The limousine door opened, and the noise hit them like a physical wave. Shouts, camera shutters, the frenzied roar of a mob.

"Mr. Blackwell! Where is Brittny?"

"Is the wedding off?"

"Who is that?"

Elliot stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Brooke.

She took it. She stepped out into the blinding light.

A collective gasp rippled through the press corps. The reporters lowered their cameras for a split second, their faces a mixture of confusion and awe. The woman before them was not the sallow, awkward figure from the few blurry photos that existed of the 'other' Graves daughter.

"It's the sister! The ugly one!" a lone voice shouted from the back, clearly a planted heckler.

Elliot's jaw tightened. He started to move toward the voice, violence radiating off him.

Brooke squeezed his hand. Stop.

She smiled. It was a shy, radiant smile that she had practiced in the mirror for years.

"Please," she said, her voice soft but carrying perfectly over the microphones. "Don't be mean to Brittny. She... she stepped aside."

The reporters went silent, scrambling to recover.

"Stepped aside?" a CNN reporter asked, his professional skepticism warring with the unbelievable story unfolding.

Brooke looked up at Elliot with adoring eyes. "We tried to fight it," she lied. "But... love is a difficult thing to hide."

Elliot looked down at her. He looked stunned. Then, he saw the glint in her eye. The challenge.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

"We couldn't lie to ourselves anymore," Elliot rasped. He played along, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. "Brittny understood. Eventually."

The reporters were scribbling furiously. Scandal. Betrayal. True Love. It was gold.

"But the ring!" a reporter shouted. "Where is the ring?"

Brooke froze. She didn't have a ring.

Elliot didn't miss a beat.

"A ring is too common for her," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brooch.

It was a black diamond, raw and uncut, set in dark titanium. It was jagged, aggressive, and utterly beautiful.

He pinned it to the strap of her dress.

"There," he said. His fingers lingered on her skin, brushing her collarbone.

Brooke felt a strange heat emanating from the stone. A low-frequency hum that vibrated against her chest.

It's active, she realized. It's electronic.

She looked at Elliot. He was smiling, a wolfish grin.

"Seal it," a photographer yelled. "Kiss her!"

Elliot hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then he leaned down.

Brooke went up on her toes.

Their lips met.

It wasn't soft. It was a collision. His lips were rough, tasting of whiskey. He kissed her like he was trying to prove a point, possessive and hard.

Brooke kissed him back, matching his pressure.

The cameras went wild.

Elliot broke the kiss. He looked a little dazed.

"Get in the car," he growled.

He practically threw her into the backseat and slammed the door.

The car sped off, leaving the chaos behind.

Inside, the silence was deafening.

Elliot wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're a good liar," he said.

Brooke touched the black diamond brooch. It was still humming.

"I learned from the best," she said.

The city faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the dense, brooding forests of the north.

The Blackwell estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

Brooke sat in silence, her finger tapping a rhythm on the black diamond brooch.

Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

Elliot, who had been staring out the window, stiffened.

He turned his head slowly.

"Stop fidgeting," he said.

"I'm anxious," Brooke said innocently. She tapped again. A coded sequence. Phase one complete. Infiltration successful. Stand by.

Elliot's eyes narrowed. He knew. He recognized the cadence wasn't random.

"It's an antique," he said, his voice tight. "Don't scratch it."

"It's warm," Brooke noted. "For a rock."

"It's your body heat," Elliot lied.

Brooke looked at her phone. No Service.

"My phone is dead," she said. "Must be the trees."

"Must be," Elliot agreed.

He knew she knew. She knew he knew. The air between them crackled with unsaid accusations.

The car turned off the main road onto a gravel track. The suspension groaned.

"Why do you live in the middle of nowhere?" Brooke asked.

"So no one can hear the screaming," Elliot said.

He watched her face, waiting for the fear.

Brooke didn't blink. "Whose screaming? Yours or theirs?"

Elliot chuckled darkly. "Depends on the night."

The car hit a pothole. Brooke was thrown sideways.

Elliot's arm shot out. He caught her by the waist, steadying her before she hit the door.

His reflexes were inhuman. Too fast.

Brooke looked at his arm. The muscle was rock hard.

"You have good reflexes," she said. "For a drunk."

Elliot released her instantly. "I played varsity lacrosse."

"Lacrosse doesn't teach you to block a body check in a moving vehicle," Brooke said.

"You ask too many questions," Elliot snapped. He pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

The trees cleared.

Blackwell Manor loomed ahead. It was a gothic nightmare of grey stone and turrets, surrounded by a twelve-foot wall topped with razor wire.

Guards with assault rifles patrolled the perimeter.

"Welcome home," Elliot said dryly. "Try not to get shot."

The main hall of Blackwell Manor was cold enough to preserve meat.

Lord Patriarch Blackwell stood by the fireplace. He was a giant of a man, with a white beard and scars that mapped a history of violence across his face.

He was holding a cavalry saber.

He didn't turn around when they entered.

"You're late," he boomed.

"Traffic," Elliot said, loosening his tie. "And a change of inventory."

The Old Lord turned. He saw Brooke.

His eyes narrowed. He lifted the saber, pointing the tip directly at Brooke's throat.

"Who is this?"

"The spare," Elliot said. "Brittny ran."

"Ran?" The Patriarch roared. He slashed the sword through the air. The sound was a terrifying whoosh. "Cowards! The Graves blood is weak!"

He stepped toward Brooke. The sword tip hovered inches from her nose.

"And you? Are you a coward too, girl?"

Brooke looked at the steel. Then she looked at the Old Lord.

"Put it down," she said.

The room went silent. The butler, Alfred, looked like he was about to faint.

"Excuse me?" The Patriarch whispered.

"Military Code, Section 17," Brooke said, her voice clear. "An officer shall not brandish a weapon against a civilian unless under direct threat. Unless you consider a woman in a wedding dress a threat, General."

The Old Lord froze.

Elliot stared at her. How does she know the Code?

The Patriarch lowered the sword slowly. A grin spread across his scarred face.

"Section 17," he chuckled. "I haven't heard anyone quote the Old Code in twenty years."

He walked up to her. He was massive, smelling of old leather and pipe tobacco.

"You're the Frederick girl," he said. "The grandfather... he was a good man. A hard man."

"He was," Brooke said.

The Old Lord suddenly lashed out. His heavy hand swung toward her face.

It was a test.

Brooke didn't think. Her body reacted. She shifted her weight, ducking under the swing and pivoting to his side. It was a basic evasion maneuver, executed perfectly in a ballgown.

She stopped herself before she struck back.

She stood there, breathing steadily.

The Patriarch laughed. A booming, joyous sound.

"Ha! She's got instincts!" He slapped Elliot on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "Marry this one! She won't break!"

He pointed to a table where a thick document lay.

"Sign the contract. Then get to the chapel."

Elliot looked at Brooke. His eyes were calculating, stripping away her layers.

"Who taught you to move like that?" he asked quietly.

"Old soldiers on the borderlands," Brooke said. "You learn fast when you're the only thing on the menu."

She walked to the table and picked up the pen. She signed her name without reading a word.

Brooke Frederick Blackwell.

She looked at the signature. It looked like a death sentence. Or a declaration of war.