Chapter 13 Blood Wedding

Dawn broke as we crested the final hill, revealing a valley shrouded in morning mist. At its center stood a stone church, its weathered spire reaching toward the brightening sky. Surrounding it, a small village of perhaps two dozen buildings nestled among ancient oaks.

"St. Augustine's Rest," Rowan said, slowing the motorcycle as we approached. "Population forty-three. No cell towers, limited internet, and exactly one sheriff who spends most of his time fishing."

I studied the picturesque setting with growing confusion. "How do you know this place?"

"I bought it." He guided the motorcycle down the winding road toward the village. "Three years ago, two days before our wedding. The entire village and surrounding five hundred acres."

The revelation stunned me. "Why would you buy a village? And why didn't I know about it?"

"It was meant to be a surprise. A wedding gift." His voice carried an edge of bitterness. "Somewhere we could escape when city life became too oppressive. Somewhere that belonged just to us."

We passed a sign welcoming visitors to St. Augustine's Rest, the paint faded and peeling. Beyond it, the village proper appeared frozen in time—stone cottages with thatched roofs, a small market square with a central well, and the church dominating the eastern edge.

"No one will look for us here because officially, this place doesn't exist in connection to either of us," Rowan explained. "I purchased it through a series of shell companies, final ownership resting with a trust not even your father could trace."

He directed the motorcycle toward the largest building adjacent to the church—a three-story stone structure that might once have been a rectory. Its windows gleamed with fresh glass despite the ancient exterior, suggesting recent renovations.

"Home sweet home," he said as we stopped before heavy wooden doors. "At least temporarily."

Inside, the rectory revealed a startling contrast to its rustic exterior. Modern furnishings complemented the exposed stone walls, state-of-the-art appliances occupied the kitchen, and a security system discreetly integrated into the design spoke to Rowan's foresight.

"I had it renovated for comfort while preserving its character," he explained, watching me take in our surroundings. "The village residents were retained as caretakers with generous compensation packages. They're discreet."

"You planned all this before our wedding? Without telling me?"

"I wanted one thing in our life together that wasn't connected to the Rothschild name or fortune." He moved to the windows, gazing out at the misty village square. "One thing that was just ours."

The revelation of this secret preparation—this hidden sanctuary created for a future we never had—struck me with unexpected force. It was further evidence of the depth of feeling the original Rowan had carried for me, a commitment that went beyond our public engagement.

"And after... after you disappeared, this place just remained yours?"

"The trust continued operating, maintaining the village, paying the residents. I had structured it to run independently for a decade without intervention." He turned to face me, expression unreadable. "When your father's team took me, they never found this connection. It wasn't in any of my accessible records."

I approached him slowly, still processing this new information. "So we're truly off the grid here."

"As much as possible in the modern world." He nodded toward a panel near the kitchen. "There's a secure communication system if we need to contact Miranda or others, but it's designed to be untraceable."

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed me—the adrenaline of our escape fading, leaving bone-deep weariness in its wake. Rowan noticed immediately, his enhanced perception attuned to even subtle changes in my condition.

"You need rest," he said, guiding me toward a staircase. "Master bedroom is upstairs. I'll secure the perimeter and check our supplies."

"And you?" I asked, reluctant to let him out of my sight after everything we'd been through.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I don't require as much sleep as I once did. Another 'improvement' courtesy of your father."

The master bedroom continued the theme of rustic luxury—a massive four-poster bed dominated the space, with windows overlooking the village and distant hills. Most striking were the dozens of red roses arranged in crystal vases throughout the room, their petals fresh and vibrant.

"The roses," I said, turning to Rowan who had followed me up. "They're just like in my mother's apartment."

"Your mother's roses were your favorite. You once told me they made you feel close to her." He approached one of the vases, touching a petal with surprising gentleness. "I arranged for fresh deliveries weekly, even after... everything."

"For three years? Even when you were..." I couldn't bring myself to say "captive" or "experimental subject."

"Even then. The trust continued executing my standing orders." His eyes met mine. "Some part of me must have believed we would end up here eventually."

The tenderness of the gesture—maintaining this connection to a shared past even through years of separation and experimentation—broke something inside me. Without conscious thought, I moved to him, my hands finding his face.

"Thank you," I whispered.

His expression softened, the hardened operative momentarily giving way to something more vulnerable. "Get some rest, Cassia. We're safe for now."

I slept deeply, dreamlessly, for the first time in what felt like years. When I woke, afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden patterns across the wooden floor. The scent of roses perfumed the air, mingling with something else—coffee and fresh bread.

Downstairs, I found Rowan in conversation with an elderly woman whose weathered face crinkled into a smile when she saw me.

"Ah, the lady is awake," she said in a lilting accent I couldn't quite place. "I am Mrs. Thorne, caretaker of the rectory."

"Mrs. Thorne has been bringing provisions," Rowan explained. "She's also our eyes and ears in the village."

"Nobody comes through St. Augustine's without old Mary Thorne knowing," she confirmed with obvious pride. "No strangers here today, nor yesterday. You're safe as houses."

After she left, Rowan guided me to the kitchen where a simple but appetizing meal awaited—fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and strong coffee.

"The village is self-sufficient in many ways," he explained as we ate. "Local produce, a small dairy. We can remain here indefinitely if necessary."

"And the residents? They won't question our sudden appearance?"

"They believe I'm the representative of the trust that owns the property. As for you..." He hesitated. "They assume you're my wife."

The word hung between us, charged with the weight of what should have been, what never was, and what might yet be.

"Convenient cover story," I said, trying to lighten the moment.

"Indeed." He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "We should maintain it while we're here. For security."

After we finished eating, Rowan suggested a walk through the village—partly to familiarize me with our surroundings, partly to establish our presence as a normal couple to any watchful eyes.

The village was even more charming up close—flower boxes adorned cottage windows, children played in the small green near the church, and elderly residents nodded respectfully as we passed. It was like stepping into another century, peaceful and untouched by the chaos we'd left behind.

"The church is the oldest building," Rowan explained as we approached the stone structure. "Twelfth century, though parts have been rebuilt over the centuries."

Inside, the church was cool and dim, sunlight filtering through stained glass to create pools of colored light on the stone floor. The simplicity of the space—plain wooden pews, an unadorned altar—carried a solemn beauty that transcended any specific faith.

"I always imagined we might renew our vows here someday," Rowan said quietly, his voice echoing slightly in the empty nave. "After a conventional society wedding in the city."

The admission—so human, so at odds with the enhanced operative he had become—caught me off guard. "You thought that far ahead?"

"I thought of everything." He turned to face me, his expression open in a way I hadn't seen since before his disappearance. "Every detail of the life we would build together."

"And now?" I asked, heart beating faster despite my attempt at calm. "What do you think of when you look ahead?"

He moved closer, eyes never leaving mine. "Survival, first. Justice for what was done to us both. And then..." He reached for my hand, his touch unexpectedly gentle. "Then we see what remains between us when all the lies and manipulations are stripped away."

A shaft of colored light from the stained glass fell across his face, illuminating features that had grown both familiar and strange—the same bones and planes I had once known intimately, now arranged in harder lines, carrying the weight of experiences I could never fully understand.

"There's something I need to show you," he said, leading me toward the altar. Behind it, a small door opened to a narrow staircase ascending into the church tower.

At the top, a small room housed the church bells and offered a panoramic view of the village and surrounding countryside through arched openings. In the center of the room stood a small wooden chest.

Rowan knelt before it, producing a key from his pocket. "I prepared this three years ago, the day before our wedding. Before everything changed."

He opened the chest to reveal a pair of simple gold rings nestled on dark velvet, alongside a sealed envelope bearing my name in his handwriting.

"I hid them here when I realized what was happening," he said, lifting the envelope. "When I began to suspect your father's involvement in what was about to happen to me."

"You knew?" I whispered, stunned. "You knew he was going to take you?"

"Not exactly. But I received threats, warnings. Enough to know something was coming." He handed me the envelope. "This was my insurance—my way of leaving you a message if the worst happened."

With trembling fingers, I broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside. The handwriting was unmistakably Rowan's—not the man beside me now, but the man he had been before.

*My dearest Cassia,*

*If you're reading this, then I've disappeared from our wedding or shortly before. I pray that you've found this message quickly, though I fear it may be years before you discover this place, if ever.*

*Your father came to me three days ago with an ultimatum—leave you at the altar, disappear completely, or face "consequences" that would destroy us both. He showed me files, evidence of criminal activities I never committed, fabricated so perfectly that no defense would be possible.*

*I refused his demand. I would never willingly leave you, Cassia, not for any threat. But I fear he has other plans in motion. If I vanish, know that it was not by choice. Never by choice.*

*The rings in this box were meant to be our private exchange—after the public ceremony, a private renewal of vows here in this place that belongs only to us. I leave them for you as proof of my commitment, my love, and my intention to return to you if it is within my power.*

*Find me, Cassia. Whatever he's done, wherever he's taken me, find me.*

*Forever yours,*
*Rowan*

Tears blurred my vision as I finished reading. The letter confirmed what I had begun to suspect—that Rowan's disappearance had been orchestrated by my father from the beginning, that his "abandonment" had been forced rather than chosen.

"You never intended to leave," I said, voice breaking slightly.

"Never." Rowan—this new, integrated version of him—took the rings from the chest. "These were meant for us. Simple, private, belonging to no tradition but our own."

He held out one of the bands—a plain gold circle inscribed with a single word on the inner surface: *Forever*.

"I'm not asking you to wear it," he said carefully. "We're different people now. But I wanted you to know the truth of what was intended, before your father intervened."

I took the ring, feeling its weight in my palm—the physical manifestation of promises made and broken, of a future stolen and perhaps, in some new form, reclaimed.

"What happens now?" I asked, looking up at him.

"Now we make a new vow," he said, taking my free hand. "Not marriage, not yet. But a promise nonetheless."

"What kind of promise?"

His eyes held mine, intense and sincere. "That whatever comes next—whether we build something new together or eventually part ways—it will be our choice. No one else's manipulation, no one else's agenda. Just us, deciding our own fate."

The simplicity of the vow struck me with its profound truth. After everything we had endured—the lies, the manipulations, the violations of autonomy—the freedom to choose our own path forward was perhaps the most sacred promise we could make.

"I vow it," I said softly.

Without breaking our gaze, he slipped the ring onto my finger—not my left hand as tradition would dictate, but my right. A new beginning rather than a restoration of what was lost.

"And I vow it," he echoed, guiding my hand to place the matching ring on his right hand.

The moment held a weight and significance that transcended any formal ceremony. In the quiet of the church tower, surrounded by the village he had preserved for a future that never came, we created something new from the ashes of what had been destroyed.

When he kissed me, it was neither the calculated passion of our encounters since the auction nor the familiar affection of our past engagement. It was something entirely new—tender yet fierce, a claiming and a yielding simultaneously.

"Come," he said when we finally parted, leading me back down the winding stairs. "There's someone else in the village you should meet."

Outside, the late afternoon sun bathed the village in golden light as Rowan guided me toward a small cottage set apart from the others, its garden wilder and more abundant than its neighbors. A weathered sign beside the door read simply: "The Healer."

"Who lives here?" I asked as Rowan knocked.

"Someone who might help us understand what's happening with my neural implants," he replied. "The suppressant is temporary. We need a more permanent solution if we're going to stay ahead of your father's recovery teams."

The door opened to reveal a woman perhaps in her sixties, her silver hair bound in a long braid, her dark eyes sharp with intelligence.

"I wondered when you'd finally bring her to me," she said, stepping aside to let us enter. "Come in, Cassia Rothschild. We have much to discuss about your blood and the man who carries it inside his veins."