied to authority. I had watched her nod solemnly as he spoke, promising rest and stillness and patience, then dismiss him with a smile that meant she would obey exactly none of it beyond what suited her.
“Well,” she said now, inspecting the bandage at her side with professional disinterest, fingers testing the edge as if it were an inconvenient seam, “if you wanted me to take a vacation, stay off my feet for a few days, this does seem quite the roundabout method.”
I stared at her.
The sound that left Adelia beside the bed was small and fractured—half laugh, half sob—and she pressed her hand over her mouth as though afraid that if she let it fall, something irreparable would spill free. Her other hand rested on the coverlet near Grace’s knee, hovering rather than touching, as if she were afraid that even that small contact might undo her.
Grace glanced between us, unimpressed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m alive. And if I wasn’t going to make a joke now, I never would.”
“You were nearly killed,” Adelia whispered.
“Yes,” Grace agreed calmly. “Which is precisely why I refuse to spend the rest of my life whispering about it.”
Her voice was steady, but I heard what lay beneath it—the memory of pain, the echo of helplessness. I saw it in the way her shoulders stiffened when she shifted, in the careful economy of her movements.
I found my voice only with effort. It felt as though it had lodged itself somewhere behind my sternum, trapped beneath the weight of everything I had not said since the night she fell.
“You were hurt,” I said slowly, each word deliberate, “because of me.”
The silence that followed was sharp, brittle. It rang in my ears louder than any accusation.
Grace rolled her eyes. “I was hurt because your father-in-law was a walking moral catastrophe.”
Adelia flinched at the word father, guilt tightening her shoulders, drawing them inward as though she could make herself smaller beneath its weight. I saw it instantly—the way she always bore responsibility as if it were her birthright, the way she absorbed blame meant for others and called it love.
Grace noticed immediately.
“Oh no,” she said firmly, shifting despite the protest of her wound to fix Adelia with a glare that brooked no nonsense. “None of that. Don’t you dare carry this like a penance.”
“I stabbed him,” Adelia said, her voice trembling now despite her efforts. “And you—he would have—if I hadn’t—”
“And I would do so again,” Grace interrupted, without hesitation, without pause. “Because he would have killed me anyway, and because you did what you had to do. Both of you did.”
Her certainty struck me harder than any rebuke could have. I had expected anger, perhaps—resentment buried beneath humor. I had expected fear. I had even expected quiet distance. What I had not expected was absolution so freely given.
She turned her gaze to me then, sharp and knowing, stripping away the last of my defenses with terrifying ease.
“And you,” she added, “did exactly what you promised.”
I swallowed. The motion scraped my throat raw.
“I promised to protect her,” I said. The words felt insufficient, thin and brittle in my mouth. Protection had been my oath, my anchor. Protection had been the excuse I had used to justify every restraint, every compromise.
“No,” Grace said quietly. Her voice softened—not weak, but deliberate. “You promised you wouldn’t become something you hated. And you kept it—even when it cost you.”
The room seemed to still around us. Even the curtains paused in their stirring, the air holding its breath.
I closed my eyes.
In the darkness behind them, memories rose unbidden: my hands, capable of ending lives with terrifying ease; the way violence answered me without hesitation, as though it recognized me as kin. I had felt it that night, how close it hovered—how easily I could have crossed the threshold and never returned.
Grace had paid for my restraint in blood.
That truth had lodged itself deep in me, festering. I had replayed the moment again and again: the angle of the blade, the sound she made when she fell, the way the world narrowed to the unbearable certainty that I had failed. Failed her. Failed Adelia. Failed myself.
“I should have killed him,” I said, the admission tearing free at last. “I should have ended it before it ever reached you. I knew what he was. I knew what he was capable of. And I hesitated.”
Grace studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“And if you had,” she said slowly, “would you be able to stand here now? Would Adelia look at you the same way? Would you?”
I had no answer.
Because the truth was unbearable: I did not know where the line lay anymore. I only knew that once crossed, it could not be redrawn.
“I was afraid,” I said finally, the words barely more than breath. “Not of him. Of myself. And because of that fear, you were hurt.”
Grace exhaled, long and measured. “Adam,” she said, using my name like a tether, “listen to me very carefully.”
I did.
“I was hurt because a cruel man made a cruel choice. Not because you refused to surrender your soul to stop him.” Her eyes softened then, just a fraction. “Do not cheapen your restraint by calling it cowardice. Had you raised a single finger, that crowd would have torn you to pieces. Adelia would be sold off to another man, and her evil shit of a father would have taken your lands, your estate, everything. You did the right thing."
Something in my chest gave way at that.
Silence settled between us, heavy and reverent, thick with things that could not be undone but perhaps—slowly—could be forgiven.
Then Grace sighed dramatically, the moment punctured with familiar irreverence. “Which is why you owe me a raise.”
Adelia laughed outright this time, the sound sudden and bright, breaking through weeks of strain like sunlight through cloud. It startled something loose in me too—a tightness I had not realized I was still holding.
“You can have anything,” I said immediately, the urgency in my voice unguarded. “Anything you ask for. Any time. Name it.”
Grace considered this with exaggerated seriousness, tapping her finger against the blanket as though weighing the fate of empires.
“Well,” she said at last, “I’d like better tea. And a door that locks. And possibly a holiday—an expensive one— once I can walk without stabbing pains.”
“Done,” I said without hesitation.
“And,” she added, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth, “I want to be present when you two finally marry properly. None of that dreadful coercion nonsense.”
Adelia reached for her hand, tears bright in her eyes now. “Grace—”
“No apologies,” Grace said gently, squeezing her fingers with what strength she had. “I forgive you both. Without question.”
Her gaze flicked back to me, lingering there. “Especially you,” she added softly. “You carry enough ghosts already.”
The words struck deep, because they were true.
“Now,” she concluded briskly, “go away so I can sleep like a woman who survived a tragedy and intends to milk it shamelessly.”
We obeyed.
Outside the room, the manor breathed more easily.
And for the first time since blood had stained its floors, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps—despite everything I was, despite everything I feared—I had not destroyed the very people I was trying to save.
***
Later, when the corridors were quiet and the workmen’s voices drifted faintly from below, Adelia and I stood together at the window overlooking the gardens.
The manor was no longer pretending to be whole.
Even from here, on the upper floor where the damage had been mostly spared, I could feel it—like a body that had taken a grievous wound and was only now realizing the extent of it. The house creaked differently. Its silence was uneasy, punctured by the echo of hammers and the low murmur of men rebuilding what should never have been broken.
The front gates lay twisted and torn from their hinges, iron bent as though it had been made of wire rather than steel. The main doors—oak thick enough to have withstood generations—had been shattered inward, their panels splintered, their lock destroyed beyond repair. The marks were unmistakable: boots, fists, tools wielded in frenzy. Fear had done that. And hatred. And the kind of righteousness that excuses itself while it destroys.
I had walked past the wreckage earlier and felt something cold settle in me—not anger, not even sorrow, but a grim recognition. I had seen crowds before. I knew what men became when they believed themselves justified. What they would tear down in the name of fear.
I had not expected it to come to my own threshold.
Adelia stood close to me now, her shoulder pressed lightly against my arm. She leaned into me without speaking, and the weight of that small gesture was immense. It was not weakness. It was trust. It was the unspoken admission that she could not hold herself upright alone, not yet.
I rested my hand at her back, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath beneath my palm. She felt fragile in a way that frightened me—not breakable, but raw, as though the world had stripped her down to something painfully honest.
Beyond the glass, the gardens were deceptively peaceful. The hedges still held their shapes. The gravel paths curved neatly between beds of late-blooming flowers. A pair of birds darted between the trees, untroubled by human violence. Nature, indifferent as ever, continued.
“How are you handling it?” I asked softly.
The question felt inadequate the moment it left my mouth. How did one handle the knowledge that they had killed their own father? That the act had been necessary, righteous even—and yet irrevocable?
She did not ask what I meant.
“My father?” she said after a long moment.
Her voice was steady, but there was something hollow beneath it, like sound echoing through an empty room.
“I don’t know,” she continued. “I feel… lighter. And then I feel horrible for feeling that way.”
The words struck me with painful clarity. I had known that sensation myself—the terrible relief that followed the removal of a long-standing threat. The guilt that came not from the act itself, but from the ease with which the world seemed to breathe afterward.
“You are allowed relief,” I said.
I meant it. With every part of me.
She gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, as though acknowledging the truth of it required effort. Her gaze remained fixed on the gardens, but I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of my coat as though anchoring herself.
“I suppose it’s proper to have a funeral,” she said quietly.
She paused.
“Though I’d rather throw him into the river and be done with it.”
The bluntness of it startled a breath from me. For the briefest instant, something dangerously close to a smile tugged at my mouth.
Almost.
But the humor—if it could be called that—was edged with grief too sharp to laugh away. Because beneath the cruelty of the thought was exhaustion. The desire for finality. For the end of a story that had poisoned her for too long.
“There is forgiveness,” I said carefully, choosing each word as though it might cut if mishandled, “and then there is release. They are not always the same thing.”
She turned to look at me then, really look at me, her eyes searching my face for something—permission, perhaps. Or absolution.
“You forgave Victor.”
The name landed between us like a held breath.
“Yes.”
“Even after everything.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t regret it?”
I did not answer immediately.
Instead, memory rose up unbidden: Victor’s hands, brilliant and cruel by turns. The way he had spoken of me as both miracle and mistake. The abandonment. The rage. The long years in which his shadow had followed me, whispering that I was nothing more than his failure stitched into flesh.
Forgiveness had not come quickly. It had not come easily. It had arrived only after hatred had exhausted itself, after I had realized that carrying it was costing me more than it had ever cost him.
I thought of the moment I had finally let it go—not for his sake, but for my own. The quiet that had followed. The freedom.
“No,” I said at last. “Forgiveness did not excuse him. It freed me.”
Her eyes softened at that, though they did not lose their sorrow.
She considered my words in silence, turning them over as though testing their weight, their truth. Outside, the light shifted, clouds moving lazily across the sun, casting brief shadows over the gardens.
Then she nodded.
The motion was small, but it felt significant—as though something inside her had shifted, if only by a fraction.
We stood like that for a long time afterward, saying nothing. The house around us continued its slow process of mending. Somewhere below, a hammer struck wood in a steady rhythm, rebuilding what the mob had broken. I wondered, distantly, whether healing always sounded like that—loud, intrusive, imperfect.
“I didn’t hesitate,” she said suddenly.
I looked down at her, startled by the rawness in her voice.
“When he went for Grace,” she continued, her fingers tightening briefly against my coat, “I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I just—acted.”
There was fear in her eyes now. Not of what had happened, but of what that instinct might say about her.
“And part of me is afraid,” she whispered, “that it was too easy.”
I lifted her chin gently, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Adelia,” I said, my voice low but unyielding, “you did not kill him because you wanted to. You killed him because you loved her. Because you refused to let cruelty win.”
Tears welled then, finally breaking free. She did not sob. She did not collapse. She simply cried—silent, shaking tears that spoke of restraint pushed past its limit.
I gathered her against me, holding her as though I could shield her from the memory itself. Her grief soaked into me, and I accepted it willingly. This, at least, I could bear for her.
“You are not him,” I murmured against her hair. “And you never were.”
Outside, the ruined gates would be reforged. The doors would be replaced. The scars on the manor would fade, even if faint traces remained for those who knew where to look.
What mattered was that she was still here. That Grace was alive. That the house, wounded though it was, had not fallen.
And that for the first time since blood had been spilled in its halls, the silence between us was not haunted—but healing, slow and uncertain, and real.
***
The morning dawned clear.
Not dramatically so—no thunder banished, no storm broken—but gentle, golden, perfect in its simplicity. It was the kind of morning that did not announce itself with grandeur, but rather arrived as a quiet agreement between earth and sky. The light came softly, filtered through a thin veil of mist that clung to the low fields beyond the estate, turning hedgerows into pale silhouettes and the distant treeline into something almost dreamlike.
The world felt… willing.
I stood at the window of the west wing long before anyone thought to look for me and watched the sun rise over land that had known fire and blood only weeks before. The scars were still there if one knew where to look—new mortar too pale against old stone, faint discolorations on the drive where torches had spilled oil, the memory of smoke still lingering in the grain of the wood if you pressed your palm there long enough. But nature, as always, had begun the work of forgiveness.
Grass pushed stubbornly through scorched soil. Ivy crept over repaired walls as though eager to erase memory. Birds returned without hesitation, perching where fear had once screamed.
Today, the house breathed easily.
So did I.
The manor had been awake since before dawn. Not with the frantic energy of preparation, but with something closer to reverence. Footsteps moved softly along the corridors. Doors opened and closed with care. Voices remained low, as though raised tones might disturb something fragile and holy taking shape in the air.
The front gates—once torn open by a mob convinced of its righteousness—stood repaired now. New iron had been worked into the old, the joins deliberate and visible rather than hidden. Whoever had overseen the work had understood something essential: that pretending nothing had been broken would have been a lie. The gates did not deny their history. They bore it. And still, they stood.
The great front doors had been remade as well. The splintered oak replaced, the lock reforged, the threshold sanded smooth. I had run my hand along it earlier that morning, feeling the faint unevenness where old met new. It felt… honest.
The house had survived.
So had we.
The east garden had been transformed overnight—not in excess, but in intention. Nothing shouted wealth or power. Everything whispered care.
Stone paths were swept clean and lined with low lanterns of blown glass, each holding a single candle that flickered patiently in the morning breeze. They were not lit yet, but they waited, faithful. Arches of white and blush roses framed the walkway, their blossoms full and heavy with scent, petals so delicate they seemed to bruise at a touch. Between them, sprigs of baby’s breath softened the lines, lending the arrangement a cloudlike gentleness, as though the flowers themselves were holding their breath in reverence.
Wisteria cascaded from trellises in long lavender curtains, blooms drifting lazily to the ground when the wind sighed just right. Fallen petals dotted the stone like blessings too light to land with weight, too numerous to count. Bees hovered nearby, unbothered, drawn by abundance rather than fear.
At the far end of the garden, beneath an open canopy of white linen and greenery, the altar waited. Simple. Wooden. Polished to a soft sheen that caught the light without demanding it. A small crucifix rested there—not ostentatious, not commanding—but present, as it always had been in such moments. Witness rather than judge.
Neither Adelia nor I were devout in the way saints were written about. We did not speak often of doctrine or salvation. But faith, like stone, had shaped the world we were born into whether we named it or not. It had governed rites of passage, marked beginnings and endings, given words to moments too large to carry alone.
This—marriage—was one of those moments.
Guests arrived slowly, reverently.
There were no heralds, no fanfare, no trumpets announcing rank or lineage. People came on foot, by carriage, in pairs or alone, their movements careful, their voices hushed as though entering a sacred space. These were not nobles drawn by obligation or spectacle. These were people drawn by love—or by remorse, or by gratitude, or by the quiet need to witness something good after nearly becoming something monstrous.
Servants who had stayed through terror and smoke sat beside those who had fled and returned with shame in their eyes. Friends long absent embraced as though no time had passed at all. Townsfolk came hesitantly, hats clutched in their hands, eyes lowered, bearing not gifts but humility.
No one was turned away.
I watched from the edge of the garden as they gathered, feeling the weight of their presence—not as scrutiny, but as something steadier. This was not a crowd. It was a congregation in the truest sense of the word: people assembled not to judge, but to witness.
Grace arrived leaning on a cane, her posture defiant despite the stiffness in her step. She wore pale blue, the color of a summer sky just after rain, the dress cut elegantly but sensibly, sleeves long enough to hide the faint tremor in her arm. She surveyed the garden with an appraising eye, then shot me a look sharp enough to cut.
“If one more person asks if I need to sit,” she muttered loudly, “I’ll take the cane to their shins.”
I huffed a breath of laughter before I could stop myself.
Adelia—still hidden from view, still cloistered with attendants and last-minute adjustments—laughed too. I heard it faintly through an open window, carried on the breeze.
That sound alone would have justified the entire ceremony.
The musicians took their places beneath a canopy of ivy and silk. Violins tuned softly, bows brushing strings like whispers. A cello hummed low, grounding the air, its sound settling into my chest like a steady heartbeat. When the first notes began—gentle, swelling—the garden seemed to still, as though the land itself leaned closer to listen.
Conversation faded.
Breath slowed.
And then, as the hour approached, a different kind of quiet settled over me.
Fear.
Not of commitment. Not of her. Never of her.
But of joy.
I had learned, over a lifetime measured in scars and restraint, to be wary of happiness. To distrust moments that felt too gentle, too whole. Joy had always arrived in my life like a visitor who did not intend to stay, leaving devastation in its wake when it departed.
I stood now in black and silver, the coat tailored to perfection, the lines sharp, the fabric rich and heavy with intention. Silver embroidery traced the cuffs and collar in restrained patterns—thorns softened into leaves, scars transformed into ornament. No mask concealed my face. No shadow hid the seams at my throat or the faint discolorations at my temples.
Only myself.
I had never stood so openly before the world.
A priest waited near the altar, hands folded, expression calm and kind. He was not a man who sought authority. He was the sort who understood that his role today was not command, but blessing. His eyes met mine briefly, and he nodded—not as a superior, but as a fellow witness.
The music shifted.
A subtle change. A drawing-in of breath.
And then—
Adelia appeared.
For a moment, I forgot how to stand.
She stepped into the garden as though she had always belonged there, the morning light catching on ivory silk and turning it luminous. Her gown was not extravagant in cut, but it was exquisite in execution—clean lines that flowed effortlessly, fabric that moved like water when she walked. The silk shimmered softly, never glaring, catching gold where the sun touched it and pearl where shadow lingered.
The bodice was fitted but not constricting, embroidered with silver thread so fine it looked spun from moonlight. Flowers bloomed across her heart—wild roses, forget-me-nots, lilies—each petal rendered with painstaking care, trailing downward into vines that wrapped gently around the skirt. It was as though the garden itself had reached out and woven her into its story.
Her veil was sheer and long, light as breath, caught in her hair with small pearl pins that glimmered faintly when she moved. A few loose strands framed her face, softening the strength of her features, reminding me that resilience and gentleness had always coexisted within her.
Her hands trembled slightly as she stepped forward.
Not with fear.
With enormity.
The music swelled, and the world narrowed until there was only the sound of her footsteps on stone, the whisper of silk, the steady, impossible fact of her moving toward me.
I had faced mobs. Fire. Ice. Death.
Nothing had ever undone me like this.
She lifted her eyes, and when they met mine, something inside me broke open—not violently, not painfully, but like a long-sealed door finally unbarred. There was no doubt there. No shadow of the past. Only certainty. Choice. Love offered freely and without demand.
I could not breathe.
She was everything I had ever loved made visible. Every quiet moment, every shared grief, every choice made in defiance of cruelty—all of it stood before me now, embodied in silk and courage and unwavering eyes.
And as she reached the altar, as the music softened and the garden held its breath—
I knew this was not the end of a story.
It was the beginning of a life I had never dared to imagine.
The moment Adelia reached the altar, the world shifted.
Not abruptly. Not with force. But with the quiet inevitability of something long-awaited finally arriving. The garden did not erupt into sound or movement; instead, it seemed to fold inward, drawing close around us like cupped hands. Even the breeze gentled, as though unwilling to disturb what was about to be spoken into being.
She stopped before me.
For a breathless instant, we simply stood there—close enough that I could see the fine tremor in her fingers where they clasped her bouquet, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her presence like sunlight against my skin. The scent of her—lavender, rose, and something uniquely her—settled into me, grounding me more surely than anything else ever had.
Her eyes were bright. Not with fear. With tears she had not yet shed and joy she was not trying to contain.
I had thought myself prepared.
I was wrong.
The priest stepped forward then, his voice calm and steady, shaped by years of blessing beginnings and endings alike. He spoke the opening words of the rite—familiar phrases that had been spoken over countless unions before ours. Words about love as covenant, about marriage as a joining not merely of bodies but of souls and purpose. He spoke of God not as a distant authority, but as a presence woven through human devotion, sanctifying what was freely given.
I heard him.
But I was not listening.
Because Adelia had reached for my hands.
Her gloves were thin, ivory silk soft against my skin, and beneath them her hands were warm—real, living, steady despite the enormity of the moment. The contact struck me with such force that my breath stuttered, my chest tightening as though my heart had suddenly remembered everything it had survived to be here.
The priest paused, just briefly, noticing.
A kindness.
He waited until I had steadied myself, until my grip answered hers, firm and sure. When he continued, it was with a gentler cadence, as though he understood that this ceremony was not something being imposed upon us, but something we were actively creating.
He spoke of trials.
Not in abstraction.
But plainly.
He acknowledged hardship without dwelling on it, spoke of endurance not as suffering glorified, but as love tested and chosen again. He did not name mobs or blood or fire—but the words carried their echo nonetheless. Everyone present knew what we had lived through. The silence held that knowledge with respect.
When he asked us to face one another fully, I did.
And in doing so, I let the world see me.
No mask. No deflection. No distance.
Only a man standing before the woman he loved, scarred and unhidden.
Adelia’s gaze never wavered.
It did not soften in pity. It did not harden in fear.
It held.
As though she were anchoring me to the earth itself.
“Adelia,” the priest said gently, “do you come here of your own free will?”
“Yes,” she answered, immediately.
The word rang out clear and unwavering, carrying through the garden like a bell struck true.
“And do you choose this man,” he continued, “to be your husband, to walk with him in fidelity and love, in joy and in sorrow, all the days granted to you?”
She did not look away from me.
“I do,” she said.
The words were simple.
They were everything.
The priest turned to me then.
“Adam.”
Hearing my name spoken in that context—in blessing rather than accusation—sent a shiver through me.
“Do you come here of your own free will?”
I drew a breath.
“Yes,” I said.
And in that single word was every choice I had ever made to remain human.
“And do you choose this woman,” he asked, “to be your wife, to love her and honor her, to protect her without possession, to stand with her in faith and humility, in joy and in sorrow, all the days granted to you?”
I felt the weight of the question settle into me.
Not as burden.
As promise.
“I do,” I said.
The priest nodded, satisfied—not with obedience, but with sincerity.
Then came the vows.
Not the prescribed ones.
Ours.
Adelia inhaled slowly, visibly steadying herself. I felt the faint tightening of her fingers around mine. When she spoke, her voice trembled—not with fear, but with feeling too large to contain neatly.
“I choose you,” she said.
Not I vow.
Not I promise.
I choose.
“I choose you,” she repeated, as though speaking it again made it more real, more permanent. “Not because I must. Not because I was told to. But because in a world that tried to teach me fear, you taught me mercy.”
Her voice wavered, and a tear finally spilled free, tracing a bright line down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
“You taught me that love does not demand obedience,” she continued, “and that strength does not require cruelty. You showed me that restraint can be braver than violence, and that gentleness is not the absence of power—but its most deliberate use.”
My vision blurred.
“I choose you because you stood still when the world begged you to become a monster,” she said, her voice breaking now, “because you endured pain rather than pass it on. Because you see me—not as something to own, or protect, or sacrifice—but as someone to stand beside.”
Her grip tightened.
“I choose you because you let me be afraid without making me small,” she whispered. “Because you let me be strong without asking me to be hard.”
She swallowed, breath hitching.
“And I choose you,” she finished softly, “because with you, I am not surviving. I am living.”
I could not see clearly anymore.
Tears slid unashamed down my face, blurring the world until there was only her voice, her hands, the undeniable truth of what she had offered me. I pressed my forehead briefly to hers, a silent plea for steadiness, for grace.
When I lifted my head, I spoke.
“I choose you,” I said.
My voice was low, roughened by emotion, but it did not falter.
“I choose you in every lifetime,” I continued, “in every version of myself that might have existed—broken or whole, afraid or unafraid. I choose you in silence and in fury, in peace and in ruin.”
I drew a breath, grounding myself in the feel of her hands.
“I have lived most of my life believing I was a consequence,” I said quietly. “A mistake given motion. Something that should never have endured.”
Adelia’s eyes filled again.
“You gave me a future I did not believe I deserved,” I said, my voice thick. “Not by saving me—but by standing with me. By trusting me with your fear, your joy, your life.”
My throat tightened.
“I choose you because you never asked me to be less than I am,” I said. “And never feared what I could be—only what I might become if I were alone.”
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to something intimate, sacred.
“I will stand between you and the world if it comes for you again,” I vowed. “And if it does not, I will stand beside you and marvel at the quiet.”
A soft sound rippled through the gathered guests—breaths caught, tears shed freely now.
“And I will love you,” I finished, “not as a debt, not as a duty—but as a daily, willing act. For as long as time allows me to say the words.”
When I fell silent, the garden seemed to exhale.
The priest allowed that moment to linger.
Then he lifted his hands, blessing spoken softly, invoking God not as authority, but as witness to a covenant freely made. He did not rush. He understood what had been built here.
When he pronounced us married, the words felt less like a declaration and more like an acknowledgment of something already true.
“Go now,” he said warmly, “and live what you have promised.”
I did not wait for permission.
I cupped Adelia’s face in my hands, careful of her veil, careful of her tears, and kissed her.
Not hurried.
Not shy.
But with reverence.
A promise sealed slowly, deliberately, as though time itself had bent to give us this moment whole. Her lips were warm, familiar, utterly real. When she kissed me back, the world surged—applause breaking like a wave, laughter rising through tears, music swelling into something joyful and full.
Strings lifted the air, light and triumphant, the melody soaring until it felt as though the sky itself had leaned closer to listen.
And as I rested my forehead against hers, breath mingling, joy overwhelming—
I knew.
This was not the end of what we had survived.
It was the beginning of what we would build.
The celebration did not begin with noise.
It began with breath.
With the collective, almost disbelieving release of it—guests exhaling as though they had been holding themselves taut through the ceremony, afraid to move lest something fragile shatter. Then laughter rose, tentative at first, like birds testing the air after a storm. Music swelled, fuller now, the strings brightening, the cello grounding the joy with warmth rather than gravity.
Adelia’s hand remained in mine as we turned together toward the gathered guests. Her fingers were still trembling, though whether from emotion or exhaustion I could not say. I did not loosen my grip. I never would.
Applause rolled through the garden, not polite or restrained, but earnest and full-bodied. People stood. Some wiped their eyes openly. Others smiled in a way that suggested relief more than happiness—as though witnessing this union had mended something they had feared was broken beyond repair.
Grace was on her feet despite her injury, cane abandoned entirely as she clapped with sharp, unapologetic enthusiasm.
“About time,” she called out, her voice ringing clear. “I was starting to think you’d both faint before it was done.”
Adelia laughed—bright, free, unguarded—and leaned into me just slightly, her shoulder brushing my arm. That laugh echoed through me like a benediction.
The priest offered a final blessing over the assembly, brief and gentle, thanking God not only for love sanctified, but for lives preserved, for mercy chosen over wrath. He did not linger. He understood that holiness, today, was meant to be lived rather than spoken.
And then we were guided—almost carried—into the feast.
Long tables had been set beneath sweeping canopies of white linen and trailing greenery, lanterns suspended overhead like captured stars waiting for dusk to claim them. The air was rich with scent: roasted meats glazed until they gleamed, loaves of bread cracked open to release steam and warmth, herbs crushed beneath deft hands and scattered generously.
Platters arrived in abundance, not excessive but intentional—food meant to be shared, passed, broken together. Wine flowed freely, deep red and honeyed gold, poured with laughter and the occasional warning from Grace not to overindulge “on an empty emotional stomach.”
I found myself seated beside Adelia at the center table, her gown pooled around her like spilled light. She leaned close as dishes were set before us, whispering observations—who looked near tears again, who was already on their second glass, which child had stolen an entire roll and vanished beneath the table.
It felt… normal.
Miraculous in its normalcy.
Grace rose eventually, tapping her glass with the edge of her cane until the sound carried.
“Oh, don’t groan,” she said briskly. “If I survived being stabbed, you can survive a toast.”
Laughter rippled outward.
She looked at us then—really looked—and for once, her sharp humor softened into something unguarded.
“I won’t pretend I had faith this would all end so neatly,” she said. “I am, by nature, suspicious of happiness. But if anyone has earned it, it is these two.”
She lifted her glass higher.
“To a man who refuses to be a monster even when the world insists he should be,” she said, nodding in my direction. “And to a woman who looked at him and said—fine, then we’ll be better together.”
Her voice wavered just slightly.
“And to love,” she finished, “that survives fire, fear, and foolish men with torches.”
The cheer that followed was thunderous.
Adelia reached for Grace’s hand when she sat again, squeezing it hard enough that Grace winced—and smiled.
As the afternoon softened toward evening, the garden shifted. Lanterns were lit one by one, their glow blooming gently against the deepening blue of the sky. Shadows lengthened. The air cooled. Laughter mellowed into something slower, warmer.
The musicians transitioned seamlessly, melodies drifting from lively to intimate.
And then—
The dance.
The first notes floated out across the stone, slow and sweeping, achingly tender. The garden quieted once more, conversation fading as instinctively as breath had earlier.
I stood and offered my hand.
Adelia looked up at me, lantern light caught in her eyes, her expression open and luminous.
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
We stepped onto the stone together, the world receding until there was only the rhythm beneath our feet and the gentle pull of the music guiding us forward. Her gown whispered as she moved, silk sighing against stone. I drew her close—not possessive, not urgent—but steady, reverent.
Her head rested against my chest, her breath warm through the fabric of my coat. I could feel her heartbeat, quick at first, then gradually slowing to match my own.
People watched.
But they did not intrude.
This was not performance.
This was devotion.
I guided her gently, aware of every step, every turn, as though any miscalculation might break the spell. She trusted me completely, her body moving with mine in perfect accord, as though we had been practicing this dance for years without knowing it.
When the music swelled, I lifted her hand and turned her once, slowly. Her skirt flared, petals scattering underfoot, and she laughed—a sound of pure joy that caught in my chest and stayed there.
The crowd gasped softly, as though witnessing something sacred.
I drew her back into my arms, resting my forehead briefly against hers.
“You’re real,” I murmured, the words escaping before I could stop them.
She smiled up at me, eyes shining. “So are you.”
We danced until the music softened and faded, until applause wrapped around us like a warm cloak. And still, I did not let her go.
Later—much later—when the feast had dwindled into contented murmurs, when children slept curled beneath tables and laughter lingered like embers—we slipped away.
Not unnoticed.
But unchallenged.
The manor greeted us quietly, lanterns lit along the corridors, shadows gentle rather than ominous. The scars remained, yes—but they no longer felt like threats. They felt like proof of survival.
On the balcony, open to the night, the scent of flowers drifted in on the breeze. Somewhere below, music still played softly, a lullaby to the day we had lived.
Adelia stood by the railing for a moment, veil removed now, her pinned hair beginning to loosen around her shoulders. I watched her from a short distance, struck once again by the impossible truth of her presence.
She turned to me.
“Adam,” she said softly.
I crossed the space between us without thinking, cupping her face in my hands. I did not kiss her immediately. I wanted to look at her. To remember this moment exactly as it was.
“I am here,” I said.
She leaned into my touch, closing her eyes.
“So am I,” she replied.
And in that simple exchange—in that shared certainty—I felt something settle within me at last.
Not vigilance.
Not fear.
Peace.
Whatever had made me.
Whatever I had endured.
Every scar. Every night of solitude. Every moment of restraint that had nearly torn me apart—
I had earned this.
And as I held my wife beneath the open sky, lantern light flickering softly against the grounds, the future stretching before us not as promise but as possibility—
I knew.
I would protect this.
Not with violence.
Not with fear.
But with the same deliberate, unyielding love that had brought us here.
Forever.
Chapter 25
Summary:
We have reached the eventual smut.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adam
The estate settled around us as though it had been waiting all along for this moment to arrive. Corridors that had once echoed with raised voices and hurried steps now held only the soft sigh of cooling stone and the distant creak of timbers remembering their age. Lanterns burned low in their brackets, their light amber and forgiving. Somewhere below, a door closed with care. Somewhere farther still, laughter faded into sleep.
The world, for once, did not demand anything of us.
Our chamber received us like a held breath finally released.
Firelight breathed in the hearth, not bright enough to command attention, only to soften the corners of the room and warm the wide bed dressed in pale linen. Moonlight slipped in through the tall windows, silvering the floor, touching the edges of furniture as though blessing them. The air smelled faintly of lavender and clean cotton and something else—something human and newly begun.
Adelia stood just inside the door after it closed.
She had removed her veil, and her hair fell loose down her back, dark and heavy and real. The gown she wore—ivory silk that had caught the sun so beautifully that morning—now caught the firelight instead, warming into gold where flame touched it. She looked smaller here without the garden and the guests and the music, but no less luminous.
More real.
More mine.
She turned to me and smiled.
Not the smile she had worn for the world.
This one was quieter. Truer. Unarmored.
And something inside me fractured.
I realized I had not moved. That my hands were still clenched at my sides, fingers flexing unconsciously as though bracing for impact rather than joy. My body, forged for violence and endurance, did not know what to do with gentleness offered so freely.
“You’re very still,” she said softly.
Her voice did not accuse. It invited.
“I’m thinking,” I replied.
She crossed the room slowly, the hem of her gown whispering over the floor like a secret. When she stopped in front of me, she did not reach for me immediately. She waited.
“What about?” she asked.
The truth rose unbidden and terrifying in its simplicity.
“I’m afraid.”
She did not step back.
She did not stiffen.
She reached for my hands and laced her fingers through mine as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Of me?” she asked gently.
“No,” I said at once, too quickly. “Never of you.”
Her thumbs brushed over my knuckles, grounding me in the warmth of her touch.
“Then of what?”
I closed my eyes.
“Of hurting you,” I said. “Of forgetting myself. Of wanting this so much that I forget how fragile you are.”
Her forehead came to rest against my chest.
“I am not fragile,” she murmured. “I am human. There is a difference.”
A weak laugh escaped me, broken and breathless.
“You are both,” I said. “And that is what terrifies me.”
She tilted her head back to look at me then, eyes steady, luminous even in the low light.
“Adam,” she said, “look at me.”
I did.
“I chose you,” she said quietly. “Knowing who you are. Knowing what you fear. Knowing what you could do—and what you refuse to do. I am not afraid of you.”
Her hand slid over my heart.
“I am afraid only of you believing that you are not allowed to be wanted.”
The words struck with the force of revelation.
My breath stuttered. My vision blurred.
“I don’t know how,” I confessed. “I don’t know how to accept that.”
She smiled then—not radiant, not triumphant—just patient.
“Then we will learn,” she said. “Slowly. Together.”
She guided me to sit at the edge of the bed, settling beside me without hesitation, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact sent a tremor through me—not desire alone, but awe. The weight of her presence. The truth of her nearness.
She began to unfasten the pins in her hair, one by one, laying them carefully on the bedside table. Pearls clicked softly against wood. Each sound felt like punctuation, marking the end of a life lived under expectation and the beginning of something chosen.
When her hair finally fell fully free, she shook it out with a small, almost shy laugh.
“I think,” she said, “that I should change.”
The words were simple. Innocent.
They stole the air from my lungs.
“I—” I swallowed. “I can leave.”
She looked at me, startled.
“Why would you?”
“So you won’t feel watched,” I said. “Or hurried. Or—”
She reached up and cupped my face, warm hands steady despite the tremor I knew lived beneath her calm.
“I want you here,” she said. “If you wish to stay.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
She stood, turning slightly away—not in shame, but privacy—and loosened the gown. I did not watch as one might devour. I watched as one witnesses something sacred. The silk slid away slowly, pooling at her feet like shed history. Dressed only in a simple slip, pale and soft, and turned back to me.
“Your turn,” she said gently.
My hands shook as I removed my coat, then my shirt. Scars caught the firelight—the starkest evidence of what I truly was. She had seen me shirtless before, but still, I braced myself for revulsion, for hesitation. I wondered if that instinct would ever fade.
She touched them instead.
Each one.
With reverence.
“These are not reasons to fear you,” she whispered. “They are reasons to honor you.”
And then—without warning, without permission from my careful restraint—I broke.
The sound tore from me, raw and humiliating, a sob dragged up from somewhere I had desperately tried to seal away. I covered my face with my hands, mortified, breath coming apart as tears followed, hot and unstoppable.
“I don’t understand how you can look at me like this,” I choked. “How you can want me when I—when I am—”
She pulled my hands away and pressed her forehead to mine.
“Because you are kind,” she said. “Because you choose mercy when violence would be easier. Because you love me as though it is not a risk, but a gift.”
Her arms wrapped around me, holding me as I shook.
I had never been held like that.
Not to be restrained. Not to be studied. Not to be pitied.
Just held.
"Because I love you, Adam."
My tears soaked into her nightdress. She did not flinch. She did not hurry me. She simply breathed with me until the storm passed.
When I could finally breathe again, she kissed my cheek. Then my brow. Then, very gently, my mouth.
She moved back, just for a moment, and the thin shift she wore fell to the ground in a pile.
My mouth went utterly dry.
She was beautiful. Her skin was as soft as I had imagined, the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts. The sight made my head spin.
I reached for her hand, tentative at first, and she placed hers in mine as though it belonged there, as though it had always been waiting.
The moment stretched, delicate and tense. I memorized the curve of her neck, the softness of her cheek, the faint tremor of her hands in mine. Every inch of her presence was sacred, a cathedral built of flesh and breath and the quiet ferocity of survival.
“May I....?” I asked, my hand rising to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.
She nodded, a ghost of a smile curving her lips. “Yes.”
Our lips met, and the kiss was slow, tasting of longing and relief. Her hands found my shoulders, my chest, clinging not from fear but from a desire I mirrored. There was a tremor in her lips that matched the one in my own, a quiver that spoke of restraint stretched too long, of a passion withheld and now spilling free in the quiet sanctity of this chamber.
I drew back slightly, gazing into her eyes. “You are mine,” I whispered, not possessively, but with the gravity of truth. “As I am yours.”
“And I am yours,” she said, the words deliberate, weighty, a vow unto themselves.
I could no longer restrain the hunger that had been building, not solely physical but emotional, spiritual. Every moment apart from her had been agony; every second spent in the presence of her danger, her vulnerability, had been a trial of patience. Now, with her here, all barriers fell.
Her hands assisted me with frenzied movements as I undressed, needing to feel her against me.
She gasped as I finally stood before her, and she saw all of me. Not out of fear, I recognized, but awe.
Her hand reached out and gently wrapped around the length of me, and for a moment shame bucked its ugly head, I was scarred, even there. But she did not recoil.
Her delicate fingers did not meet around me. The sight nearly made my knees buckle.
"How is this supposed to fit... inside of me?" She whispered, her cheeks reddening. Despite myself, I felt a surge of masculine pride. At least I had Victor to thank for one thing.
"I won't ever hurt you. But if you want to stop, I will." I said, meaning every word even as my desire pushed hard against my restraint.
"I want to try. I want you." She said, her hand sliding against me.
"I...I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted, head spinning with the sensation of her fingers.
She smiled sweetly up at me. "Neither do I."
I groaned, and she grinned at me as my cock jumped in her grip, the end beading with my arousal. Instinct overtook me, and I suddenly felt very grateful for all of the less-than-proper romance novels I consumed.
I kissed her, desperate as a man starving.
I guided her to the bed, each movement tender, deliberate, reverent. She did not resist. She did not hesitate. She trusted me completely, and that trust laid itself upon my chest like a river of fire.
The first brush of skin against skin was electric. I memorized every contour, every shiver, every breath she drew. Her hand sought mine, entwining fingers as though we had always belonged this way, as though time itself had bent to create this convergence. I traced the line of her collarbone, the hollow at her throat, and felt the tremor of anticipation ripple through her like water against a stone.
We paused, neither of us speaking, letting the space between our bodies become a language in itself. Her gaze lifted to mine, searching, questioning, and finding only love reflected back. I could feel her pulse under my fingertips, matching mine, a twin rhythm that sang of survival, desire, and the ferocity of human connection.
I kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting her skin, inhaling her scent, letting the entirety of my restraint, my longing, pour into this single act. She responded in kind, hands roaming over my shoulders, down my chest, pressing close, seeking warmth, seeking reassurance, seeking me.
Time ceased. The world outside the chamber—the manor, the forests, the road, the screams and shadows—all disappeared. There was only us. The soft flicker of firelight on the walls, the brush of hands on skin, the gasp of breath, and the heartbeat echoing in the hush.
"I want to try something." I whispered, my voice not quite my own. "Something I've only read about..." I trailed off, feeling my face grow hot.
Adelia raised a brow at me, smirking. "Adam I trust you. You can do anything you want to me, just please don't stop touching me."
I huffed out a noise, half-way between a laugh and a moan and began kissing my way down her body, needing to taste her. Needing everything.
She gasped as my nose touched the soft hair above her opening.
"A-Adam..." she whimpered, her hips twitching, the heady scent of her was overwhelming.
The first lick nearly destroyed me. My cock strained against the sheets, but I ignored it, drinking in the taste of her. Adelia's hands buried themselves in my hair as I began to feast upon her, her wetness dripping down my chin. The ache between my legs growing deeper and deeper. Her hips dissappeared under my hands as I gripped them, pulling her closer to me.
"Are you okay?" I asked, voice husky with lust.
She nodded.
"Please don't stop." her whine sent a shiver down my spine.
I kissed the bundle of nerves above her pussy before raising my hand to her entrance.
She melted into me as I pressed just one finger inside, my mouth working furiously above.
I wanted her ready for what was to come. I didn't want to hurt her. Ever.
"More!" She yelped, and I obliged, adding another finger, stretching her, feeling the gush of her arousal dripping down into my palm.
I knew what was coming before she did.
"Adam I... I don't... it feels... ah!"
"It's okay, my love. Just relax. Let go for me." I groaned against her, the sensation of her walls clenching my fingers causing me to grind into the mattress, desperate for the friction.
With one long lick, she came undone. Her body shuddered in release and she cried out, the hands in my hair tightening almost to the point of pain.
I continued until her body relaxed.
I rose, her sweat slicked body beautiful in the firelight.
I couldn't help myself. I licked a line up her stomach, and caught the peak of her breast in my mouth.
“Adelia,” I whispered against her chest, voice low and hoarse. “I am yours. Only yours.”
Her hands lifted my face, fingers tracing the scarred lines of my skin, and I felt something crack within me—a dam breaking. She saw me, all of me, and still, she wanted me. She would not turn away. She would not falter.
She smiled at me, her eyes hazy.
"Come here husband." She ordered, and I obeyed.
Her legs wrapped around my hips and pulled me forward, my hardness bouncing almost painfully.
"I need you." She begged, pushing her wetness up against me. I thrust my hips, coating my length in her, unable to stop myself.
I relished in the glide against her, the way she whimpered and pushed against me, sensitive as she must be from her orgasm, but still desperate for the friction.
"Adam you're going to drive me insane." She moaned.
I purred at that and finally, so slowly, guided myself to her entrance.
It was so warm, so wet, so tight. I forgot how to breathe. How to think.
"Relax, darling. I've got you." I rumbled in her ear, pressing a kiss against her neck.
She whined as I slowly sank further in, and felt resistance.
I stopped, guilt flaring hot.
Adeila was having none of it. Her feet hooked around behind me and tugged me forward sharply, and I felt the membrane inside of her tear.
She yelped, and I jerked my head up, horrified at the tears in her eyes.
"It's ok." She assured me, kissing me. "I knew you wouldn't be able to do it, to hurt me at all. Just... give me a moment."
I did as she asked, the faint scent of blood wafted up from between where we were joined.
She pushed her hips up against me and suddenly, her expression shifted from pain to something else entirely.
"Adam," she whispered, "move. Please."
I rolled my hips, as gentle as I could be, pulling out and slowly pushing back in. The feeling of her was something else entirely.
Her moans were the sweetest sound in the world. Her hands scrambled for purchase across by back, pulling me closer, closer, closer.
I whispered her name, again and again against her skin, like a prayer.
I couldn't stop if I had wanted to. She squeezed around me, and the sensation was dizzying.
The speed of my thrusts increased as my pleasure grew, my moans joined hers, her nails raking down my back.
"Adam—!"
The sound of my name on her tongue undid me.
My peak hit me hard, without warning.
I let out a roar of pleasure as I fell over the edge, emptying myself deep into her.
I didn't stop. I didn't want to.
I never wanted this to end.
I knew she was just behind me, and overwhelming as the sensations were, I needed her to follow me.
She pulled me down into a kiss as she climaxed, the breath left me as I felt her flutter around me, and I met her, over and over, until the spasms died.
Finally, I stilled.
Our breath mingled, sharp and hot. I kept myself from collapsing by sheer force of will, my strength gone completely, my muscles trembling, heart racing.
I withdrew and tumbled next to her, gathering her in my arms and pulling her close.
"I love you." I whispered into her hair, wonderful exhaustion rolling over me in waves.
"I love you too," she replied, curling closer into me despite the sweat upon our bodies. Her leg slid between my knees and we lay there, entirely spent. Overwhelmingly happy.
Laying there, an idea became abundantly clear to me.
Trust is not loud.
It does not announce itself.
It settles into the body like warmth, like breath, like the certainty that one is not alone.
When at last we rested, limbs tangled, her head on my chest, I stared at the ceiling and felt something new bloom inside me—not desire, not triumph.
Peace.
“I’m still here,” I whispered, astonished.
She smiled against my skin.
“So am I.”
Sleep found us slowly.
And for the first time since I was made—
I did not feel like something borrowed from the world.
I felt chosen.
Loved.
Home.
Notes:
Also don't fret, there will be more.
Chapter 26
Summary:
Oops I gave Adam a breeding kink.
(Sorry not sorry it's canon to me.)
Chapter Text
Adam
Happiness did not arrive like a trumpet call.
It came the way dawn does when one has slept deeply—almost unnoticed at first, light filtering through curtains, warmth touching skin before thought has time to interfere. There was no announcement, no moment where I could point and say this is it. Instead, it crept into me quietly, settling into corners I had long ago boarded shut.
I woke one morning and realized that nothing hurt.
Not my body—that was an unreliable metric, something Victor had ensured would mend regardless—but the deeper ache. The perpetual readiness for catastrophe. The instinct to brace, to anticipate loss before joy could settle long enough to wound me.
That ache was gone.
The realization frightened me more than pain ever had.
The house was quiet.
Not the brittle quiet that precedes disaster, nor the heavy silence of a place holding its breath, but the lived-in quiet of a home that expected nothing terrible to happen before breakfast. The walls did not seem to listen for screams. The floors did not flinch beneath footsteps. Even the air felt unburdened, as though it had forgotten how to carry fear.
Adelia slept beside me.
That alone still felt impossible.
She lay on her side, one hand curled loosely near her face, hair spilled across the pillow in soft, ungoverned waves. Morning light traced her features with gentle precision, catching on her lashes, warming the curve of her cheek. Her breathing was slow and even—untroubled, unguarded. She did not sleep like someone waiting to be startled awake by grief.
She slept like someone who trusted the world to leave her alone for a while.
I watched her for a long time.
Not because I feared she would vanish if I looked away—though some remnant of that terror still lived in me—but because witnessing her existence felt reverent. I had been made in a room of screaming metal and stolen lightning. I had entered the world already wrong, already broken, already condemned.
To wake beside something so gentle felt like trespass and benediction all at once.
When she stirred, it was gradual. A small sigh, barely audible. A shift closer to me, her shoulder brushing my chest. Her fingers found my arm instinctively, seeking warmth before consciousness caught up.
She smiled before opening her eyes.
“Good morning,” she murmured, voice soft with sleep.
Something in my chest tightened, as it always did when she spoke to me first—as though she had learned a way to call me into being without ever needing my name.
“Good morning,” I replied.
Her eyes opened then, and the smile widened—not radiant, not ceremonial. Just content. The sort of smile people wore when they were unafraid of the day waiting beyond the bed.
“You’re staring again,” she said.
“I’m allowed,” I answered.
She laughed, low and warm, and rolled onto her back, stretching languidly. The sheet slipped down her shoulder, baring skin to the morning air. She did not rush to cover herself—not because she was careless, but because she trusted me not to look at her as a possession.
That trust still startled me.
"Do you know that you purr in your sleep?" Adelia asked, reaching out to cradle my face.
I chuckled. "Like a cat?"
Adelia nodded. "Like a big one. I find it soothing."
She stretched again, her petite form arching against me, and I felt the brush of her breasts against my chest, nipples hardening in the cool morning air. My cock twitched in response, already half-erect from the mere proximity of her.
I leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, my scarred hands cradling her face with the reverence it deserved.
"I slept like the dead, thanks to you," she said, her fingers tracing the ridges of scars along my arm. "But I woke up thinking about last night. About how you made me feel... cherished. Undone." Her hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the sheets to find the thick length of my cock, already swelling under her touch. I inhaled sharply, the sensation electric, her small palm wrapping around me as best it could. "I want to return the favor, Adam. Let me make you feel that way."
Emotion swelled in my chest, a tide of love and vulnerability that threatened to unmoor me. In all my years, marked by violence and isolation, no one had ever looked at me with such desire, such willingness to give without taking. "You don't have to," I whispered, though my body betrayed me, hips shifting instinctively toward her hand. "Just having you here is enough."
But she shook her head, her dark hair swaying as she pushed the sheets aside and slid down my body. "It is enough, but I want more. I want all of you." Her words wrapped around my soul like a vow renewed, and I surrendered, propping myself on my elbows to watch her. She settled between my legs, her small frame dwarfed by my thighs, yet she moved with a confidence that made her seem boundless.
Adelia's eyes locked onto mine as she leaned in, her breath warm against my skin. She kissed the tip of my cock first, soft and teasing, her lips parting to let her tongue flick out and taste the bead of precum there. A groan escaped me, deep and ragged, as pleasure coiled tight in my belly. "Adelia..." Her name was a prayer on my lips, and she smiled up at me, that intimate connection bridging the vast difference in our sizes.
Emboldened, she took me into her mouth, her lips stretching around the girth of my cock. She sucked gently at first, her tongue swirling along the underside, tracing the veins that pulsed with need. I threaded my fingers through her hair, not guiding but holding, anchoring myself to her as waves of sensation crashed over me. The scars on my body, once symbols of my brokenness, faded in this moment; all I felt was her devotion, her love manifesting in every slide of her mouth, every hollow of her cheeks as she took me deeper.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming beauty of it. This woman, so fierce and tender, choosing to kneel before me, to draw pleasure from my pleasure. She bobbed her head, her small hands stroking what her mouth couldn't reach, twisting lightly to heighten the friction. Saliva glistened on my shaft, easing her movements, and the wet sounds of her sucking filled the room, mingling with my labored breaths.
I could feel the pressure building, a storm gathering low in my groin, but she sensed it too and slowed, pulling back with a gasp. "Not yet," she breathed, climbing up my body to straddle my hips. She hovered above me, slick and ready, the remnants of last night's ecstasy still evident in her arousal. "I want to feel you inside me when you come."
My hands found her waist, steadying her as she lowered herself onto my cock. She was tight, her walls clenching around me inch by inch, and I bit back a curse at the exquisite grip. "God, Adelia, you're so perfect," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. She sank down fully, her ass settling against my thighs, and we both paused, savoring the union. Her dark hair tumbled forward as she leaned down to kiss me, our tongues tangling in a dance as old as time.
Then she began to move, rocking her hips in a rhythm that built slowly, deliberately. I thrust up to meet her, gentle but deep, my scarred hands roaming her back, her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she moaned into my mouth. The emotional weight of it all—the trust, the passion—amplified every sensation. Her pussy fluttered around me, drawing me closer to the edge, and I whispered endearments against her skin, telling her how she healed me, how she was my world.
Our pace quickened, her small body bouncing on mine, breasts jiggling with each descent. Sweat slicked our skin, and the room filled with the slap of flesh, her cries growing sharper. ''Adam... I'm close," she gasped, and I angled my hips to hit that spot inside her, the one that made her shatter.
She came first, her pussy spasming around my cock, milking me as she threw her head back, a keening wail escaping her lips. The sight of her—lost in bliss, utterly mine—pushed me over. I surged up, burying myself deep as I erupted, cum flooding her in hot pulses. We clung together, trembling, as the aftershocks rippled through us.
In the quiet aftermath, she collapsed onto my chest, and I held her close, my heart pounding with a love so profound it ached. "Thank you," I whispered, kissing her temple. 'For everything.''
We lay there for a while, doing nothing at all. The sun climbed higher. Somewhere below us, a door opened. Footsteps crossed the corridor—unhurried, familiar. The house woke gently, respectfully, as though unwilling to intrude upon us.
Eventually, Adelia turned her head toward me.
“What do you want to do today?” she asked.
The question caught me off guard.
I had been asked what I wanted before—by Victor, by strangers, by necessity—but never like this. Never without expectation. Never without consequence hiding beneath it.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Her expression softened, not with disappointment, but with understanding.
“Then we’ll find out together,” she said.
***
After breakfast—taken in the smaller dining room rather than the great hall, because neither of us had any appetite for echoing spaces—we walked the gardens. The scars of violence had not vanished entirely. Stone still bore faint discoloration where fire had licked too long. One hedge had grown back unevenly, new shoots reaching skyward with stubborn defiance.
Adelia paused beside it, brushing her fingers over a leaf.
“They’ll grow straighter eventually,” she said.
“They don’t need to,” I replied.
She looked at me, curious.
“Why not?”
“Because they survived,” I said. “That’s enough.”
She smiled then and leaned into me, her shoulder fitting against my arm as though it had always been shaped for that purpose. We walked without destination, speaking of trivial things—the roses taking to their new soil, the wisteria blooming with inappropriate enthusiasm, the absurd persistence of life in places it had no right to flourish.
Later, Grace arrived.
She walked unassisted now, though not without effort. The wound in her abdomen—once mortal—had healed cleanly, the skin smooth and unbroken. Only she and I seemed to remember what lay beneath it. Occasionally, when she thought no one was watching, her hand pressed briefly to her side, a flicker of discomfort passing over her face like a shadow.
“Don’t look so grim,” she scolded when she caught me noticing. “I’m not about to keel over.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Liar.”
Adelia brought her tea, fussing in that gentle, determined way she had.
“It still aches sometimes,” Grace admitted, quieter now. “Like a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?” Adelia asked.
“That I lived,” Grace said simply. “And that I almost didn’t.”
She took a sip of tea, then smirked. “Also that I am no longer permitted to lift anything heavier than a book, which is an injustice I intend to complain about indefinitely.”
Despite herself, she stayed for hours. She criticized the drapes, scolded me for hovering, and watched us with an expression I could not quite name—something between disbelief and fierce approval.
“You know,” she said eventually, “most people spend their lives waiting for happiness to be taken from them.”
I stiffened.
She noticed immediately.
“Oh, hush,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m not predicting disaster. I’m marveling. This—” she gestured vaguely between Adelia and me “—is what happens when something goes right and people have the sense not to flinch away from it.”
***
That night, after the house had finally settled and the rain began to fall—soft at first, then steadily, like a patient hand at the window—we lay together in bed, each of us holding a book we were no longer truly reading. Candlelight glimmered from the bedside table, its small flame wavering with every breath we took, making the words on the page seem to shift and creep. I had read the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it.
My thoughts were still awash with last night, with this morning. I felt restless, hungry in a way that bordered on feral, yet there was no shame in it—only certainty. I loved Adelia with every fiber of my being, and the wanting felt like an extension of that love rather than something separate from it.
I turned my head slightly, watching her beside me. Her hair spilled across the pillow like dark ink, and her lips parted faintly as she mouthed the words she read, soundless and intent. Those same lips that, only hours ago, had been so intimately, devastatingly familiar.
I blinked and tried to banish the thought, but my body betrayed me all the same, heat coiling low and insistent. I shifted beneath the covers, attempting subtlety, though it was useless.
Adelia noticed at once. She always did.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly, closing her book and setting it aside, her voice warm with concern.
“I’m fantastic.” I replied, sliding an arm around her and drawing her closer. She came willingly, tucking herself against my body, her head settling against my chest. We fit together so perfectly, it made my heart ache.
After a long moment, she spoke.
“Adam?” she asked softly.
“Yes?”
She hesitated, just long enough that I felt it.
“Do you think… do you know if you’re capable of having children?”
The question landed gently, but it split something open inside me all the same.
She rushed on, voice careful. “I just—Victor… I don’t know what he did. I don’t know if he would have—”
“Made me incomplete?” I finished.
She nodded, eyes searching my face. Not fearful—only earnest.
I considered it.
“Victor was many things,” I said slowly. “Cruel. Arrogant. Obsessed. But he was a perfectionist.” I huffed a quiet laugh. “I doubt he would have created a man with missing parts or absent functions. Not if he noticed them.”
She stared at me for a beat.
Then she laughed.
“Well,” she said brightly, “I suppose that settles it.”
“What does?”
“We’ll just keep trying, then.”
The sound that tore from me was laughter—unrestrained, startled, real. It felt unfamiliar in my throat.
"Adam," she said, turning slightly in my embrace. "I meant right now."
My heart leaped.
"As you wish."
Time seemed to blur. I did not remember removing my undergarments, and her nightdress had dissappeared in a similar manner. All I knew is that I needed the feeling of her against me, unguarded. Warm. Alive.
I traced the curve of her hip with my callused fingers, marveling at how perfectly she fit against me, my seven-foot frame enveloping her like a protective shadow. My long hair draped over us both, mingling with hers in the dim glow. She sighed contentedly, her hand resting on my abdomen, but I felt the subtle shift in her breathing, the way her body arched instinctively toward mine. The memory of her mouth on me that morning, followed by the exquisite clench of her pussy as she rode me to release, stirred my cock to hardness against her thigh. Yet tonight, something deeper stirred—a primal urge, woven with the profound love that bound us.
"Look at me, my love," I murmured, my voice a low rumble that brooked no refusal, though laced with the gentleness she alone drew from me. I shifted, rolling her onto her back with careful strength, my massive body hovering over hers. Her eyes, wide and luminous, met mine, a flush creeping across her cheeks. She yielded without hesitation, her legs parting to welcome me between them, her trust a balm to the scars that etched my past and body.
I captured her lips in a kiss that started soft but deepened, my tongue claiming hers with a dominant edge, tasting the sweetness of her surrender. My hands pinned her wrists lightly above her head, not to restrain but to assert the bond we shared—this dance where I led, and she followed with eager grace. Breaking the kiss, I trailed my mouth down her neck, nipping gently at the pulse that fluttered there, eliciting a soft gasp from her throat.
"Adelia," I whispered against her skin, my breath hot as I released her wrists and cupped her breast, thumb teasing the peaked nipple until she arched into my touch. "I've thought of nothing else today but you." My cock throbbed against her inner thigh, thick and insistent, seeking the warmth of her core. She whimpered, her small hands clutching my shoulders, nails digging into the ridges of my creation.
"Tell me," she breathed, her voice husky with desire, eyes locked on mine with that fierce devotion that made my heart clench. "What do you want, Adam?"
I positioned myself at her entrance, the slick heat of her pussy kissing the tip of my cock. Slowly, deliberately, I pushed inside, inch by inch, savoring the way her walls stretched around my girth, gripping me like velvet fire. She moaned, her hips lifting to take me deeper, and I sank fully into her, our bodies joined in perfect harmony. Pausing there, buried to the hilt, I gazed down at her, emotion swelling in my chest like a tide.
"I want to breed you, Adelia," I said, my words raw and fervent, holding her gaze as I began to thrust—slow, deep strokes that filled her completely. "I want to fill you with my seed, watch your belly swell with our child. You'd be so lovely, my fierce little wife, round and radiant, carrying the proof of our love inside you. To mark you as mine in every way, body and soul. To bind us forever." Each word punctuated a roll of my hips, my scarred hands gripping her thighs to spread her wider, dominating the rhythm while my touch remained tender, reverent.
Her eyes glazed with passion, a shiver running through her as she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. "Adam,' she gasped, her voice breaking on a cry as I hit that deep spot within her. 'God, yes. I want that too. Fill me, make me yours completely. I want your baby—our baby—growing in me." Her enthusiasm fueled me, her pussy clenching around my cock in rhythmic pulses, drawing me inexorably toward release.
The room filled with the sounds of our union—the wet slide of my cock plunging into her, her breathless moans, my own guttural groans. I leaned down, capturing her mouth again as I increased my pace, my body covering hers protectively, thrusts growing more forceful yet never rough. Sweat beaded on my skin, dripping onto her breasts as I kneaded them, pinching her nipples to heighten her pleasure. She writhed beneath me, her dark hair splayed across the pillows like a halo, her small frame trembling with the intensity of it all.
Emotion choked me as I watched her unravel, the love I felt for her—a scarred warrior tamed by her light—pouring into every movement. "You're mine, Adelia," I growled softly against her ear, nipping the lobe. "Every inch of you. I am yours. And I'll give you everything." The pressure built, coiling tight, and with a final, deep thrust, I came undone. Hot spurts of cum flooded her pussy, painting her depths as I held myself still, grinding against her to ensure every drop stayed inside. She cried out, her own climax crashing over her, walls milking me greedily, as if her body echoed my desire to conceive.
But I wasn't finished. Not yet. As the aftershocks faded, I stayed buried within her, feeling the warmth of my release seep around us. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with satisfaction, but I saw the spark of need still burning there. "More," I commanded gently, my voice a husky promise as I began to move again, my cock hardening anew inside her slick heat. "I need to give you more, love. Until you're overflowing with me."
She nodded eagerly, her hands roaming my back, tracing the scars that told my story. "Don't stop," she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. "Give me everything. Make it real." Her words ignited me, and I thrust harder now, the gentleness tempered by a dominant urgency. I hooked her legs over my shoulders, angling deeper, my massive frame dwarfing her as I drove into her pussy with purposeful strokes. The bed creaked beneath us, her breasts bouncing with each impact, and she met my gaze, tears of overwhelming joy glistening in her eyes.
"The thought of you swollen with my child... it consumes me," I confessed between thrusts, my long hair falling forward to curtain our faces. "Your body changing, blooming for me. Nursing our babe at these perfect breasts." I bent to suckle one nipple, drawing a sharp keen from her as pleasure spiked. She was so responsive, so utterly into this fantasy we shared, her walls fluttering around me, chasing another peak.
We moved together in a symphony of need and love, my dominance guiding her pleasure while my heart laid bare. Her cries grew louder, her body tensing as she neared the edge again. "Adam... please," she sobbed, and I gave her what she craved, pounding into her with controlled power until she shattered, her orgasm rippling through her like a storm. The sight, the feel of her coming apart on my cock, pushed me over once more. I buried myself deep, roaring her name as I erupted a second time, cum surging into her in thick pulses, mingling with the first load, ensuring she was thoroughly claimed.
Exhausted, I collapsed beside her, pulling her into my arms as we both panted, bodies slick and sated. She nestled against me, her hand resting on her abdomen, a soft smile curving her lips. "I love you," she whispered, and I kissed her forehead, my scarred fingers threading through her dark hair.
"I love you," I replied, the weight of our shared dream settling over us like a warm blanket.
Long moments passed, just laying there and breathing.
The lust now cleared from my mind however, a different kind of fog came into my mind, unbidden.
Adelia noticed.
"What is it, Adam?"
“I’ve been thinking,” I admitted quietly. “More than I should.”
She tilted her head. “About what?”
“About how I was made,” I said. “The exact science of it. The process. The things Victor wrote down.”
Her expression did not darken.
“You’ve avoided it for a long time,” she said gently.
“A decade,” I replied. “When I took the title—when I became Baron Frankenstein—I had everything related to the experiments sealed away. Locked in the far corner of the basement. I couldn’t destroy them, but I couldn’t face them either.” I swallowed. “I was afraid that understanding it would make me complicit. Or worse—that it would make me hate myself all over again.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now,” I said, “I find myself curious.”
The word felt dangerous. Liberating.
“Curious doesn’t mean condemned,” she said softly. “And understanding how you were made doesn’t diminish who you are now.”
She reached for my hand, grounding me.
“You survived Victor,” she said. “You’re allowed to outgrow him.”
The thought settled into me, warm and terrifying and hopeful all at once.
Later, as we lay together listening to the rain, she traced the scars along my chest with reverent fingers—not as though they were flaws, but history.
“These are chapters,” she murmured. “Not definitions.”
I closed my eyes.
I believed her.
There were no crowds waiting to judge us. No torches. No demands.
Just rain against the windows. The low warmth of the fire. Grace’s laughter lingering somewhere in the house. And the astonishing, fragile truth that we were allowed this.
And in that quiet, unremarkable moment, I understood something I had not been made to understand:
Happiness does not need to be earned through suffering.
Sometimes—
It is simply given.
And sometimes, if one is very brave—
One accepts it.
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