"Get in."
Mckenna's voice boomed through the night, snapping her out of her trance. She quickly walked into the house. And the moment she did, every fear that had led her here seemed to vanish.
The house wasn't nearly as dreadful as she'd imagined. She had pictured dark halls filled with cobwebs, creaking floors, and broken mirrors. She hadn't expected to walk into a place fit for royalty.
A fire crackled at the far end of the room. A chandelier hung in the center, casting golden light over the polished black-and-white marble floors.
"Your home… is beautiful," she whispered, not realizing she'd spoken out loud.
Mckenna sat on a red mahogany sofa facing the fire. He tugged at his tie, frustrated as he struggled to loosen it, then sighed and reached for the drink on the side table.
"Let me," Mary said softly, moving closer and kneeling beside him as she began to undo the tie.
Mckenna watched her quietly. Her messy red hair from the other night was now curled in a bun, with a few strands falling gently across her face.
Her features were distinct—red freckles and dark amber eyes. She had the kind of appearance that felt odd at first glance, yet it drew you in.
"There," Mary beamed, her eyes brightening with pride at the small task she'd completed. He found her strange—that something so little could make her so pleased.
Without a word, he yanked off the loosened tie and downed his drink from the goblet, as if she hadn't just made it easier for him.
Mary stepped back, offering him a half-smile, like she'd been expecting a "thank you." But when none came, she sat quietly in the chair beside him, staring into the fire.
She wondered if he had any female servants—someone she could talk to. Back home, she'd had Mrs. Jenny, and sometimes her daughter, Eloise, would stop by and they would chat for hours.
Eloise didn't even know about this marriage. Would she ever see her again?
Mckenna gulped down a mouthful of wine, then glanced at her. He had tried not to—not since the marriage hall.
But something wasn't right. The shadow he'd seen… it was gone. The scent of death that once clung to her had vanished.
He was certain it had been there last night.
So why couldn't he sense it anymore?
He'd have to summon Anthony, even if he loathed the grim's company. Only he could tell whether her soul was close to crossing into the afterlife—or if what he'd sensed was merely a bad omen.
His lips twitched.
After a hundred years of his powers gone, to finally feel it again—only to have it vanish in the next breath.
It could mean only one thing.
He was turning mortal.
And when that happens… he'd age. He'd weaken. He'd die.
With a loud growl, he slammed the goblet to the floor. The sharp sound echoed across the marble, making Mary flinch in her seat.
Her eyes widened. "Is something wrong?" she asked softly.
But the softness of her voice only angered him more.
"Why?" His lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Do you know how to make it right?"
Mary blinked, confused. "I do no—"
"Isn't this the part where a wife does all she can to ease her angry husband?" he cut in mockingly. "So tell me, Dove… what will you do to ease it?"
"I don't…" she clasped her hands, laughing nervously, "I don't think it's within another human's power to make someone happy. Happiness is a choice."
"Humans," he murmured, the word hot and bitter on his tongue.
Then, suddenly, his eyes darkened. He crossed one leg over the other.
"Take off your dress."
"W-what?"
"You are my wife," he hissed. "Do your marital duties."
"I…" Mary's words tangled in her throat. It wasn't as if she hadn't expected this part of marriage—it was just… "Can I at least see to my room and wash off the sweat?"
"No," Mckenna shook his head. "I like the sweat on you. Now be an obedient wife, will you?"
Mary gripped the lace of her dress, her eyes stinging, lips twisting as she held back the rising wave of emotion.
"Come here. Stand in front of me," he said, his voice sharp with command, like a soldier giving orders—and she followed, her feet moving on their own.
She stood in front of him, still clutching the fabric tightly. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She didn't know why she was crying.
This was what must be done… and yet—she had never. She thought she'd be more prepared for it.
"You mustn't hesitate," he growled, his eyes fixed on her clasped hands.
"Will it… will it not hurt?" she asked quietly.
"Ahh," he tilted his head, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Did you not spend last night with a certain man? Even sat on his lap, didn't you?"
She tensed.
"Mckenna, please," she whispered, because begging was all she had left. She was his wife now—and that meant obeying his words.
Mckenna's lips twisted, as if the sight of her pleading stirred something dark in him. "Why? You scared now?"
Mary shook her head. "N-no."
"Then take it off," he said, his voice low with warning, "or I will do it for you."
It wasn't like sex had ever excited him. The many years that had passed were enough for him to indulge in human acts, but still—he never cared for it. Yet he was changing, and he knew it. So perhaps it was time to adapt.
He wasn't going to give up though—not on his scythe, not on that soul, and maybe, just maybe, the fact that he had sensed his power through this red-haired girl meant there was still hope.
"What if a servant walks in on us?" she asked softly.
"I dismissed them for the night," he said with a wave of his hand, eyes fixed on her. "Start with unfolding your hair."
He preferred it messy.
She nodded and began removing the pins. Every pin that fell to the ground made her heart pound faster. Once they were all gone, her hair tumbled in wild waves over her shoulders. Now she stood there—in her white lace dress and black boots.
"The dress…" he said, his voice low, "Take it off."
But Mary just stood there, trembling, her eyes fixed on him as he sat with his legs crossed, cravat undone, revealing a smooth collarbone and a long neck. She tried not to stare at the way his long fingers traced the bottle of wine on the table beside him.
Still, Mary couldn't bring herself to lift her hands and take off the dress.
"Now… Beth."
"The buttons…" she said tensely, "They're at the back of the dress. I can't… reac—h it…"
Before she could finish, he stood and strode toward her, his boots hammering against the floor. He stopped right in front of her, letting his hand roam gently across her cheek.
Mary flinched away from his touch. His glove was off now, and the feel of his skin against hers sent a flush of heat through her.
"Scared?"
She shook her head. She couldn't show this man she was backing away now. She had been the one who came to him, the one who begged him to marry her. If they had to fulfill their marital duties, then it didn't matter when.
So Mary exhaled deeply and turned her back to him, allowing him to reach the buttons on her dress. He was younger. He had rescued her. He was now her husband—it was only right to give herself to him.
This was no scandal.
He rightfully owned her now.
She closed her eyes, bracing herself.
Behind her, Mckenna's eyes darkened, the firelight flickering across the fine contours of his face. His lips twitched as if in hesitation.
For a moment, Mary thought he wouldn't touch her.
Then she felt it—her hair being gently swept to one side, revealing the delicate curve of her neck, she tried not to think of his scent of winter rain and cold marble.
"You have freckles… here as well," Mckenna murmured, his hand grazing the hollow where small red dots rested.
Mary felt heat surge to her feet, as if she had stepped into fire.
"Yes..." she whispered.
It wasn't just there—she had freckles on nearly every part of her body, and they had always made her feel ugly.
But Mckenna was touching her like they were something to admire. Or maybe… it was his way of masking disgust.
His hand slowly left her neck, and she let out a quiet breath of relief—but it didn't last. His fingers began to undo her buttons, one after another.
Each movement made her breath grow shallow, and by the time he reached the last one, she knew it would only take his hands on her shoulders to push the dress down.
So she crossed her arms over her chest in reflex.
"Let go," he whispered against her ear, his voice a soft tenor that made her knees weak, luring her to obey.
And so, with trembling fingers, she lowered her arms.
The dress slipped to the floor in an instant.