Chapter 1

When the wedding carriage came to a stop, I could hear someone weeping outside.

It wasn't the sound of joyful tears but the kind of weeping that said, "There goes another girl to her grave." The hand of my maid, Rose Smith, trembled as she helped me. The moment the carriage door opened, I heard her gasp.

I understood her.

The man waiting for me at the end of the aisle was Kaelen Blackwood, the Warlord of the northern territories.

Who in the entire Kingdom of Everdale didn't know his name? He had tasted blood on the battlefield at nine, led legions at thirteen, and was crowned warlord at eighteen.

But that wasn't the main point. The main point was that he had had nine wives, and all nine of them were dead. Some said they were frightened to death. Others said he had toyed with them until they broke.

And some whispered he was a demon who fed on the life force of women.

I was to be the tenth bride.

My name is Jane Shepherd, an unwanted daughter of my family. My stepmother couldn't bear to marry her own daughter to Kaelen, so she pushed me forward instead.

It was a royal decree. Refusing meant death, and marrying Kaelen also meant death. I was damned either way. The original Jane had chosen her own end, biting her tongue in the carriage. And then, I arrived.

I was a zookeeper from the 21st century, a graduate in wildlife conservation with a specialty in mammalian behavior.

I had spent the last eight years of my life petting every kind of fur I could get my hands on, only to be taken out by a very angry Siberian tiger.

My last words were, "Don't bother with the tranquilizer. Just let me touch its paw pads one more time."

And then I woke up trapped in the body of this ill-fated noblewoman.

"My lady, we're here," Rose sobbed. "May you be safe."

I lifted the curtain myself and stepped out of the carriage.

*****

The gates of Blackwood Manor were open, flanked by crimson banners. But the estate was unnervingly silent. There were no guests and no music, only a few servants standing stiffly on either side.

An old steward led me through the grounds. After a full fifteen-minute walk, we stopped before a secluded courtyard.

"His Grace is waiting for you inside," the steward said and turned to flee as if his life depended on it.

I pushed open the gate and stepped in.

An old oak tree stood in the center. Beneath it, a stone table held a single flagon of wine and two cups. The bedroom door was ajar, revealing an interior swallowed in complete, unlit darkness.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open. "Your Grace?" I called out tentatively.

No one answered.

I fumbled my way to a table and lit the candles. The warm light illuminated the room consisting of a large bed, a desk, a few chairs, and a tapestry of a roaring tiger on the wall.

The bedding was neatly folded. No one was there.

As I stood there, puzzled, I heard a faint rustling sound from under the bed.

I crouched down and lifted the bed skirt.

A pair of golden eyes stared back at me from the darkness.

I paused for a second and reached in to pull the creature out.

It was a white fox.

It looked as pure as fresh snow without a single blemish. It was a size larger than any fox I had ever seen, and its fur was as lustrous as spun silk.

But the most incredible thing was its five tails. Five enormous, fluffy tails swished gently behind it like a fan of white plumes.

I reached out on pure instinct and touched one.

The texture was unreal. In my previous life, I had handled Arctic foxes, red foxes, and fennec foxes, but none of them felt like this. The fur was soft and dense, like the highest-grade cashmere.

My fingers sank into it and disappeared. Its pointed ears twitched, seeming to sense my touch. Its eyes were the color of rich amber, glowing gold in the candlelight.

I picked it up. It was warm and soft, weighing maybe fifteen pounds, a perfect armful.

I nuzzled its head. "Well, little one, what are you doing here? Where's His Grace? Do you know where he ran off to?"

The fox glanced at me, buried its head in the crook of my arm, and went still.

I sat down on the bed with it in my arms and kept petting it.

I stroked it from its head down to its back and from its back all the way to its tails. Its five tails took turns being kneaded in my hands, feeling like five living fur scarves.

It made a very soft, very strange sound. Not the yip of a fox but something more like a whimper. To be precise, it was a contented hum.

I must have been petting it for a good half hour before it fell asleep in my arms.

I was getting sleepy too, so I lay down, still holding it. Its fur was warm like a little furnace, a comforting weight against my chest. I closed my eyes, breathing in its faint, clean scent of pine, and quickly drifted off.

I slept dreamlessly.