The first thing I notice about him are his eyes. They are cold and lifeless, empty black orbs devoid of emotion. That alone is enough to make me want to get the hell out, and that’s besides the fact that the moment he stepped foot in my house, I could feel his presence. I could feel the chill he sends through my bones.

I shake off the shiver that tickles my spine and move closer to the fireplace, which is now barely burning. It provides little warmth, and I wrap my arms around myself.

“Who are you?” I demand as loudly as I can without drawing his suspicion, “and how did you get in here?” I’m almost certain I locked the door when I got home. Is he a neighbor? Does he have a copy of my key somehow? But I didn’t even hear anything. No footsteps, no door slam. So, how…?

Thoughts race like bunnies, and I shove them to the back of my mind.

“You really have no idea who I am, do you?” He asks, coming closer. I swallow down my fear and unwaveringly meet his narrowed gaze, alight in the flicker of the fire.

“So why don’t you tell me?” I say clearly. “I’m sure I’ve never seen you before.”

He smiles, and I notice he’s not hard on the eyes. Smiling, he looks mischievous and almost excited, like I’m a puzzle he just figured out how to solve. “Think again, love. You’ve brushed past me a few too many times.”

I clench my teeth, willing my memories to bring forth an image of this man that I am sure I have never seen before. But the way he’s looking at me… he knows me. I’m certain he does.

“And how do you know me?” I blurt, steeling my body against his gaze. He looks… hungry. The way his lips are slightly parted, the tilt of his head. He takes a step forward, and I step back reflexively, hitting two walls. I’ve backed myself into a corner.

Shit. He’s going to kidnap me and he’s going to rape me and he’s going to kill me.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for something, anything within my reach that can be used as a weapon. There’s nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

My brain almost doesn’t register the fact that he’s moving closer, the fact that his hand is slowly slipping inside his pocket.

I don’t realize what he’s doing until he has a blade to my neck.

“I’ve been watching you, Elise,” he says, grinning. I hold my breath and my tongue. I hold off on kneeing him in the balls and getting the hell out. What else does he know about me?

“At first, that was just my job. Watching you. But then, I saw who you were. Who you really were, on the inside. I saw what you went through when I took your mother from you, and I saw how it changed you. I see your rebellious streak, Elise.”

Holy shit. “How do you know my name? And what do you know about my mother?” I intend to sound strong, and fail. It doesn’t help that there’s a knife pressed against my neck, the cool steel of it amplifying my pulse.

His grip tightens on the handle, tracing shapes in my skin with the tip of the knife. “Your mother? Oh, I know quite a lot about her. I’ve spent some good time with her in these past few years…”

“You bastard,” I croak, my voice rough, “you sick, sick bastard.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Not like that, love. I would never want your mother.” He pauses, and seems to change his train of thought. “I know plenty of things about you, Elise. I know that you get up at five fifty every morning. I know that you like your coffee black, and you prefer lip gloss over lipstick.”

My breath hitches. “How do you know that?”

He smirks. I notice there is a bit of stubble on his clefted chin. “Like I said, I’ve been watching you.

“Maybe a little part of me fell in love with you while I watched you. Studied you. But I think… I think this is even better. Now I’m here with you.” He tosses his head, blonde hair falling cruelly into his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” I whisper, expecting something like, Oh, why I’m here to rape you, of course.

His tongue flicks over his teeth and he leans close, close enough to kiss me, but he just presses his lips to my ear so we’re cheek to cheek.

“I want you to be mine,” he says, and this time it’s his voice that’s rough. Deep, gravelly, and longing. “I want you to be my bride.”

What the hell? I’ve never met this man a day in my life, but he’s “watched” me, knows plenty about me, and now has the nerve to break into my apartment, hold a knife to my throat, and ask for my hand in marriage?

Like hell.

“No,” I say, clear as glass. “I will not marry you. Get off of me before I call the police.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t. The police would be dead before you could even retrieve your phone.” My confusion seems to delight him, and he presses the knife into my neck, hard enough to draw blood.

“I will ask again. Will you be my bride?”

I take a breath. “No,” I repeat.

He does draw blood this time. “Elise Callaway, will you be death’s bride?”

Everything just clicks right into place a second too late. I feel like I’m in a movie or on one of those prank shows.

But the blood dripping down my neck yanks me back to reality.

“Yes,” I say, looking him in his lifeless eyes. “I will be Death’s bride.”

He smiles and pulls back, sheathing his knife. “Your wits were never a match for my blade.”