Crimson Thirties

The first thing Isolde tasted was blood. Not the metallic tang of a split lip or a bitten tongue no, this was richer, warmer, flooding her mouth as if she'd drowned in it. Her eyes snapped open to a ceiling painted in bridal white, draped with garlands of white roses that looked almost funereal against the dawn light filtering through gauzy curtains. She bolted upright, heart hammering against ribs that felt both familiar and wrong. The silk sheets slid from her shoulders like water. Her hands slender, pale, unmarked flew to her throat. No wound. No sticky warmth. Yet the memory of death clung to her like grave dirt. She had died. On her wedding morning, no less. A blade across her throat, swift and merciless, delivered by the man who was supposed to vow eternity to her that very day. Cassian Voss. The Lycan King. Her husband-to-be. The one who had whispered promises of forever while his golden eyes hid murder. Isolde's breath came in shallow bursts. This wasn't the afterlife. The air smelled of lavender and beeswax candles, of fresh linen and something faintly metallic beneath it all. She swung her legs over the edge of the massive four-poster bed, bare feet meeting cool marble. A full-length mirror stood across the room, framed in ornate silver that made her stomach twist for reasons she couldn't name. The woman staring back wasn't her. Not the Isolde who had clawed her way from nothing to become the king's chosen bride. This face was finer-boned, aristocratic in its delicacy. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, lips fuller than her own had ever been, skin like porcelain lit from within. Hair cascaded in raven waves rather than her natural auburn. But the eyes those were hers. Storm-gray ringed with green, wide with the same terror that had filled them in her final moments. She touched her reflection, fingers trembling against cold glass. The woman in the mirror did the same. "No," she whispered. The voice that emerged was melodic, cultured nothing like the rough edges she'd spent years polishing away. "This isn't" A knock sounded at the door, sharp and impatient. "My lady Vivienne?" A woman's voice, deferential but edged with urgency. "The dress has arrived. We must begin preparations. The king awaits." Vivienne. The name struck her like a physical blow. Princess Vivienne Draven, only daughter of the reclusive Duke of Nocturne. The true bride. The one whose place Isolde had stolen three years ago through cunning, desperation, and a forged betrothal contract that had somehow convinced even the royal scribes. She had killed this woman to take her life. Not with her own hands, of course. Poison in the wine, slow and untraceable. Then she'd assumed Vivienne's identity, her title, her future as queen to the Lycan King. All to escape the poverty and violence of her past. All to survive. And now she wore Vivienne's skin like a stolen dress. The door opened before she could respond, admitting a flock of maids carrying armfuls of white silk and lace. They moved with practiced efficiency, chattering about veils and jewels and how the king had sent blood-red rubies to complement her "unique coloring." Unique coloring. Isolde almost laughed. Vivienne's coloring, they meant. The vampire princess who'd hidden among humans for decades, her true nature concealed behind glamours and careful feeding. Everyone knew the Draven line carried old blood, but no one spoke of what kind. Not openly. Isolde submitted to their ministrations like a doll, mind racing. Three years. She'd been sent back three years, into the body of the woman she'd murdered. The morning of the wedding that would bind the Lycan King to his supposed true mate. Thirty nights. The prophecy crashed over her like ice water. An ancient Lycan rite, whispered only in the darkest councils. The god-beast Fenrir slept chained within the royal bloodline, and only the sacrifice of the king's true mate on the thirtieth night of their bonding could awaken it fully. Granting power beyond imagining. Ensuring the survival of their kind against the coming war with the vampires. Cassian had never loved her. He'd chosen her chosen Vivienne because the seers confirmed she was his destined mate. And on the thirtieth night of their marriage, he would kill her to unleash the beast. He had killed her. In her previous life, she'd lasted exactly thirty nights as queen before meeting the blade. This time, there were two women wearing Vivienne's face: the real princess whose body Isolde now inhabited, and Isolde herself, wearing the identity like armor. Only one would survive to the altar. The maids laced her into the wedding gown layers of white silk embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like moonlight on water. The bodice hugged curves that weren't quite hers, though the body responded to her will perfectly. Too perfectly. As if it recognized her soul as its rightful owner now. "Beautiful," the head maid sighed, stepping back to admire her work. "His Majesty will be enchanted." Enchanted enough to murder her in thirty days. Isolde met her own eyes in the mirror again. The terror had receded, replaced by something colder. Sharper. She'd survived worse than death before. Orphaned at ten, scraping by in the slums of the capital, learning to forge documents and pick locks and smile prettily while planning three moves ahead. She could survive this too. A second knock announced the arrival of the duke himself Vivienne's father. He swept into the room with the gravitas of old money and older secrets, his face pale and angular beneath silver-streaked black hair. Eyes the color of fresh blood assessed her with something between pride and calculation. "My daughter," he said, voice smooth as velvet over steel. "You look every inch the queen you'll become." Isolde inclined her head, channeling every memory she'd stolen of Vivienne's mannerisms. Graceful, reserved, with just enough warmth to seem human. "Father. I wasn't expecting you before the ceremony." "Some matters require privacy." He dismissed the maids with a flick of his fingers. They vanished like smoke. When the door closed, his expression shifted—something ancient and predatory surfacing behind the aristocratic mask. "The king has requested a private audience before the vows. In the old chapel." Her pulse spiked. In her previous life, there had been no such request. Cassian had kept his distance until the public ceremony, playing the part of the smitten groom perfectly. This was different. This was wrong. "The old chapel?" she repeated carefully. The abandoned sanctuary beneath the palace, built over ancient ley lines. Sacred to both Lycan and vampire kind, though neither admitted it publicly. "He claims it's tradition." The duke's lips curved in something that might have been a smile on a less dangerous face. "For true mates to exchange tokens before witnesses. But there will be no witnesses today." No witnesses. Ice slid down her spine. Cassian knew. He had to know. Somehow, he knew she wasn't his true bride, that an impostor had taken Vivienne's place. Was this his plan? To dispatch her quietly before the wedding, sparing himself the inconvenience of thirty days of pretense? Or worse was the real Vivienne still alive somewhere, wearing Isolde's stolen face? The duke extended his arm. "Shall we?" No choice. Refusal would raise questions she couldn't answer yet. Isolde placed her hand on his sleeve, feeling the unnatural chill of his skin through the fabric. Vampire royalty ran colder than humans, though Vivienne had always maintained careful warmth through feeding. They descended through corridors lined with portraits of long-dead Dravens, all sharing that same predatory beauty. The palace staff bowed deeply as they passed, whispering about how radiant the bride looked, how fortunate the king was. The old chapel lay beneath the east wing, accessible only through a hidden staircase spiraling down into darkness. Torches flickered to life as they descended old magic responding to old blood. The air grew thick with the scent of stone and incense and something coppery that made her fangs ache. Fangs. Isolde nearly stumbled. Sharp points pressed against her lower lip when she clenched her teeth. Vivienne's fangs. Fully extended, responding to the proximity of Lycan blood somewhere nearby. Cassian was already here. The chapel opened before them like a mouth vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, pews carved from ancient oak, an altar of black marble veined with silver. Moonlight filtered through stained glass depicting the ancient pact between Lycan and vampire kind, before betrayal turned them to enemies. He stood before the altar, tall and broad-shouldered, golden hair catching the torchlight like a crown. Cassian Voss wore formal black rather than his wedding finery, the severe lines emphasizing the predator beneath the king. When he turned, those amber eyes fixed on her with an intensity that stole her breath. Not the polite interest of a groom meeting his bride. Hunger. "Leave us," he told the duke without looking away from her. Her father hesitated actually hesitated before bowing and retreating up the stairs. The door closed with a sound like a tomb sealing. They were alone. Cassian approached slowly, each step measured. He moved like a wolf circling wounded prey, though his expression remained carefully neutral. When he reached her, he didn't speak. Instead, he lifted one hand to touch her cheek, thumb brushing over skin that wasn't hers. "You smell different," he said finally, voice low and rough. Her heart thundered. "It's the wedding nerves. And the roses—" "Not roses." His fingers slid down to her throat, resting over the pulse that raced beneath porcelain skin. "You smell like fear. And lies." She forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. "Every bride fears her wedding night, Your Majesty." His grip tightened fractionally. Not enough to hurt—enough to remind her he could crush her throat before she drew breath to scream. "Do you know what I smell on my true mate, Vivienne?" She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe. "Blood that sings to mine. Power that calls to the beast within." His eyes had gone pure gold, pupils blown wide. "I smelled it on the woman I was supposed to marry three years from now. The woman who would bear my mark for thirty nights before I" He stopped. Actually stopped, as if the words physically pained him. "Before you what?" she whispered. Cassian's hand dropped away. He stepped back, putting distance between them that felt both merciful and terrible. "Before I do what must be done for my people." The prophecy. He was speaking of the prophecy. "You knew," she said, voice steady despite the chaos inside her. "All this time, you knew what you'd have to do." "I knew from the moment the seers confirmed you as my mate." His jaw clenched. "I've spent years preparing myself. Convincing myself it was necessary. That the god-beast's awakening would save us all from the coming war." War. The one that had decimated both their kinds in her previous life. The one that began thirty-one nights after their wedding, when Cassian unleashed Fenrir and turned the tide with god-touched savagery. "But this morning..." He studied her face with desperate intensity. "This morning, you smell wrong. Like someone else wearing your skin." Because someone was. Isolde's mind raced through possibilities. Deny everything? Seduce him? Run? None would work. Not against a Lycan king who could hear lies in heartbeats. So she chose truth. Some of it. "I died," she said softly. "This morning, in another life. You killed me. On our thirtieth night together, you cut my throat to awaken the beast." His entire body went rigid. "What sorcery is this?" "No sorcery. Regression. I woke up three years in the past, in this body. The real Vivienne's body." She laughed, bitter and broken. "The one I stole. The one I murdered to take her place at your side." Cassian stared at her as if seeing a ghost. Then, slowly, understanding dawned in those golden eyes. Not horror. Not rage. Recognition. "You," he breathed. "The woman from the slums. Isolde." She flinched. He'd never spoken her real name in her previous life. Not once. "How long have you known?" "From the beginning." He moved closer again, but gently this time. "The seers told me my true mate would come from shadows. That she would wear deception like armor. I thought..." His hand rose to touch her hair, reverent. "I thought Vivienne was the deception. The vampire princess hiding among humans." Isolde stepped back, confused. "You married me knowing I was an impostor?" "I married you knowing you were exactly who the prophecy required." His voice roughened. "The woman strong enough to survive me. To challenge me. To make the sacrifice mean something." This wasn't right. In her previous life, he'd been cold. Distant. Performing affection like a duty until the night he killed her with mechanical precision. But this Cassian looked at her like she was salvation and damnation both. "There's something you don't know," he said quietly. "The prophecy has two interpretations. One requires the death of the true mate. The other..." He reached into his coat and withdrew a small velvet pouch. From it, he produced a ring black metal banded with silver, set with a stone that swirled red and gold like captured starlight. "The other requires her survival," he finished. "If the true mate lives beyond the thirtieth night, bearing the king's heir, the god-beast awakens through creation rather than destruction." Isolde stared at the ring. In her previous life, she'd worn only the royal wedding band. Never this. "You could have chosen this path three years ago," she said. "Why didn't you?" "Because I thought you were Vivienne." His smile was bitter. "The vampire princess whose death would unite the Lycan packs against your kind. The perfect sacrifice. But you... you're something else entirely." Human. Broken. Desperate. Everything the real Vivienne had never been. "And now?" she asked. "Now I know the truth." He held out the ring. "And I know there's another woman out there wearing your stolen face. The real Vivienne Draven, who somehow survived your poison and has spent three years planning her revenge." Isolde's blood turned to ice. "She's coming for the wedding," Cassian continued. "To take back what's hers. Her face. Her title. Her place at my side." Two brides. One face. Thirty nights until one of them had to die. Cassian extended his hand, the ring gleaming between them like a promise or a threat. "The question is, Isolde," he said softly, using her true name like a caress, "which one of us will you choose to betray?"