Page 7 of Bought By the Revenant (Monsters’ Bride Market #1)

Chapter Seven

Amity

I smooth my hands over the tablecloth and adjust the silverware for the third time.

The dining room looks different at night, with shadows gathering in the corners even though the chandelier gives off warm light.

The long table feels too grand for just two place settings, but I can’t imagine us sitting at opposite ends.

The door opens and Riven stops in the doorway. His white eyes widen when he sees I’ve arranged our places side by side at one end of the massive table.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say, my voice too loud in the cavernous room. “I thought it would be easier to talk this way.”

He moves into the room with that strange, heavy grace. “Of course. This is... nice.”

Fria appears from the kitchen carrying a large tray. Her eyes dart between us while she places the first dish on the table.

“I made lamb stew,” I explain as Riven takes his seat beside me. “It’s simmered with rosemary and thyme from your garden. My mother used to make it on cold nights when I was little.”

Fria places a basket of crusty bread beside the pot, then hurries to bring the second dish.

“And this is roasted root vegetables with honey glaze. Simple food, but filling.”

Riven stares at the spread. “You made all this yourself?”

“Nell helped, but yes. I wanted to.” I don’t add that cooking helped calm my nerves and gave me something to focus on besides the strangeness of my new situation.

Fria fills our glasses with deep red wine, curtsies, and retreats to the kitchen.

“Please, eat,” I say, serving him before myself.

Riven compliments the food but barely touches it, pushing the stew around his bowl. I watch him from the corner of my eye while I eat, noticing how he tilts his head to hide his mouth whenever he takes a bite.

“Is something wrong with the food?” I ask.

He looks up, surprised. “No, not at all. It’s delicious, truly. I’m simply not accustomed to such... flavor. Nell’s cooking has always been adequate but basic.”

“Then dig in,” I encourage him, but I continue watching.

His discomfort grows more obvious with each passing minute. Finally, he sets down his spoon.

“I apologize,” he says. “It’s strange for me to eat in another’s presence. The stitches at the corners of my mouth...” He trails off, one hand unconsciously rising to touch the black threads that pull at his mismatched skin. “When I chew, they stretch. It’s not a pleasant sight.”

My stomach drops when I realize I’ve been staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, pushing back my chair. “I didn’t think… I’ll move over there.”

“No.” His hand moves toward mine but stops short of touching. “Please stay. I enjoy your company. I’m simply not used to dining with someone.”

I settle back into my chair while guilt washes over me. We eat in silence for several minutes, both stealing glances when we think the other isn’t looking. I curse myself for not knowing how to behave around him and promise myself I won’t stare again.

Fria returns with the cinnamon bread, and its sweet aroma fills the room. She places it between us with a small pot of honey glaze.

“It smells wonderful,” Riven says.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” I reply, cutting thick slices for us both. “She made it for special occasions.”

He hesitates, then asks, “At the auction, you said you had no family. Yet you speak of your mother with fondness.”

I drizzle honey over my slice and watch it seep into the bread’s crevices.

“Six winters ago, there was a sickness in my village. It took everyone in my family. My parents, my younger brother… I was the only one who survived.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “To lose everyone at once... I cannot imagine.”

“It changed everything,” I admit. “But their memory lives in small things… Like this bread.”

When I glance at Riven, I notice he’s eating more freely now that our conversation draws attention away from the act of eating itself.

“What was your mother like?” he asks.

I draw in a breath. It’s not easy to talk about them. It’s been six years, but the deep wound their passing left behind will never heal. Most days, I try not to think about it.

“Kind. Strong. She was a midwife too, taught me everything I know about herbs and healing.” I smile at the memory. “She always had dirt under her fingernails from working in the garden, no matter how much she scrubbed.”

Riven nods, and there’s a look of understanding in his eyes that puts me at ease. The conversation flows easier after that, as we exchange small bits of history over sweet bread and wine.

***

After dinner, Riven walks me through darkened corridors with a heavy silver candelabra in his hand. The dancing flames cast his shadow large against the walls, and it stretches and shifts with each step we take through the mansion’s maze of hallways.

“I asked Nell to prepare a bedroom for you,” he says. “I hope you find it comfortable.”

He stops before a heavy wooden door with iron fittings and pushes it open.

The room takes my breath away. It’s not just a bedroom, but an entire suite.

There’s a four-poster bed draped with deep blue velvet, tall windows with heavy curtains line one wall, and a small sitting area with bookshelves occupies another corner.

Through an open doorway, I see a private bathroom with a copper tub.

“This is all for me?” I whisper.

“Of course.” Riven stands awkwardly by the door, afraid to enter further. “The windows overlook the east garden. I thought you might enjoy the morning light.”

I step inside and trail my fingers over the polished wood furniture, the soft bedding, and the spines of books arranged on shelves. For minutes on end, I am speechless, just exploring the room, taking everything in.

“There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe,” he says. “If they don’t suit you, Nell can arrange for more.”

I turn to face him, overcome by his generosity.

“Thank you. This is more than I ever expected.”

He nods, his white eyes luminous in the candlelight.

“Sleep well, Amity.”

The door closes softly behind him, and I stand alone in my new sanctuary. For the first time in months, I feel truly safe. So much so that I take a bath, wash my hair thoroughly, then slip between sheets softer than anything I’ve ever felt, and fall into dreamless sleep.

***

I wake up disoriented, with sunlight streaming through windows I don’t recognize.

Panic seizes me for a moment before memory returns.

I’m in Riven’s mansion. I’m safe. The sun sits higher than I’m used to when I wake up.

I’ve slept late, my body giving in to the comfort of a real bed after months of fitful rest in cheap inns and freight cars, where every noise meant potential danger.

I dress quickly in clothes I find in the wardrobe. They are simple but well-made, and nearly my size. When I make my way to the dining room, breakfast waits for me on the table: fresh bread, preserves, fruit, and a pot of herbal tea.

Riven sits at the table, watching as I enter.

“You’ve already eaten?” I ask, noting the lack of a plate before him.

“Yes,” he says. “I rise early. Please, join me.”

I sit and fill my plate, aware of his eyes on me as I eat. The silence stretches between us until I can’t bear it anymore.

“You know,” I say, looking up with a half-smile, “if you’re going to watch me stuffing my face, I might have to return the favor at dinner.”

His face changes. The white skin around his eyes darkens with what I realize must be a blush. It’s such an unexpectedly human reaction that I nearly laugh out loud.

“I apologize,” he says. “I find your... enjoyment of food refreshing.”

“Food is one of life’s simple pleasures. My mother always said a good meal feeds the soul as well as the body.”

His expression softens at the mention of my mother again, and I realize how little I know about him. Does he have a family? Does he remember them? The questions hover on my tongue, but something tells me it’s too soon to ask.

“I have something to show you after breakfast,” he says.

***

The shed sits at the edge of the overgrown herb garden with its wooden door warped from age and weather.

It looks so rundown that I didn’t think to check it and see what’s inside.

Now Riven and I are standing before it, and I glance up at him, curious as to why he brought me here.

He steps forward and pulls the door open, and its hinges creak as if in pain.

Inside, morning light streams through small windows and illuminates new tools arranged in neat rows: pruning shears, trowels, spades, and rakes of various sizes.

Shelves along one wall hold dozens of seed packets with colorful pictures on their fronts, and clay pots of every size are stacked in corners, waiting to be filled with soil.

“Tomas went to the market this morning,” Riven says. “I told him to buy everything you might need.”

I step inside, feeling overwhelmed. My fingers hover inches from the shelves.

There are more supplies in here than I’ve ever had access to in my entire life.

Varieties of medicinal herbs I’ve only read about in old books, never grown with my own hands.

Joy bubbles up inside me, and I nearly throw my arms around him like I did the day before.

I stop myself at the last moment, when I remember his reaction.

I turn to face him with my hands clasped tightly behind my back to prevent them from reaching for him.

“This is incredible,” I say. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

For a heartbeat, I consider pressing a kiss to his cheek. But I hesitate, uncertain whether such a gesture would be welcome or cruel. Would it give him hope for something I’m not sure I can offer?

“Your happiness is thanks enough,” he says.

I bite the inside of my lip and bounce on the balls of my feet, my body buzzing with the urge to do something, to show him how much I appreciate all that he’s done for me in the past twenty-four hours.

I push it all down. It’s too soon, things are happening too fast. I can’t throw myself at him every time he’s nice, and kind, and considerate… and… and…

By all the gods! I’ve never met someone like him! Sure, he’s wealthy and he can afford it, but I’ve met a few wealthy people in my life, and generosity wasn’t a trait they had.

“Thank you,” I say again.

I look into his white orbs, willing him to see how much this means to me. He smiles, the long stitch at the corner of his mouth pulling slightly. Then he nods, and I nod as well. Hopefully, we’ll grow accustomed to each other eventually, and our interactions won’t be so awkward anymore.

***

The days that follow settle into a pleasant rhythm.

Each morning, I work in the garden, clearing overgrown beds and planting new seeds.

Riven shows up and offers his help even though he’s clumsy and inexperienced with his long, thick fingers.

His large, mismatched hands don’t know how to handle the delicate seedlings, but I show him how to hold them and how to pack the soil gently around their tender roots.

He watches my movements with intense concentration before he mimics them with painstaking care.

“Your father never taught you to garden?” I ask one morning as we kneel side by side in the herb bed.

“I never had a father,” he says simply.

I swallow heavily. Something in his tone tells me I shouldn’t press further, so I don’t. I’m trying to find ways to get to know him, but I don’t know how to ask the questions, or if I should ask them at all.

In the afternoons, I work in the kitchen with Nell and learn where everything is kept and how the massive stone oven operates.

Riven often sits at the kitchen table, supposedly reading but clearly listening to our conversation.

He never interrupts but sometimes smiles at a joke or nods at a comment.

“The master never spent this much time in the kitchen before you came,” Nell whispers one day when Riven steps out.

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at all. It’s good to see him interested in something besides his workshop.”

I find myself growing comfortable with Riven’s constant presence as the days pass.

He never touches me, but he’s always nearby – a shadow that keeps a careful distance.

At first, I was aware of every stitch on his face and every mismatched part of him.

Now I notice other things instead: the way he tilts his head when listening intently, how his voice softens when he’s pleased, and the careful way he handles books with their fragile pages.

In fact, everything he handles, he handles with care, as if afraid he might break it.

I wonder if he’s even aware of the grace he moves with.

He thinks of himself as a monster, I can tell.

The only mirror that’s not covered with a white sheet is the one in my room.

But compared to the human men I’ve met… gods, he’s a true lord.

Clean, well-dressed, his hair neatly combed at all times. His manners are impeccable.

Each evening, we dine together, and little by little, the awkwardness fades away. He still eats carefully, but he no longer seems self-conscious when I glance his way. We talk about small things – the progress of the garden, books we’ve read, and the changing weather that promises an early autumn.

One evening, I realize I no longer see his stitched-together form as ugly or frightening. The black threads, the mismatched skin tones, and the glowing eyes are simply Riven now. Not a monster, not my savior, just a person I’m coming to know better every day.

As I prepare dried chamomile for tea and hang bundles from the kitchen rafters, I catch myself smiling at the thought of sharing it with him later.

Something has shifted between us so gradually I hardly noticed it happening.

How long has it been since I became his bride?

Three weeks? Not even a month, and I have to admit this new life with him isn’t bad at all.

He asks nothing of me. Sometimes I feel guilty, because he offers me so much, and I feel like I have nothing to give him in return. Or maybe I do…

I close my eyes and shake my head. Do I even dare think about it? I am his bride, after all. He is my husband. Knowing him, he will never ask.

Do I want him to ask?