The reflection shimmered, then solidified. Me, in a dress made of literal nightmares. Him, the impossible man, behind me, not with hands, but with a scythe that hummed with ancient power. Bride of Death. The words screamed in my head. My stomach, bless its consistent nature, just felt empty. But the hunger was now a dull ache compared to the gaping void of horror that just opened up inside me.
I stumbled back from the mirror, nearly tripping over my own feet. This couldn't be real. A smoky bridal gown? A scythe? This was some kind of elaborate, incredibly messed-up prank. Or I was still passed out on the street, having the worst stress-induced fever dream in history. Probably the one where I accidentally marry the literal Grim Reaper because I was hangry.
But the black ring on my finger felt terrifyingly solid. The cold radiating from it seemed to anchor me to this impossible reality. And the man with the star-filled eyes, the one who called himself my husband – my wife, technically, which just added another layer of absurdity to the cosmic horror – was still standing there. Watching me with that unnerving calm. Like I was a very interesting bug under a microscope.
"Okay, look," I started, voice shaking but pushing through it. "This isn't cute. You can stop with the spooky mansion. I'm out. Where's the exit?" I pointed a trembling finger at him, then at the mirror.
He didn't move. His gaze, deep as a nebula, was unwavering. "No exit, Soulbinder. Only… permanence." His voice was a calm, resonant hum, like a cello playing a very depressing tune.
Permanence? Ugh. I hated that word. It meant no refunds, no returns, no going back to my slightly-too-small apartment. This guy was really leaning into the existential dread.
Panic, raw and visceral, surged through me. I had to get out. Now. This wasn't a weird modeling gig. This was… something else entirely. Something ancient and terrifying. And I was wearing a metaphorical wedding dress made of smoke. My career as a part-time barista was officially over.
Without a second thought, I turned and bolted. The room was huge, but I could see a set of massive double doors on the opposite side. They looked like they led somewhere. Anywhere but here. Preferably somewhere with cell service and actual, edible fries.
My combat boots pounded on the polished stone floor. The sound echoed strangely in the vast space. The whispers seemed to rise, following me, a murmuring chorus of disapproval. The cold bit at my exposed skin. This was officially the least fun runaway bride scenario ever.
I reached the doors, fumbling for the handles. They were made of heavy, dark metal, cold and intricately carved. I pushed. Hard.
They didn't budge. Locked. Of course they were locked. Nothing was easy in this nightmare mansion. Not even a simple escape.
"Seriously?" I muttered, hitting the doors with a frustrated thump. "You lock the doors? What, are you afraid I'll run off with the haunted silverware?"
Okay. Other options. Windows? I spun around, looking for another way out. There were more tall, arched windows lining the walls. I ran to the nearest one, pushing aside the heavy drapery.
The view outside wasn't a street, or a garden, or anything recognizable. It was… a battlefield. Men in old-fashioned armor clashing, dust and blood staining the ground. It was vivid, detailed, like looking through a perfectly clear pane of glass into history. Or a very, very high-definition movie that probably wasn't playing in my Netflix region.
I gasped and stumbled back. Another window showed a bustling marketplace from what looked like medieval times. Another showed a desolate, futuristic cityscape shrouded in toxic fog. Each window offered a glimpse into a different era, a different world. None of them were my world. None of them offered escape. Just existential voyeurism.
My heart was a frantic bird in my chest, beating against its cage. I was trapped. In a gothic mansion, in a place called The In-Between, with a man who had scythes in mirrors and called me his wife. My life had officially taken a hard left turn into 'cosmic horror romantic comedy,' and I was not amused.
I ran down a hallway leading away from the ballroom. It was long, lined with more dark doors and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow me. The whispers were louder here, closer. They slithered around me like unseen things.
Bound… forever…
His bride…
No escape…
"Go away!" I yelled, my voice cracking. The whispers didn't stop. They just seemed to ripple with amusement, like they were enjoying my freak-out. Jerks.
I tried doors. Some were locked. Some opened into empty rooms filled with dusty sheets. Some opened into what looked like closets but had no back wall, just swirling darkness. I slammed them shut, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Every turn felt like another dead end.
I found a staircase, grand and sweeping, leading both up and down into shadow. I chose down. Anywhere had to be better than here. Plus, maybe the whispers were less loud downstairs. And maybe a secret passage. A girl could dream.
The lower levels were colder, the whispers thicker. I found what looked like a library. Walls lined with towering bookshelves, filled not with normal books, but with massive, leather-bound tomes that seemed to pulse with a faint, dark light. This felt important. This felt like where I might find answers. Or at least a really comfy reading chair to cry in.
My fingers, still adorned with the horrible black ring, traced the spines of the tomes. They were titled in languages I couldn't read, etched in symbols that reminded me of the contract I'd signed. Then I saw one. Larger than the others, resting on a pedestal in the center of the room. It was open.
Drawn by some morbid fascination, I approached it. The pages were made of the same dark, light-absorbing parchment as the contract Lucien had given me. The air around it hummed, a low, resonant vibration that felt both powerful and deeply wrong.
The open page was titled in bold, sweeping script that glowed faintly: THE PACT.
Beneath that, in smaller script that still managed to feel monumental, was the subheading: Soulbound Matrimony: Bride of Death.
My breath hitched. Bride. Of. Death.
My eyes scanned the page, the strange symbols swirling, but my gaze locked onto something else. At the bottom, on a line that seemed to pulse brighter than the rest… was my signature. Sera Quinn. Written in the same inky black 'blood' that had appeared on the parchment on the street. It glowed with an eerie, internal light.
My signature. Under a heading that said 'Bride of Death.'
Rage, hot and blinding, exploded inside me, burning away the fear and the confusion. That bastard! Lucien! He hadn't just omitted details. He had actively lied! He hadn't offered me a modeling contract. He had tricked me into… this.
Soulbound Matrimony. Bride of Death. It was all laid out, stark and undeniable. This wasn't an agency. This wasn't a gig. I had signed myself over. To Death. Literally. My dating life had always been bad, but this took the cosmic cake.
"You!" I screamed, spinning around, expecting the man with the star-filled eyes to be there. The library was empty. But the air crackled with his presence. He was close. I could feel the subtle chill intensify.
"You are such a liar!" I yelled into the empty space, my voice echoing off the silent tomes. "This whole thing was a setup! You trapped me!"
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the entrance of the library. Azrael stepped out, calm and composed, his black clothes blending seamlessly. His star-filled eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something in them. Not amusement, not coldness, but… ancient patience. And a hint of that subtle red glimmer in the depths.
"A setup?" he mused, his voice a low hum. "I prefer to call it... efficiency. You sought change. I provided it."
"I sought a paycheck, not a cosmic marriage!" I snapped, pointing at the open book. "And what is this?! 'Bride of Death'?! Did Lucien just forget to mention the whole spousal commitment part?"
He inclined his head slightly. "Lucien is merely a facilitator. He offers opportunity. How you interpret the fine print is, I suppose, a mortal failing."
"A failing?" I threw my hands up. "That's a pretty big detail to miss! Like, 'hey, sign here, you're married to the embodiment of endings, good luck!' Was there a 'cosmic prenup' I missed too?"
He walked towards the tome, his steps silent on the stone floor. He stopped beside it, his pale fingers, almost translucent, resting on the page with my glowing signature. The red shimmer in his eyes seemed to pulse faintly. "Prenups are, as you say, for mortals. This... this is far older. And far more binding."
"Binding?!" I yelled, fury pushing past fear. "So I'm stuck here? With you? Forever? Because I wanted a photo shoot and maybe some validation?!"
"You are precisely where you belong, Soulbinder," he confirmed, stating it like a simple fact. His gaze held mine, a strange depth in his star-filled eyes. "Your presence provides... a certain stability."
Stability. Great. I was a metaphysical paperweight for the Grim Reaper. Just another glamorous highlight in the glittering career of Sera Quinn.
And then, completely out of nowhere, a thought popped into my head. Amidst the panic, the despair, the sheer existential dread…
Fries. I really, really wanted fries. The craving hit with the force of a physical blow, a sudden, intense yearning for salty, crispy, comforting potatoes.
It was so random, so mundane in the face of everything, that it was almost funny. Almost.
And then, right there, floating in the air between us, was a small paper carton of fries. Hot, perfectly golden, smelling heavenly.
My jaw dropped for the second time that day. "What the…?" I stared at them. They hadn't been there a second ago.
The man – Death, my husband, whatever I was supposed to call him – reached out and plucked a fry from the carton. He brought it to his pale, carved lips, and bit into it. A faint, almost imperceptible sound of crunching echoed in the silence.
He chewed slowly, watching my stunned reaction. "Ah, excellent vintage," he murmured, as if discussing a fine wine, not stolen fast food. "Slightly over-salted, perhaps, but satisfying."
"Did you just…?" I spluttered, my mind struggling to keep up. "Did you just conjure fries?! And then steal one?! We are in the middle of me having a complete meltdown because I've accidentally married you, the personification of Death, and you're eating my hypothetical fries?!"
He took another fry. "Sharing is, I believe, a 'conjugal privilege'," he replied, his tone dry as ancient dust. "Consider it a marital benefit."
"Conjugal privileges?!" I shrieked. "Eating my fries is a conjugal privilege?! What kind of hell-marriage is this?! Do I get to steal your clothes now? Are my combat boots 'accessible' to you?"
He offered the carton towards me, a gesture so absurdly normal in this context that it felt more alien than the floating fries themselves. "The arrangement is permanent. And as your... partner... your needs are now, to some extent, my concern. And vice versa."
I stared at the fries, then at him, then back at the fries. My stomach rumbled, loud and embarrassing. Even in the face of eternal binding and existential horror, my body's betrayal knew no bounds.
Against my better judgment, driven by pure, unadulterated hunger, I snatched a fry from the carton. It was hot, crispy, perfect. The salty, greasy comfort was like a tiny, delicious anchor in the storm of my life.
He smiled again, that small, unsettling smile that did traitorous things to my insides. He took another fry as I ate mine. We stood there, in the middle of a silent, gothic hallway in a place called The In-Between, the Accidental Bride of Death and Death himself, sharing fries. It was the most surreal moment of my entire surreal existence.
"So," I said, chewing the best, most terrifying fry of my life. "Let me get this straight. I met a shady dude, signed something I thought was a modeling contract for 'eternal exposure,' and it turns out I accidentally married you, the literal Azrael. Now I'm trapped here forever, you can conjure snacks, and you think 'sharing fries' is a marital benefit?"
"A remarkably clear understanding," he replied, taking another fry. "Though 'trapped' is... an overly dramatic term. You are merely where you belong."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. Immortal. My fashion choices are unique, and you can't be sued for my student debt, can you?"
He paused, considering. "Your fashion choices are... observed. And mortal debts rarely cross the veil. Consider it a silver lining."
"Oh, thank god," I muttered, momentarily relieved that at least one of my problems wasn't following me into the afterlife-adjacent dimension. "So, just to be crystal clear, no annulment. No divorce. Stuck here. Forever."
"For as long as the connection endures," he confirmed, finishing his fry.
Despair settled back in, heavy and suffocating. Trapped. Bound. Married. To Death. My fingers curled around the black ring, its coldness a stark reminder.
He reached out again, his pale hand closing gently around the one with the ring. His touch was cold, but steady. His star-filled eyes seemed to bore into mine, not with menace, but with a strange, profound intensity. The subtle red shimmer in their depths pulsed, barely visible.
"This bond is not merely a restriction, Sera," he said softly, his voice a low hum that settled over me. "It is also... a connection."
He lifted my hand, bringing the black ring to his lips. He didn't kiss my skin, but the cold, obsidian band itself. As his lips touched the ring, a jolt of energy, cold and searing, shot up my arm.
And then, a vision hit me. Overwhelming, vivid, instantaneous.
I saw myself. Falling. Through darkness. Fear gripping me. The sounds of the mortal world fading. And then, a presence. Vast, cold, powerful. Reaching out. Catching my soul as it left my body. The man. Azrael. Death. His star-filled eyes, somehow seeing me even then, just before everything faded to black.
My own death. I was seeing my own death. And he had been there. Waiting. Catching me.
The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and shaking. His lips were no longer on the ring, but his hand still held mine. His star-filled eyes were back to their calm, celestial depth, but they held a strange, knowing sorrow I hadn't seen before.
He had seen me die. He had caught my soul. And now, somehow, I was married to him.