The wedding band feels like a manacle as Damien leads me through the moonlit gardens. 'You're trembling,' he murmurs, his thumb brushing my wrist—a gesture too gentle for the man they call the Devil of Blackwood Manor. When I dare to meet his eyes, I see none of the cruelty from the stories, only wary intelligence. He startles at my touch like an unbroken horse. Our awkward peace shatters when we find his study ransacked, documents scattered across the floor. A single page catches my eye—a medical record dated fifteen years ago for a 'Subject D' describing facial reconstruction. Damien pales, then in one fluid motion, locks the door and draws a dagger from his sleeve. 'You need to decide now, Emma,' he says, voice low and urgent, 'whether you're their spy or my wife.' The blade gleams between us as footsteps approach in the hall.