Chapter 6 The Wedding Dress from Hell

"Clara!" A sharp slap landed on my shoulder.

I jolted, my senses snapping back.

My brother gave me a puzzled look. "Seriously? Zoning out again? What were you staring at? Go help with dinner-I'll take care of Dad."

"Wait! Don't-Dad's back, it-"

But when I looked again, the Crimson Mask was gone. No trace. The voice, too, had vanished like smoke in sunlight.

"What? You see a bug or something?" My brother laughed as he leaned in, oblivious.

They both practiced the old wards and rites. If they didn't see it, then... was I the only one?

I drifted to the kitchen and stared blankly into the simmering pot. My mind wandered restlessly.

What the hell was happening to my family?

My so-called "husband" showed up out of nowhere, claimed me by blood pact, forced himself on me every night like a beast-and now wanted a child.

My father and brother, both veterans in dealing with arcane relics, came home wounded, weary, and shaken. And now my father... had been branded?

Bloodbranded.

Three nights left. My whole body still ached, my thighs bruised, my hips sore.

******

Near midnight, I sat on the edge of my bed, gnawing at my fingernail, heart restless.

The Crimson Mask on my father's back kept flashing through my mind-alive, sneering, watching.

And when that cold-blooded vampire husband of mine appeared without a sound, I flinched in terror.

Yes. That mask.

The one on his face was black-shadows carved into silver edges, sculpted like a beast's snarl.

But what I saw on my father's back... it was red, blood-red. The same shape. The same cruel eyes.

He didn't speak tonight. Maybe because he'd said too much already.

Instead, he climbed into my bed and proceeded with what he considered a nightly ritual-

a duty he had no intention of softening, no matter how I trembled beneath him.

I already knew what he wanted from me. I had resigned myself to endure it.

But knowing didn't dull the ache.

His presence still froze the breath in my lungs, and the searing burn as he entered made my spine go rigid.

Apparently, my discomfort irritated him even more.

He moved harder, rougher, like he wanted to break me open.

And for a while, the only sounds left in the room were those brutal collisions-skin against skin, soul against bone.

Tears slipped down my face. My body couldn't take this much longer.

I half-wished he'd make me bleed again-at least the blood might ease the pain.

Fortunately, he only did it once tonight.

Maybe he was tired of me. Maybe the lack of pleasure in my response was finally wearing on him.

Good.

If I could just keep resisting him with my body, maybe he'd grow bored faster.

As he got off the bed, I blurted, "Hey... you-ugly monster."

His aura flared instantly, a sharp spark of restrained fury. "Who the hell are you calling that?"

I startled but held my ground. "I don't know your name, and you're the one wearing that hideous monster mask."

"You don't need my name," he said, crossing his arms. "You may call me husband. I permit it."

Oh, the arrogance.

Of course he thought he was being generous. To him, I was just a sacrificial bride.

"Can I pick something else?" I asked dryly. "I'd really rather not."

He was silent for a moment. Then, with a colder tone, he said, "My name is Alaric. Alaric Vexmoor."

Alaric Vexmoor.

I whispered it to myself. The name was strangely elegant, almost poetic.

It didn't suit the violent, cold-blooded man who'd just ravaged me.

Still... I asked, cautiously, "Alaric... the mask on your face... has it ever been red?"

He stiffened.

The arms folded across his chest slowly lowered. His voice turned sharp. "Where did you see that?"

"I saw one... on my father's back," I whispered. "It was smiling. Like it knew me. Then it vanished."

"My dad didn't notice anything. Neither did my brother. But ever since he returned from dealing with some artifact, he's been... off. Weak. Like he's poisoned from the inside."

I kept talking, unaware that Alaric's hand had curled into a tight fist at his side, the veins on his forearm bulging beneath pale skin.

"Enough," he said curtly. "I'll look into it tomorrow. For now-sleep."

But he didn't disappear.

Instead, he sat at the edge of my bed, back facing me. Silent. Still. Watchful.

He wasn't leaving?

I lay there, trying not to breathe too loudly, too nervously. My limbs ached. My mind raced.

Eventually, sleep tugged at me... but even as I slipped into unconsciousness, I felt his presence like a cold pressure in the air.

That Crimson Mask-so much like his-what was the connection?

And why was it on my father's back?

******

I finally had a rare, uninterrupted night of sleep.

After class, I came home to find my dad locking up the shop.

I hesitated before asking, "Dad... is your back okay?"

He looked at me, puzzled. "My back? What would be wrong with it? Just needed a scratch, that's all."

I didn't press further. I didn't want to scare him.

But ever since I was little, I'd heard the same whispered warning passed down through the Duskgrave line: The most dangerous spirits are the ones who wear a smile-especially the red ones. Those were the signs of something far worse than ghosts. Malevolent entities. Possessive things.

And yet, our house was practically a fortress of authentic warding relics, and my father was well-versed in old rites and protective spells. So how could something like a crimson visage appear on his back?

"Clara," my dad said, his voice light and teasing. "Come here. I have something to show you."

He looked tired. The red around his eyes seemed deeper than just sleep deprivation.

He pulled out a dark crimson box and placed it on the coffee table. "A guy came in earlier to trade something. I thought this piece might suit you. Try it on-see if it fits."

"Fits?" I echoed warily.

He opened the box to reveal a crimson ceremonial gown-not a dress, not a normal wedding gown, but something else entirely. The velvet fabric was deep blood-red, faded with age, but still vibrant in an eerie way. Black thorns and twisting sigils were embroidered along the hem, and the bodice was shaped like a corset forged for an ancient blood rite.

It smelled like dust, ash, and something older. Something dead.

I frowned. "Why would I need this? You want me to just throw myself into this vampire bond now? You in a rush to get me killed, Dad?"

He laughed. "Of course not. I thought... maybe one day, you could wear it when you get married."

Married? That word had no place in my life anymore.

Something felt off. My dad had always told me to stay away from cursed objects. Because of what happened to Mom. He was fiercely protective when it came to this kind of thing.

So why now? Why insist I try on this gown that clearly reeked of death and dark magic?

I refused, flat-out. His smile faded. His expression darkened.

Then I heard it-a voice, not his.

"You refused the vow, Clara... Now suffer the bond."

My blood ran cold.

"Dad?" I called out, stepping back. "Dad, what's wrong? Where's-where's my brother?"

No answer.

The man who wore my father's face looked at me with crimson-soaked eyes, eyes that were no longer his.

And then I heard it again-the voice in my head, raspy and low.

"Clara... Clara Duskgrave... my bride..."

He clutched the wedding Dress and began to move toward me, crossing the coffee table like a shadow breaking through firelight.