Chapter 9
The Bride
A s soon as he’s gone, I dart to the door, locking it behind him. The lock clicks with quiet finality, leaving me alone with another dead flower, another poem, and the burning impression of his presence on my skin.
I touch the tender line across my throat and chest, the skin is still raised and warm beneath my fingertips. Proof that I didn’t imagine the encounter, that I allowed a masked stranger to mark me in my own home.
On unsteady legs, I make my way to the kitchen, clutching both the box and invitation against my chest like artifacts from another world.
“I’m too sober for this,” I mumble.
With robotic movements, I reach for the wine I opened earlier. It’s a deep red Malbec that waits by the sink and begs to get inside me. I pour some into the largest glass I own, filling it nearly to the brim.
The wine slides down my throat in three long swallows, disappearing so quickly I barely taste it. The warmth blooms in my stomach, a poor substitute for the heat that consumed me only minutes ago, but welcome nonetheless.
Without bothering with the glass again, I lift the bottle directly to my lip s, taking another long pull that drains nearly half of what remains.
My cheeks flush immediately, whether from the alcohol or the lingering effect of his presence, I can’t be sure. Probably both. I set the bottle down with more force than necessary, the sound echoing.
What the actual hell just happened? Wait, did it even happen? My body is a battlefield of contradictions, but each one tells me that yeah, I didn’t make up the midnight visit. My nipples still strain against the thin fabric of my tank top.
My thighs clench with a need I refuse to acknowledge, much less satisfy. Yet my mind recoils at the implications—at what it means that I responded this way to intimidation, to the thin edge between fear and something darker.
I understand the complicated lines between danger and desire, the ways trauma and fantasy intertwine in the human psyche. But understanding doesn’t make it easier to accept my own responses.
My phone sits on the counter, its screen dark and indifferent to my internal struggle. I pick it up, unlock it with shaking fingers, and open the security app. The system isn’t elaborate or fancy. It’s just one camera facing my front door.
While the app loads, I take another swig of wine. “Here we go,” I say when it’s displaying a timeline of recorded events.
I scroll to the most recent entry, my thumb hovers over the play button for a moment before I press it, both dreading and craving the replay of what just happened.
The footage is stark in its clarity; me opening the door, the brief exchange, my turning away. Then comes the moment that makes my breath catch. His sudden movement, the way he shoves me inside, the controlled violence of his advance.
On screen, my body hits the wall with an impact I can almost feel again in my back and shoulders. The camera angle captures only a portion of what follows—his back, my face visible over his shoulder, my expression a mix of shock and something else. Something hungrier.
I play the footage, watching it again. And again. Each time focusing on a different detail. The precision of his movements, the way my lips part when he presses me against the wall, the visible shift in my posture from r esistance to surrender.
My pulse quickens with each viewing, my breath coming faster as I zoom in on the moment of impact. There’s something horribly fascinating about seeing myself this way—a woman I barely recognize, responding to a dominance I should reject but don’t.
Without conscious decision, my free hand drifts toward the waistband of my shorts, fingers slipping beneath the elastic to find the slick heat between my legs. I catch myself just before contact, jerking my hand away as if burned. What the hell am I even doing?
Instead of closing down the app or putting my phone down, I replay it, watching the moment loop. The shove, the wall, the cage of his body around mine. The wine burns in my veins, loosening the tight grip of propriety, of self-judgment.
My fingers trace the red line on my chest, following the same path the envelope took. The skin is sensitive, the sensation is a perfect memory—the sharp edge of the paper, the implied threat, the control in his movements.
I set the phone down, screen still illuminated with the paused image. The poem sits beside it, the orange lettering seeming to glow against the black cardstock. It feels like it’s mocking me… or maybe that’s the wine talking.
My hand trembles slightly as I pick the phone back up. My fingers move before I consciously tell them to, like they know I need to research to feel grounded.
I open a web browser and type in what little I know; black rose, gas mask, midnight bride poem. The results come in fast, and each link I click leads down the social media rabbit hole.
All across different platforms, people are posting selfies with men wearing black gas masks while the women hold a note similar to mine. Except… theirs only have two words written on the paper. It’s either I do or I don’t. There are no other variants.
I click on a woman that looks like a gothic doll, and it takes me to her latest social media post .
@hauntdoll91 ???? SQUEEEEE!!! I DID IT!!!! ???? I’m officially going to be a Bride at the Sanctuary of Shadows!!! ?????? #SanctuaryOfShadows #OneVow #BrideOfDarkness #MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
And from there on, I continue. Reading through comments, and following the hashtags they all seem to use.
@NotYours73 OMGGGGG!! I can’t even explain how excited/shaky/feral I feel right now. The #GasMan just delivered my ‘I do’, and I screamed. Literally. Woke up my roommate #Worthit #SanctuaryOfShadows #OneVow #BrideOfDarkness #MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
@BuryMe_Softly To whoever picked me—you’ve made my dark little heart so happy. I promise to be a worthy Bride. And I promise to bleed pretty ?? I’ve already picked my burial dress. Let’s GOOOOO!! #SanctuaryOfShadows #OneVow #BrideOfDarkness #MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
Hours tick by, and before I know it, I’ve emptied almost a second bottle of wine. Sanctuary of Shadows is so much more elaborate than I gave it credit for. And where I was mildly curious before, now I’m practically salivating.
Not only are they going over the top with their social media presence, delivery of replies to those who applied to be a Bride. But their tickets are actual medallions instead of paper or a barcode that needs to be scanned.
I suppose the courier makes more sense now that I’ve seen all of this. Well… kind of. Yet… not really. Because if the man at my door was just a courier, as my mind wants to believe, it poses new quest ions.
Like, why would he fight Caleb just to deliver a cryptic poem to me? And why am I getting poems instead of a simple I do or I don’t?
My legs feel unsteady as I stride into my living room and retrieve all the notes I’ve received. Once I’m back on the stool in the kitchen, I place them next to each other.
I read the first one.
For every bride, a bloom must die, Petal-black and blooded dry. The vow begins before the ring, You’re his now. Let the silence sing.
Then the second note, the one the stranger fought Caleb to give me.
He comes by dark, he comes by will, The bloom you keep must now lie still. A whisper bound in veil and thread, Obey the hush, or join the dead.
Lastly, I re-read the third one.
One mask for silence, one vow for shame, One ring for lust, one kiss to blame. One game begun, no truth to guide, One trick revealed when vows collide.
Turning it over, I read the handwritten note on the back.
Please make sure you’re on the ferry to Governors Island at six o’clock on September thirtieth.
Unsure what to make of it, I drain the last of the wine, but the warm fog of alcohol doesn’t offer up an answer to the myriad of questions swirling around my mind.
Well, I guess I’ll find out whatever all this mea ns in two days. When the Sanctuary of Shadows opens with a launch event that has people all across social media guessing as to what it might be. And God help me, I’m looking forward to it.
I spin on the stool so I’m facing the living room, tipping my imaginary hat to my dad. “It seems you were right after all,” I grin. “You did raise a fool. Because I’m going.”