Page 5 of Bought By the Revenant (Monsters’ Bride Market #1)
Chapter Five
Amity
I step through the massive doorway, unable to stop my mouth from falling open.
The entrance hall rises three stories high, crowned with an intricate glass dome that fills the space with soft, filtered light.
A grand staircase curves upward from the center of the marble floor, its dark wood banister gleaming with years of polish.
My footsteps echo as I move forward, trying to maintain a respectable distance from Riven.
“This is the main hall,” he says. “I rarely use it except to pass through.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice right now.
What have I done? I’ve chosen to marry a monster, and even if he seems kind, he’s still a creature whose appearance makes my skin crawl.
I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye and notice that in the mansion’s lighting, the stitches across his face appear deeper and more pronounced than they did outside.
His white eyes glow with that eerie inner light that reminds me he’s not human.
“The living room is this way,” he continues, gesturing toward an arched doorway.
I follow him and make sure to stay a few paces behind.
The living room manages to be both grand and comfortable, with plush chairs and sofas arranged around a stone fireplace large enough to roast an entire deer.
Bookshelves line the walls, and they’re stuffed with volumes of all sizes, their spines showing years of handling.
“You enjoy reading?” I ask, the first words I’ve spoken since entering the house.
“It passes the time,” he replies, and his tone makes me wonder exactly how much time he’s had to pass alone in this enormous place.
He shows me through a formal dining room next, with a table that could seat twenty people easily.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, and they look expensive enough to feed my entire village for a year.
I think of the meager meals I’ve survived on while running from place to place, always looking over my shoulder.
“Do you entertain often?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“No,” Riven says simply.
We move on through corridors lined with paintings and sculptures that must be worth fortunes. I try to focus on the artwork rather than the monstrous figure leading me through his domain. This is my choice, I remind myself. This is safety and survival, nothing more.
“And through here…” Riven pushes open a swinging door, “is the kitchen, though you needn’t concern yourself with it. Nell handles all the cooking.”
I step past him into the most magnificent kitchen I’ve ever seen, and my breath catches in my throat.
Compared to the cramped, smoke-filled cooking spaces I’m used to, this place is beyond anything I could have imagined.
A massive stone hearth dominates one wall, with cooking surfaces at various heights built into the stonework.
Copper pots and pans hang from hooks overhead, gleaming in the light from the windows.
There are counters of smooth stone that stretch for what seems like miles, shelves holding spices in glass jars that catch the light, and an actual ice box for storing perishables.
“This is incredible,” I breathe, moving toward the center of the room, running my fingers along the smooth counter surface.
“You like it?”
“I love cooking,” I admit, turning to face him. I notice he’s hovering by the doorway and giving me space to explore without his intimidating presence too close. “I never had anything like this before. The things I could make here...”
“You want to cook?” The confusion in his voice is evident. “You needn’t work, Amity. That’s why we have servants.”
“It’s not work when you love it,” I say, opening cupboards to peek inside at the neatly organized dishes and cooking tools. “Would it be possible... I mean, would it be all right if I cooked dinner sometimes? I have recipes I’ve always wanted to try but never had the means.”
Riven stays quiet for so long that I turn to see if I’ve offended him somehow. He’s watching me with those glowing white eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side in a way that makes him look almost curious.
“The entire house is yours,” he finally says. “You may do as you please. Normally, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger, but if cooking gives you pleasure, then your happiness would give me joy as well.”
The tightness in my chest loosens at his words, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. He’s offering me a small kindness, but one that makes this strange new life seem more bearable.
“Thank you,” I say.
As I turn back to examine a set of knives, a flash of green catches my eye through the window.
I move closer and gasp at what I see beyond the glass – a garden, large and somewhat wild, but unmistakably abundant with vegetables and herbs.
Without thinking, I push open the back door and hurry outside, drawn by the sight of plants I’ve used countless times in my midwifery practice.
The garden is overgrown, as if whoever tended it lost interest or time, but that only makes it more appealing. Wild growth means strong plants.
Rosemary bushes have grown beyond their beds, spilling over stone borders.
Sage plants compete with mint for space, their leaves brushing together in the breeze.
Tomato vines climb up wooden stakes and bend under the weight of ripening fruit.
I spot chamomile, lavender, and thyme, all herbs I’ve used to ease childbirth pains or help new mothers recover.
I hear the door open behind me and know Riven has followed me outside, but I’m too entranced by this treasure trove to feel the usual unease at his presence.
“No one has properly tended it in some time,” he says, his voice closer than I expected.
“It’s perfect,” I say, kneeling to rub a leaf of lemon balm between my fingers and inhaling its bright, citrus scent. “So many medicinal herbs, and vegetables too.”
“The garden is yours as well,” he says. “To use or change as you see fit.” He hesitates and looks around at the overgrown beds and tangled vines.
“I should apologize for the state of the house and grounds. I have only three servants, and they do what they can, but it’s too much for them to maintain properly.
” Before I can respond to his apology, he continues with his voice dropping lower.
“It’s difficult for me to hire more help.
People don’t... They aren’t eager to work for someone who looks like me. ”
“I could help,” I offer, surprising myself with how quickly the words come out of my mouth. “I can’t just sit around all day doing nothing. I’m used to working.”
“No,” Riven says firmly. “You don’t have to work.
It’s my failure that I haven’t maintained the estate better.
” He turns to face me fully, and I force myself not to flinch at his glowing eyes and stitched face.
“Everything that is mine is yours, Amity. I ask only that you promise not to work too hard. Do only what gives you pleasure.”
“I promise,” I say, oddly touched by his concern for my well-being when no one has cared in so long.
The full weight of his generosity finally sinks in, and as I stand back up, I feel my knees go weak.
A safe home where no one from Witherglen can reach me, a magnificent kitchen where I can create instead of just survive, and a garden full of herbs I can use for my work if I ever dare practice midwifery again.
All of this, freely given by someone who asks nothing in return but my presence in his home.
Joy bubbles up inside me from a place I thought had dried up during my weeks of running and hiding.
For the first time since I fled my hometown, I feel hope.
Not just the determination to survive another day, but the possibility of truly living again.
Without thinking about what I’m doing or what it might mean, I rush toward Riven and throw my arms around him in a spontaneous hug born of pure gratitude.
The moment my body connects with his, we both freeze.
His body is solid and strong, but under my arms, I can feel the deep ridges of stitches across his back where different pieces of skin meet.
The texture of his skin varies wildly under my touch, some patches smooth and almost normal, others rough with scars.
Some parts of him feel cold against me, while others radiate an unnatural warmth that has nothing to do with normal, human body heat.
I realize what I’ve done, and panic flutters in my chest, making my heart beat faster.
I should pull away because this creature, this man, is still a stranger to me despite his kindness.
Yet I hesitate, because yanking myself free would only highlight my disgust at touching him, and that would be cruel after everything he’s offered me.
So, I hold on even though every instinct tells me to run, and I feel his body tense up even more.
His arms hover at my sides, barely touching me, and I realize he’s afraid to return the gesture, or perhaps he doesn’t remember how to hold someone.
I can hear his breathing, uneven and surprised, and it occurs to me that no one has probably touched him willingly in years.
I become suddenly and uncomfortably aware of him not as a monster, but as a person who carries loneliness in every careful movement.
He’s someone who may not have felt a kind touch or embrace in longer than I can imagine, and I don’t know what to do with this realization.
Or with the fact that my instinct was to throw myself into his arms, when I’ve been terrified of him since the moment I first saw his face.