Marrying the Vampire

The debt collector kicked my apartment door off its hinges at 7:12 on a Tuesday morning.

I was standing in the kitchen with a mug of instant coffee and one sock on my foot.

“Three days,” he said.

He dropped a folder on the counter. My father’s name was printed across the top.

“He borrowed it,” I said.

“He died owing it.”

“That sounds like a him problem.”

The collector glanced at my empty refrigerator and the eviction notice taped to the wall.

“It became a you problem when you signed as guarantor.”

My mouth went dry.

“Three days, Miss Hart. After that, your father’s debt becomes yours.”

By noon, I had sold my television, my grandmother’s silver bracelet, and most of my dignity.

The bracelet bought two dinners.

The television bought half a week.

The debt remained untouched.

At four, while I counted coins on the floor, a black sedan stopped outside my building. It looked like a coffin with tinted windows.

A woman in a charcoal suit stepped out. Silver-blond hair, sharp jaw, and the expression of someone who had never once been late.

“Miss Hart?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Celia Vale. I represent the Blackthorn family.”

“Are they collectors?”

“Something more useful.”

She handed me a cream-colored envelope.

Inside was a contract.

I read it twice.

“One year,” I said.

“One year,” Celia replied. “You will enter a formal contract marriage with Lucian Blackthorn, the family heir. On paper, he will be your husband. In practice, you will live at the estate as his full-time caregiver.”

“A marriage?”

“A legal arrangement. No romance, intimacy, or shared finances. Only the written terms.”

The salary was ten thousand dollars a month.

Room and board included.

Medical expenses covered.

The completion bonus could erase my father’s debt, including the interest that had probably grown teeth.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A hereditary curse. He is deaf and unable to use his legs. He needs help with daily care.”

“And why me?”

“You have no family protection, political connections, or assets.”

“That was almost flattering.”

“It wasn’t intended to be.”

I checked the breach penalty.

My vision blurred. “That’s not a penalty. That’s a second mortgage.”

“It encourages commitment.”

I looked at my broken door, empty cabinets, and father’s debt folder.

“When do I start?”

“Now.”

The Blackthorn estate stood behind iron spikes and dead roses. The castle rose above the trees, all black stone and narrow windows, as if sunlight had personally offended its architect.

A butler opened the door before Celia knocked.

“Miss Hart.”

“Please call me Erin.”

“I will not.”

Celia led me through three corridors, two staircases, and past a stuffed wolf that seemed to hate my shoes.

“Your duties include medication, meals, hygiene, physical therapy, and companionship,” she said. “At least four hours of active care per day.”

“Companionship counts?”

“With proper documentation.”

“Excellent. I’m very good at documentation.”

She stopped before a pair of double doors.

“Lucian knows you’re here.”

“Does he know I’m here for the money?”

“He knows what the contract says.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

She opened the door.

Lucian Blackthorn sat beside a tall window in a black wheelchair. He looked young enough to be dangerous and beautiful enough to get away with it.

His hair was dark, his skin nearly colorless, and his eyes still as deep water. A leather notebook rested on his lap.

Celia signed something to him. Lucian watched her hands, then looked at me.

I stepped inside and pointed to myself.

“Erin Hart.”

Lucian picked up his pen and wrote:

Who are you?

I pointed at the contract in Celia’s hand, then at my plain gold band.

“Your legal wife,” I said. “For one year. I’m also your caregiver.”

He glanced at the ring, then at the contract.

I added, “Temporary wife. No romance. No intimacy. No shared finances. It’s all written down.”

His gaze returned to my face.

I waved once.

“Can you hear me?”

Lucian wrote:

No.

“Oh.” I nodded. “That explains the staring.”

His pen moved again.

What do you want?

“Money,” I said. “Mostly.”

He studied the word on the page, then looked toward the room.

Heavy curtains. Silver candlesticks. A blue fire burning in the grate.

“This place is terrifying,” I said. “Do you have a less haunted guest room?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

I pointed at him. “And you look exactly like a portrait of a duke who murdered three people over a bad dinner.”

He wrote:

Rude.

I smiled. “Good. We’ve established a communication system.”

Celia cleared her throat. “Erin.”

“What? I’m making conversation.”

“He can’t hear you.”

“I know.”

“He can see your face.”

“That feels different.”

“It is not.”

She left before I could ask whether vampires paid overtime.