Dinner at Dreadmoor was as grand and unsettling as you'd imagine. The long, cavernous dining hall was lit by candelabras that looked like they'd seen at least a hundred years of heartache. The massive table stretched out like an invitation to please sit and contemplate your terrible life choices.
I had no clue what to wear, so I went with the tried-and-true "pretend I'm not going to cheat on my fiancé" outfit—a simple dress that didn't scream sneaky affair, but did shout I might be running late to a sorrowful demise.
Ronan was already sitting at the head of the table when I arrived, casually cradling a goblet of wine like he wasn't about to ruin my life for the sake of some melodramatic plot.
"Amelia," he said, his voice low and even. "You look… well."
I was going to reply, "I look like I'm trying to escape a grisly murder," but instead, I said, "Thank you. You look… broodingly handsome as ever."
He didn't respond to that, but I'm convinced he smiled. Just a bit. In a way that might've been interpreted as amusement or sheer contempt. It was difficult to discern.
I sat down, adjusting my dress and bracing myself for whatever existential angst was about to unfold.
The butler emerged, setting a plate of what appeared to be a perfectly roasted pheasant in front of me without a word. Then, snapping his fingers, a few other servants brought out courses that seemed determined to keep the meal going as long as possible, like they had their own secret agenda.
I took my fork. "So, tell me about your day."
Ronan didn't even bat an eye.
"I spent most of it managing the rebuilding of the eastern wing," he replied, his voice as dry as an unbuttered slice of toast. "Also had to settle a few… issues with the tenants of the estate."
"Oh?" I fidgeted with my pheasant nervously. "What sort of issues? Property taxes or… plots to kill me?"
He looked at me. "The first, mostly. Occasionally the second."
"Right, right," I said hastily. "Just the usual. Casual day of villainy."
I could almost hear him not laugh. It was fine.
I breathed, trying to stuff something—anything—into the space beside me that wasn't my overwhelming thoughts about future gore in this very room.
"So," I said, sounding casual, "how are the tapestries coming along?"
He blinked. "The tapestries?"
"Hmph! I mean, we're in a castle. I think we should talk about the decor, don't you? You know, just in case I have to prepare for my next big… escape."
"Escape?" He didn't even glance at me, but his lips quivered, just slightly. "You're trying to escape already?"
I sat up straighter. "What? No. Naturally not! I was merely, uh, remarking on the… texture of the tapestries." I waved my hand vaguely. "Very… creative."
He regarded me now, his intense eyes locking onto mine with an unsettling weight. It was like I'd just realized I was losing a game of chess I didn't even know I was playing.
"They're from the Blood Wars," he whispered. "Each stitch is a tale. A very… personal one."
The conversation dissolved into an uncomfortable silence—the kind that only lingers between those who are about to experience a tragic love affair, where one will ultimately slay the other in a moment of misplaced emotion.
"So, uh…" I swallowed hard, trying to smile. "I think. I think we need to talk more. You know. About things. Like, future plans. Our future. As a married couple."
His gaze narrowed, as if weighing me for the first time. "Plans?"
"Yeah! We could, like, go for a walk in the garden tomorrow. You know, maybe discuss your… emotions? That's a thing people do, right?"
For a second, I thought I had gone too far. But then, just as I was ready to internally scream, he leaned back in his chair, stirring his wine with an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"That… sounds acceptable," he said, his tone so flat I couldn't tell if he was laughing or plotting my demise even more carefully now.
I nodded, attempting to block out the very real likelihood that this meal might have been my last. "Great! It's a date."
I hardly registered his reply.
"Of course it is," he muttered quietly, almost to himself. "Of course it is."
I don't know why, but I could've sworn I'd just agreed to a date that would result in my premature demise.
I nudged the pheasant aside.
"Sure, I'm going to die, aren't I?" I asked bluntly, staring at him across the table.
He didn't flinch. "I'd say you could put it that way."
"Well, this is going to be a great couple of weeks," I groaned, accepting that I might have to learn to dodge knives. Ideally before dinner number two.