Married to the Vampire Prince I Swore to Fight
Description
In a world divided between human kingdoms and vampire aristocracy, peace hangs by the thread of arranged marriages-human brides sacrificed to vampire lords to prevent war. When Rosalind's father signs away her life to save his kingdom, she becomes the bride of Dorian North, the vampire prince. Dorian is everything she fears-cold, dangerous, a creature who drinks blood at feasts while she watches in horror. As Rosalind navigates the treacherous vampire court where Dorian's sister Lydia watches her with possessive eyes and noble vampires plot in shadows, she begins to see past the monster to the man beneath. As human rebellions ignite across the kingdom and conspiracies bloom within the castle walls, Rosalind must decide where her loyalty lies. Her husband weakens daily from some mysterious affliction. Her own family plots against the vampires. And in the castle's hidden garden, ancient pomegranate trees bear fruit that carries a terrible price for those who dare consume them. When violence erupts and blood floods Wintergrave's halls, Rosalind faces an impossible choice that will determine not just her fate, but the fate of the monster she may have come to love.
Chapter 1
Nov 27, 2025
Will they bury me in this dress, or does Prince Dorian North prefer his dead brides naked?
The thought makes me want to laugh, or scream. Instead, I sit perfectly still while Agnes pulls corset strings tight enough to make breathing a conscious choice.
Each calculated inhale reminds me I'm still alive. For now.
Countless generations of human nobles have sent their daughters to vampire royalty, and we still don't know what happens to the bodies. The treaties call them "diplomatic unions"—as if diplomacy requires blood.
"Hold still, my lady," the older maid Agnes murmurs.
She clips the last thread from my dress—blood-red silk instead of wedding white. Because this is no usual wedding. It feels like a funeral rite, and I am both corpse and mourner.
"The Arellano girl lasted only three days," Clara whispers, weaving rubies through my hair—vampire colors, not ours. Red for dominance, for the centuries-old treaty that keeps them from draining us all dry. "Her father received a formal commendation for his sacrifice to the peace."
A commendation. His daughter's death earned him a piece of parchment with the vampire council's seal.
I wonder if he frames it or burns it.
"We're not supposed to call it sacrifice," Agnes corrects sharply. "The marriage alliance honors both our houses."
The lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
As if there's any honor in this—human nobles prostituting their children to monsters in exchange for protection, for the privilege of keeping our lands. For the illusion that we're partners rather than prey.
Young Clara, barely sixteen herself, continues to speak of rumours that float through the servants' quarters.
"They say the walls at Wintergrave Manor bleed during storms," she whispers as fastens the final ruby pin. "That the stone itself weeps for what happens within…"
"Hush with such talk," Agnes scolds, though her fingers tremble as she adjusts my neckline. “There’s no need to scare our lady.”
The door opens without a knock—a soft intrusion that makes my breath catch.
My personal maid Mira, my dearest friend since we were children, stands in the doorway. She grips a folded cloak as if it might anchor her to this moment, her eyes swollen from crying she's tried desperately to hide.
"Forgive me," her voice breaking on the words. "I needed another moment to gather myself. With my lady."
Agnes and Clara lower their heads and step aside, understanding the weight of this farewell. Mira moves to my side, her fingers adjusting a fabric that needs no adjustment, touching my hair as if memorising its texture.
"You don't have to go through with this," she murmurs, though we both know the lie in those words. "Say the word and I'll bolt the doors myself. We'll barricade ourselves in until they drag us out screaming."
"We both know how that would end. They'd only break them down, and then there would be more blood to answer for."
She presses her forehead to my shoulder, breathing in my scent—lavender oil and the faint trace of mother's perfume I wore today in remembrance.
"I'm coming with you," she announces.
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "Absolutely not."
"The contract allows one human companion." She unfolds the paper—she's already seen it, probably stole it from Father's study. "I've made my choice."
"Your choice?" Rage floods through me, hot and sudden. "Your choice is to die alongside me? That's not brave, Mira, it's stupid."
"And walking into Wintergrave Manor alone is what? Strategic?" She laughs bitterly. "You want to know what I think? I think you're relieved. I think part of you wants to disappear into that manor and never return because living with grief is harder than dying for duty."
The slap of truth stings more than any physical blow could.
Because she's right. God help me, she's right.
These past three months watching Mother waste away, holding her hand through the agony, lying about how everything would be fine… It hollowed me out.
Before I can form the words to answer, to refuse her, to save her, my Father enters.
He looks at my reflection in the mirror but won't meet my actual eyes. As if I've already crossed into that realm where the living dare not look directly.
"Your mother would have wanted you to have these," he says, placing a strand of pearls on the vanity. Mother's wedding pearls, still warm from his pocket. "She wore them when I married her. Twenty-three years ago yesterday."
Yesterday. When we buried her.
When the earth was still fresh on her grave, and Father was already signing contracts with the royal vampire clan.
His gaze shifts to Mira then, and something flickers in his expression. "Mira may accompany you. The contract permits it."
Mira's chin lifts, defiance blazing in her dark eyes. "I go where my lady goes."
"Then it's settled." He turns away, each word falling like dirt on a coffin. "Two daughters lost instead of one."
The words crack something in his voice—barely perceptible, but I hear it.
That fracture where his composure meets his conscience. His hand grips the doorframe, knuckles white beneath skin, as if signing that contract aged him decades in moments.
"My lord," Agnes ventures softly, "perhaps the Mira girl could remain—"
"Would you have me send a stranger?" His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Some terrified child purchased from the markets this morning who knows nothing of her ways, her temperament?"
He still won't turn to face us.
"Mira has been with us for seven years now. They’re practically sisters."
Sisters. The word burns. I remember the day Mira arrived—twelve years old, skinny as a bird, eyes huge with terror. Her parents owed debts they couldn't pay and were going to sell her to the factories.
It was Mother who insisted we take her in and within a month we were sneaking into each other's beds, whispering stories to chase away the dark.
"And you're sending her anyway," I say.
Finally, he turns, and his face is a map of griefs both old and new.
"Because she won't let you go alone. I offered her freedom this morning. Gold enough to start anywhere. She refused." His laugh is hollow. "Said sisters don't abandon each other to monsters. Even ‘purchased’ sisters."
I want to deny it. The words crowd my throat—protests, justifications, lies. But Mira has always seen through my armor to the frightened girl beneath. She knows me too well.
It's terrifying and comforting in equal measure.
"The carriage," Agnes says softly, urgently.
"Already?" My voice doesn't shake. Small victory.
"Prince North is... eager to meet his bride." Something flickers across Father’s face—guilt? Fear?
Through the window, I see it—black as a wound against daylight, pulled by horses that move too smoothly, too silently.
Mira takes my hand as we descend the stairs.
Every servant has gathered, pressing flowers and whispering blessings into my hands as I pass. The cook's daughter clutches her mother's skirts, eyes wide with the kind of fear that comes from understanding monsters are real.
I descend the stairs, memorising everything. The creak of the third stair that always announced my late-night wanderings. The smell of beeswax and lemon oil on the banister. Mother's portrait watching with painted serenity as her daughter walks toward darkness.
Rain lashes against us as we step outside, instantly soaking through silk and resolution alike.
The carriage door swings open on its own—no hand touches it. The interior yawns before us, black velvet and shadows, smelling of iron and old roses. I climbed in first. Mira follows, settling beside me, our hands finding each other in the darkness.
"Are you certain?" I ask one last time.
"I've been certain since we were children playing in your mother's garden," Mira answers, squeezing my fingers. "Where you go, I follow. Even into hell itself."
Married to the Vampire Prince I Swore to Fight
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