Married To My Dead Husband Brother

Six

The gunshot still rang in my ears as I slipped out of the bed.

My bare feet touched the cold floor. The nightgown clung to my skin, thin and useless against the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Arguments still floated up from downstairs, low, harsh voices, the scrape of something heavy being moved. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs.

I told myself to stay put. Lucian had said not to wait up. He had told me he would be late. But the single gunshot had ripped through the quiet of the mansion like a scream, and the part of me that had learned to survive under Adrian’s fists refused to stay blind.

I pulled the door open just enough to slip through and moved down the long hallway. The lights were dim. Shadows stretched along the walls. Every step felt too loud. The staircase curved downward into the main floor, and the closer I got, the clearer the voices became. One of them was Lucian’s, cold, controlled, the same tone he had used the night he bought me. The other voice was cracked and desperate.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, half hidden by the wide pillar that framed the entrance to the living room. What I saw froze the breath in my lungs.

Lucian sat on the large dark couch like a king on a throne. One arm rested along the back, the other held a glass of something amber. He looked completely at ease. Around him stood four of his bodyguards, silent and still, guns visible at their sides. In the center of the room, on his knees on the expensive rug, was a man I had never seen before. Blood soaked the front of his white shirt. More blood dripped from a wound in his shoulder, staining the floor beneath him. His face was twisted in pain and pure terror.

“Please… Mr. Blackwood… I swear I didn’t know,” the man begged, voice breaking. “I only passed the message. They forced me. I have a family....”

Lucian took a slow sip from his glass. He still hadn’t looked in my direction, but somehow I felt like he already knew I was there.

I gasped before I could stop myself. The soft sound cut through the room.

Lucian’s head didn’t turn. His voice came out low and sharp, loud enough to reach me clearly.

“Go back to the room.”

That was all. No anger. No explanation. Just an order that left no room for argument.

My body moved on pure fear. I spun around and ran back up the stairs two at a time, clutching the thin fabric of my nightgown. My hands shook so badly I almost couldn’t open the bedroom door. Once inside, I slammed it shut and pressed my back against it, chest heaving. The image of the bleeding man on his knees burned behind my eyes. The way Lucian had sat there, calm and cold, while blood pooled on his floor… it was a side of him I had only heard about in whispers. The Devil. The man everyone feared.

I stumbled to the bed and yanked the heavy blanket over myself, curling into a tight ball. My whole body trembled. What had I just witnessed? Was this the real Lucian Blackwood? The man who had pulled me out of Margaret’s grasp, who had married me, who had told me I would be safe under his roof, was he just another monster wearing a different face?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of the blood and the pleading. But it kept replaying. The gunshot. The way the man’s voice cracked. Lucian’s complete lack of emotion. My stomach twisted. I had traded one cage for another. At least with Adrian the violence had been loud and messy. This felt colder. Calculated. Cleaner in the worst way.

Time stretched. I don’t know how long I lay there, heart racing, listening for more gunshots or raised voices. Eventually the mansion fell silent again. Exhaustion finally dragged me under. I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep until the soft light of morning began to creep through the heavy curtains.

I woke slowly, the events of the night crashing back the moment my eyes opened. For a second I thought it had all been a nightmare. Then I saw him.

Lucian stood in front of the large mirror near the walk in closet, adjusting the cuff of his crisp black shirt. He was already dressed for the day, tailored pants, polished shoes, the faint scent of his cologne already filling the room. His dark hair was still slightly damp, as if he had just showered. He looked completely unaffected by whatever had happened downstairs hours ago. No blood on him. No tension in his shoulders. Just the same cold, controlled man who had ordered me back to the room like I was a child who had wandered into something she shouldn’t see.

Our eyes met for a brief second in the mirror.

I felt my face heat. I was still tangled in the blankets, hair a mess, the silk nightgown twisted around my legs. The fear from last night still sat heavy in my chest, but something else mixed with it, confusion, a strange pull I didn’t want to name.

“Good morning,” I whispered, the words coming out soft and unsure. I looked away almost immediately, staring down at the sheets instead of his reflection.

Lucian didn’t answer.

He finished with his cuff, gave himself one last glance in the mirror, and walked toward the door without a single word. The soft click of it closing behind him felt louder than the gunshot had.

I stayed in the bed long after he left, the silence of the big room pressing down on me. My mind kept circling back to the bleeding man on the floor. To the way Lucian had sat there, unmoved. To the cold order that had sent me running.

I was his wife now. I shared his bed. I wore his ring. And last night I had seen a piece of the world he ruled, the blood, the fear, the absolute power he held over the men who knelt in front of him.

A part of me wanted to stay under the covers and pretend none of it was real. Another part of me, the part that had survived Adrian’s fists and Margaret’s cruelty, knew there was no pretending anymore.

I was married to the Devil.

And I had no idea what that truly meant for me.