His words hung in the air, cold and heavy as the stones around us. "You belong to me now." The doors of the mansion, somewhere far off, shuddered again, a final, echoing boom that sealed my fate. Belong to him? Me? Sera Quinn? The girl who could barely keep her own life together belonged to the literal embodiment of endings?
Every survival instinct I possessed, honed by years of navigating sketchy jobs, creep landlords, and the general chaos of being me, screamed. Trapped? Married to Death? Not happening.
Still on my knees, adrenaline surged through me, raw and useless. I didn't think. I just reacted. I lunged forward, my fist swinging wildly towards his impossibly calm face.
It was pathetic. He didn't even flinch. His pale hand shot out, catching my wrist with effortless strength. His grip was cold, firm, and completely unyielding. I thrashed, twisted, tried to kick him, but it was like trying to assault a statue. A really, really hot statue, curse my traitorous hormones.
"Let go of me!" I snarled, adrenaline quickly turning to frustrated rage. "You can't just say 'you belong to me now' like you're claiming a lost puppy! This is kidnapping! This is forced... whatever this is!"
He held my wrist gently but firmly, his void eyes studying my furious face. There was a flicker of something in them again. It wasn't pity, or anger. It was… curiosity. And maybe a hint of that unsettling amusement from before.
"On the contrary," he said, his voice still a low cello hum. "It is not kidnapping. It is the fulfillment of the Pact. You signed the agreement, Sera Quinn."
"I signed a modeling contract!" I yelled, yanking against his grip. It was useless. "For exposure! Nobody said anything about Soulbound Matrimony! Or Bride of Death! Or being dragged through a mirror and trapped in your ridiculously spooky mansion!"
"The terms were implicit," he stated calmly, finally releasing my wrist. The absence of his cold touch felt almost as strange as his grip had. "As the most complete form of binding, Soulbound Matrimony is the consequence of such a Pact being made between a mortal and… one such as myself."
"Implicit?!" I scrambled back to my feet, straightening my crumpled clothes, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. It was hard when your legs were shaking and you wanted to either scream or cry or maybe just eat five pounds of fries until you passed out. "Implicit means 'suggested'! Not 'secretly marrying you to the personification of the end times'! That's a pretty big detail to leave out!"
He stood, unhurried, his tall form dominating the space. The silence of the staircase and the whispering halls seemed to amplify his presence. "Details which, while perhaps poorly communicated by Lucien, were nonetheless contained within the weave of the Pact itself. Your signature gave it power."
"So what?!" I threw my hands up in exasperation. "Fine! My bad! I didn't read the metaphysical fine print written in ancient blood! Can I get an annulment?! A divorce?! Is there a cosmic court where I can argue I was operating under duress and also extremely hangry?!"
He watched my outburst with that same unnerving calm, his void eyes reflecting nothing. "Annulment requires the contract to be flawed in its execution. It was not. Divorce requires the dissolution of a bond. Soulbound Matrimony is… indissoluble by mortal means."
"Indissoluble?!" My voice went up another octave. "You mean I'm stuck here?! Forever?! Because I wanted a paycheck and maybe some validation?!"
"You are bound to me," he confirmed, stating it like a simple fact. "And to this realm. It is the nature of the Pact. Unless the contractor… willingly releases you. Or ceases to exist."
Unless he willingly released me, or he ceased to exist. I stared at him. He looked ancient, powerful, utterly permanent. The chances of him 'ceasing to exist' seemed roughly equivalent to the chances of me spontaneously growing wings and flying back to my apartment. Which, given the day I was having, wasn't entirely off the table, but still felt unlikely.
"So I'm trapped," I stated flatly, the fury draining away, leaving behind a vast, cold despair. "Unless you decide to let me go. Or someone somehow… kills Death?"
He didn't confirm or deny the 'killing Death' part, just maintained that steady, unreadable gaze. "You are bound. Your soul is now anchored to mine, to this realm. It provides… stability."
Stability. Great. I was a metaphysical paperweight for the Grim Reaper. Just another glamorous highlight in the glittering career of Sera Quinn.
And then, completely out of nowhere, a thought popped into my head. Amidst the panic, the despair, the sheer existential dread…
Fries. I really, really wanted fries. The craving hit with the force of a physical blow, a sudden, intense yearning for salty, crispy, comforting potatoes.
It was so random, so mundane in the face of everything, that it was almost funny. Almost.
And then, right there, floating in the air between us, was a small paper carton of fries. Hot, perfectly golden, smelling heavenly.
My jaw dropped for the second time that day. "What the…?" I stared at them. They hadn't been there a second ago.
The man – Death, my husband, whatever I was supposed to call him – reached out and plucked a fry from the carton. He brought it to his lips, those pale, carved lips, and bit into it. A faint, almost imperceptible sound of crunching echoed in the silence.
He chewed slowly, watching my stunned reaction. "Ah, excellent vintage," he murmured, as if discussing a fine wine, not stolen fast food. "Slightly over-salted, perhaps, but satisfying."
"Did you just…?" I spluttered, my mind struggling to keep up. "Did you just conjure fries?! And then steal one?! We are in the middle of me having a complete meltdown because I've accidentally married you, the personification of Death, and you're eating my hypothetical fries?!"
He took another fry. "You are bound to me," he repeated, his tone still calm. "That includes… certain… conjugal privileges. Such as sharing sustenance." He popped the second fry into his mouth.
"Conjugal privileges?!" I shrieked. "Eating my fries is a conjugal privilege?! What kind of hell-marriage is this?!"
He offered the carton towards me, a gesture so absurdly normal in this context that it felt more alien than the floating fries themselves. "A permanent one. And as your… partner… your needs are now, to some extent, my concern. And vice versa."
I stared at the fries, then at him, then back at the fries. My stomach rumbled, loud and embarrassing. Even in the face of eternal binding and existential horror, my body's betrayal knew no bounds.
Against my better judgment, driven by pure, unadulterated hunger, I snatched a fry from the carton. It was hot, crispy, perfect. The salty, greasy comfort was like a tiny, delicious anchor in the storm of my life.
He smiled again, that small, unsettling smile that did traitorous things to my insides. He took another fry as I ate mine. We stood there, in the middle of a silent, gothic hallway in a place called The In-Between, the Accidental Bride of Death and Death himself, sharing fries. It was the most surreal moment of my entire surreal existence.
"So," I said, chewing the best, most terrifying fry of my life. "Let me get this straight. I signed a contract for 'eternal exposure' and 'soul alignment' with a shady blonde guy who didn't cast a shadow, and it turns out I actually signed a marriage contract to you, Death, because you needed a human anchor or something, and now I'm trapped here forever unless you decide to ghost me or someone somehow manages to kill you, and also you steal my fries because we're married?"
"An impressively concise summary," he replied, taking another fry. "Though 'stealing' implies lack of entitlement. We are joined. What is yours is… accessible."
"Accessible?!" I nearly choked on my fry. "That's a fancy word for 'mine now'! What else is 'accessible'? My questionable fashion choices? My crippling student loan debt?"
He paused, considering. "Your fashion choices are… unique. And debt is primarily a mortal construct, rarely extending its reach into this realm."
"Oh, thank god," I muttered, momentarily relieved that at least one of my problems wasn't following me into the afterlife-adjacent dimension. "So, just to be crystal clear, no annulment. No divorce. Trapped here. Forever."
"For as long as the Pact endures," he confirmed, finishing his fry.
Despair settled back in, heavy and suffocating. Trapped. Bound. Married. To Death. My fingers curled around the black ring, its coldness a stark reminder.
He reached out again, his pale hand closing gently around the one with the ring. His touch was cold, but steady. His void eyes seemed to bore into mine, not with menace, but with a strange, profound intensity.
"The Pact is not merely a restriction, Sera Quinn," he said, his voice softer now. "It is also… a connection."
He lifted my hand, bringing the black ring to his lips. He didn't kiss my skin, but the cold, obsidian band itself. As his lips touched the ring, a jolt of energy, cold and searing, shot up my arm.
And then, a vision hit me. Overwhelming, vivid, instantaneous.
I saw myself. Falling. Through darkness. Fear gripping me. The sounds of the mortal world fading. And then, a presence. Vast, cold, powerful. Reaching out. Catching my soul as it left my body. The man. Azrael. Death. His void eyes, somehow seeing me even then, just before everything faded to black.
My own death. I was seeing my own death. And he had been there. Waiting. Catching me.
The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and shaking. His lips were no longer on the ring, but his hand still held mine. His void eyes were back, but they held a depth I hadn't seen before.
He had seen me die. He had caught my soul. And now, somehow, I was married to him.