Page 1 of His Ruthless Match (Below #3)

EVA

I stood stiffly among Vivian’s bridesmaids, clutching the pastel bouquet.

The tiny buds trembled slightly in my grip, though I told myself it was from the chill seeping through the grand hall, not nerves.

My palms itched, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the sweat or the sheer, suffocating wrongness of being here.

The Below was not my scene. It never had been, and I’d worked hard to keep it that way.

For years, Raffaele had insisted it was too dangerous for me to be part of his world.

Not that I’d ever truly wanted to be a part of it, especially after my mother had been treated like a disposable, dirty secret.

Today, apparently, was an exception. Because nothing said “safe” like a hall packed with the worst magical creatures you could imagine, all dressed to impress and whispering like they had something better to do.

I tried to blend into the pastel sea of bridesmaids, even though I knew I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The strapless pink dress Vivian had saddled me with—a crime against humanity if there ever was one—clung too tight, refusing to cooperate with my movements.

No pockets, of course. I itched to cross my arms but settled for locking my hands around the bouquet like it might save me from this whole ordeal.

The hall stretched around us like a cathedral plucked out of some fever dream.

Gargoyles perched at the edges of the arched windows, their stone features frozen mid-snarl.

Shifters with glowing irises murmured to each other in a language I didn’t recognize.

A fae couple passed a flask between them, their pointed ears twitching with each sip.

My skin crawled.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but more of a bone-deep wrongness, the kind that settled in your marrow and made you want to unzip your own skin and step out of it.

It was like I was a misfit puzzle piece shoved into the wrong box, carved from the wrong wood.

Everything in me screamed to get out of here and scrub my hands raw with bleach and hot water until the memory of this place peeled away with my skin.

I wasn’t used to magic. Not when it was thrumming in the walls, hanging from the ceiling like rot, pressing into my lungs with every breath I took. Raffaele had always kept it tamped down when he was in the human world. He knew what it did to me.

Magic had killed my mother.

I’d watched the magic twist around her throat like an invisible garrote and squeeze until her body went limp.

Until her heels dragged across the marble floor and her head lolled unnaturally to the side.

Until her last breath left her. And no one, especially not her daughter, could do a damn thing to stop it.

Lord Thorne hadn’t even blinked.

There’d been no rage in his expression. No remorse. Nothing but disdain. He had been cleaning up the stain on his name.

I had been a teenager peeking around the corner, shaking so hard I thought my bones would splinter.

I hadn’t cried. Not then. Not even when her body hit the ground with a sound I still dreamed about.

I had gone still, and small, and quiet. Because if I’d made a noise, maybe he would have remembered I existed. Maybe he would’ve erased me too.

But Raffaele had found me.

He’d wrapped me in his coat and veilstepped us out before Thorne even noticed I was missing.

He’d been my protector ever since.

That was the thing about Raffaele… He hadn’t just saved me. He had chosen me. Even when he could’ve walked away, even when he should have walked away, he’d chosen me.

So yeah. I wasn’t used to magic, because every time it prickled across my skin, I remembered my mother’s body hitting cold stone.

And now, standing here, wrapped in it again?

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I forced my feet to stay planted. I clenched my jaw. And I remembered what Raffaele always told me: “He didn’t get to destroy all of you.”

I focused on Raffaele, standing tall at the altar.

His back was straight, his suit as impeccable as always.

His voice, usually so cold and calculating, had softened as he looked at Vivian.

It was a rare vulnerability—one he only let slip around her.

I was happy for them. Really, I was. Vivian was everything he needed: sharp, grounded, and, most importantly, someone who could put him in his place when he needed it.

But love? Romance? That wasn’t for me. Keeping people at arm’s length was safer, simpler. No mess, no risk.

I adjusted my grip on the bouquet. My gaze darted across the crowd, careful not to linger. I didn’t want to draw attention. But then my phone chose that exact moment to blare its utterly obnoxious bubblegum-pop ringtone.

Every head turned. Gargoyle stares had nothing on the sea of horrified, incredulous expressions now fixed on me. My stomach dropped, heat racing up my neck and flooding my cheeks.

“Really?” Raffaele’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp enough to cleave steel. His gaze pinned me in place. “You couldn’t put your phone on silent for fifteen minutes?”

“I—uh—” I mouthed a string of apologies, useless and unheard.

Vivian’s expression—equal parts disbelief and secondhand embarrassment—burned a hole into my resolve as I scrambled to silence the infernal thing. I shoved my bouquet into the crook of my elbow and dug into the only place I could store anything in this ridiculous dress: my bra.

The phone slipped through my fingers as I fumbled it out, nearly crashing to the floor before I caught it. A few guests stifled their laughter, while others muttered under their breath. I managed to jab the silence button and sagged in relief, but the damage was done.

The moment stretched unbearably long, and I wished I could dissolve into the floor. Raffaele sighed, his gaze sweeping away from me like I was a particularly irritating fly. With a nod from Vivian, the ceremony resumed.

I wanted to disappear, to fold myself into nothingness and never resurface. Instead, I hunched my shoulders and focused on the altar, determined to pretend I hadn’t just humiliated myself in front of every powerful creature in The Below.

But someone was still staring.

I felt it like a weight against my temple.

When I glanced across the room, I caught sight of a man leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in mock amusement.

His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark eyes dancing with something I couldn’t quite name, but I hated it already.

His tailored suit fit him too perfectly, each line and stitch a testament to wealth and smugness.

He smirked, and my irritation flared like a spark on dry kindling.

Who the hell was this guy?

I glared, the heat from earlier reigniting in a different shade of anger, but it only seemed to fuel his amusement. He tilted his head as if to say, Really?

The audacity made my blood boil.

Raffaele’s voice drew my attention back to the altar as he finished his vows. Vivian looked at him like he was her entire world. Her eyes shimmered with love. My chest tightened, not with envy, but with a hollow ache I didn’t want to examine too closely.

I loved Vivian like a sister, and I knew she’d be good for Raffaele. But having that kind of connection with someone? That vulnerability? No thanks. It was too much risk, too much chaos.

Out of the corner of my eye, Smirk Man lingered. His grin hadn’t faltered, and he still had that maddening air of someone who knew something you didn’t. He continued to look at me like I was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.

I clenched the bouquet tighter, wishing for a can of mace. Or maybe a catapult.

The reception was in full swing. The symphony of clinking glasses, low laughter, and the hum of conversations in languages I didn’t recognize battered my ears.

The sprawling grand hall of Raffaele’s estate was even more ostentatious than I’d expected—gold-leaf accents everywhere, from the vaulted ceiling to the intricate moldings that framed the towering floral arrangements.

The room was designed to remind you exactly who held the power in The Below.

I’d planted myself near the champagne trays, snagging flutes like a woman on a mission as they passed. I wasn’t drunk yet, but the soft fizz of the champagne against my tongue was the only thing keeping me sane in this surreal spectacle. I sipped as I watched the crowd.

Their appearances were almost impossible to process, like something out of a dream, or maybe a nightmare.

The fae had hair that caught the light like strands of liquid silver, as though it was woven from moonlight.

Then there were the shifters with their unnervingly smooth movements, as if they were gliding instead of walking.

They always seemed on the verge of pouncing, every motion a quiet reminder that they were predators.

And I was human. It freaked me the fuck out.

The vampires looked like they’d walked straight out of some decadent historical drama. They were draped in flowing silks and rich velvets—clothing you’d expect to see in a museum, not on actual people. Their fabric whispered against unnaturally pale and smooth skin seemingly carved from marble.

“Eva!” Vivian said as she approached arm-in-arm with Raffaele. They were the picture of marital bliss—her in a sleek ivory dress that clung to her in all the right places, him in a tailored black suit that somehow made his perpetual scowl look sophisticated.

They looked annoyingly happy, but their smiles faltered when they saw me holding a glass of champagne in each hand.

Vivian arched an eyebrow. “How’s your first day back in The Below?” There was something knowing in her tone, like she was waiting for me to admit I was out of my depth.

“Just grand.” I downed a glass of champagne. The bubbles fizzed against the back of my throat, and I set the empty glass on a passing tray before starting on the second.