Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil

The main hall of Blackwell Manor was cold enough to preserve meat.

Lord Patriarch Blackwell stood by the fireplace. He was a giant of a man, with a white beard and scars that mapped a history of violence across his face.

He was holding a cavalry saber.

He didn't turn around when they entered.

"You're late," he boomed.

"Traffic," Elliot said, loosening his tie. "And a change of inventory."

The Old Lord turned. He saw Brooke.

His eyes narrowed. He lifted the saber, pointing the tip directly at Brooke's throat.

"Who is this?"

"The spare," Elliot said. "Brittny ran."

"Ran?" The Patriarch roared. He slashed the sword through the air. The sound was a terrifying whoosh. "Cowards! The Graves blood is weak!"

He stepped toward Brooke. The sword tip hovered inches from her nose.

"And you? Are you a coward too, girl?"

Brooke looked at the steel. Then she looked at the Old Lord.

"Put it down," she said.

The room went silent. The butler, Alfred, looked like he was about to faint.

"Excuse me?" The Patriarch whispered.

"Military Code, Section 17," Brooke said, her voice clear. "An officer shall not brandish a weapon against a civilian unless under direct threat. Unless you consider a woman in a wedding dress a threat, General."

The Old Lord froze.

Elliot stared at her. How does she know the Code?

The Patriarch lowered the sword slowly. A grin spread across his scarred face.

"Section 17," he chuckled. "I haven't heard anyone quote the Old Code in twenty years."

He walked up to her. He was massive, smelling of old leather and pipe tobacco.

"You're the Frederick girl," he said. "The grandfather... he was a good man. A hard man."

"He was," Brooke said.

The Old Lord suddenly lashed out. His heavy hand swung toward her face.

It was a test.

Brooke didn't think. Her body reacted. She shifted her weight, ducking under the swing and pivoting to his side. It was a basic evasion maneuver, executed perfectly in a ballgown.

She stopped herself before she struck back.

She stood there, breathing steadily.

The Patriarch laughed. A booming, joyous sound.

"Ha! She's got instincts!" He slapped Elliot on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "Marry this one! She won't break!"

He pointed to a table where a thick document lay.

"Sign the contract. Then get to the chapel."

Elliot looked at Brooke. His eyes were calculating, stripping away her layers.

"Who taught you to move like that?" he asked quietly.

"Old soldiers on the borderlands," Brooke said. "You learn fast when you're the only thing on the menu."

She walked to the table and picked up the pen. She signed her name without reading a word.

Brooke Frederick Blackwell.

She looked at the signature. It looked like a death sentence. Or a declaration of war.