“Or your brother’s head ends up on a pike, marriage or no.” The cold object in Senna’s palm was small, smooth metal. Not photos. A burner phone, cheap and scratched, that vibrated once against her palm. The rain blurred Halm’s face, a distorted mask of desperation and menace. Before she could form a reply, Levon’s hand tightened on her back, guiding her forward with an undeniable pressure. The car door swung open, a cavernous black maw inviting her in. She slipped inside, the phone now a burning secret in her clenched hand, the scent of damp leather and old money filling her nostrils. Levon slid in beside her, his presence consuming the confined space. His gaze, dark as the storm-swept coast, lingered on her face, searching for a tremor, a tell. Senna met it, blank, her features carefully composed. She felt the phone against her skin, a constant, sickening reminder of the invisible leash Halm had just snapped around her neck. The car pulled away, leaving the cemetery behind as neon bleed stained the rain-streaked windows. They drove without speaking through Belzanto’s slick, neon-drenched arteries. The city was a beast of steel and glass, its higher echelons ablaze with corporate lights, its underbelly a tangle of shadowed alleys and buzzing pleasure dens. The Karras Estate rose from the jagged coastline like a dark, predatory bird, its stone walls illuminated by a stark, almost theatrical floodlighting. Towers of ancient, black iron gates swung open with a hydraulic hiss as the sedan approached, revealing a long, winding drive flanked by sculpted, rain-slicked gardens. The manor itself was an imposing structure of dark granite and vast, leaded windows, perched precariously on a sheer cliff face. Inside, the opulence was immediate and suffocating: polished obsidian floors reflecting crystal chandeliers, walls adorned with somber oil paintings. Heavily armed men, clad in tailored dark suits, stood guard, their eyes tracking her every movement. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress, a gilded cage built for a king. And now, she was its newest prisoner. Levon led her through an echoing gallery to a set of imposing double doors at the end of a long, hushed corridor. He pushed them open without knocking. The room beyond was vast, a master suite of staggering proportions. A four-poster bed, draped in dark silks, dominated the center, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying view of the churning, black ocean below. But what caught Senna’s eye wasn’t the view, or the luxurious furnishings. It was the adjoining door, slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of an identical, though distinctly masculine, suite. “Your quarters,” Levon stated, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He gestured to the room. “Connected to mine. For security, naturally. And convenience.” A cruel smile touched his lips. “I expect you’ll find it… comfortable.” Senna’s breath caught, a cold knot forming in her stomach. “Convenience?” she echoed, her voice barely a whisper, but laced with a sudden, sharp edge. “I agreed to a marriage, Karras, not to be a captive in your bed.” He stepped closer, invading her personal space with an ease that was both terrifying and intimate. His scent — expensive cologne, gunpowder, and something primal, like rain on hot stone — filled her senses. “You misunderstand, Korvath. Or perhaps you simply prefer to fight. I will not touch you without your explicit permission. You are to be my wife, not a concubine. But you are also mine, now. And you will not leave this estate without me. Ever.” His eyes, depthless and unreadable, held hers. “This is your home. Your gilded cage. Learn to like the gold.” The air grew dense between them, stretched thin with mutual defiance. Senna felt the fight rise within her, a familiar fury. She stared back, unwavering. “I won’t like the gold, Karras. I’ll tolerate it. For Tomas.” A ghost of a genuine smile flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Good,” he murmured, a note of satisfaction in his tone. “Spite makes for a more resilient spirit. Now, rest. We dine in an hour. With my inner circle. And you will be expected to make an impression.” He turned, leaving her in the cavernous room, the open door to his quarters remaining ajar. Senna spent the next hour pacing, the burner phone weighing in her pocket like a lead sinker. She found no hidden cameras, no overt listening devices, but the feeling of being watched was oppressive. She changed into a simple, dark dress from the wardrobe provided, the fabric unfamiliar, a stark reminder of her new reality. Her reflection in the ornate mirror showed a woman she barely recognized: eyes too sharp, jawline too hard, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface. When she descended to the dining room, Levon was already seated at the head of a long, polished table. Six other men, all impeccably dressed, filled the remaining seats. Their gazes, sharp and assessing, landed on her as she entered. These were the lieutenants, the enforcers, the ruthless minds that ran the Karras Syndicate. Their faces were carved with the kind of hard lines that only years of violence could etch. Among them, a man with a sneering scar across his cheek, Elio Krest, watched her with particular disdain. Levon merely pulled back the chair beside his own. Senna took it, her posture straight, her gaze steady, acknowledging no fear. The dinner began in a tense, hushed atmosphere, punctuated by the clinking of silverware and the low murmurs of conversation. The food was rich, almost overwhelmingly so, but Senna picked at it, her appetite long gone. Elio Krest, seated several chairs down, leaned forward, his voice a grating rasp. He raised his glass, not to toast, but to mock. “To the new Karras bride. From the Korvaths, no less. A family of petty thieves and desperate women. Such an honor for the Syndicate.” He smirked, his eyes sweeping over Senna, lingering with insult. A hush fell over the table. Levon’s hand, resting on the tablecloth, remained still. Heat surged straight up Senna’s throat. Her vision narrowed. She saw red, not just from the wine in the glass before her, but from the insult to her family, to Tomas, to her father’s memory. In a swift, fluid motion, she picked up her full glass of crimson wine and, with a flick of her wrist, hurled its contents directly into Levon Karras’s face. The wine splattered across his cheek, dripped from his jaw, a stark, violent stain against his pale skin. A collective gasp, almost inaudible, went around the table. The stillness that followed froze every fork and glass in midair. Levon didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He slowly lifted a pristine white napkin, dabbing the red from his face, his movements deliberate. His eyes, fixed on Senna, held no anger, only an unsettling, almost delighted glint. A slow smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. Then, he turned his head, his gaze sweeping to Elio Krest. “Elio,” he said, his voice quiet, dangerously calm. “You forget yourself. And you insult my future wife. And by extension, me.” Elio blanched, pushing back from the table. “Levon, I meant no disrespect–” Levon didn’t let him finish. Faster than Senna could track, his hand dipped beneath the table. A muffled shot ripped through the air, startlingly loud in the sudden quiet. Elio Krest screamed, a raw, guttural sound, clutching his leg as blood bloomed across the expensive fabric of his trousers. His chair clattered to the floor as he collapsed, writhing. Levon replaced the small, suppressed pistol beneath the table with the same seamless motion. He looked back at Senna, his smile still in place, a bead of wine still clinging to his earlobe. “No one disrespects what is mine,” he said, his voice soft, almost tender, his eyes holding hers. “Not in my house. Not ever.” Just then, the heavy, oak-paneled doors to the dining hall burst open with a resounding bang. All heads snapped towards the entrance. Senna’s best friend, Brida Yovan, stumbled through the doorway, her usually bright clothing torn and mud-stained, a crimson line of blood trailing from a gash on her temple. Her eyes, wide and terrified, darted around the room before locking onto Senna. She choked on her own spit, blurting a raw, desperate cry across the room. “Senna… they’re hunting Tomas. Goran Ozer’s men. They found him.”

Red Stains