Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Immortal Husband

Joseline Goodwin POV:

At 7:50 AM, the morning fog clung to the steps of the Duskfog Harbor Town Hall like a shroud.

I half-expected Cyril Sweeney to be a ghost of my desperate imagination, a mirage conjured by stress and grief. But precisely at 7:58 AM, a sleek, utterly unassuming black SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Cyril stepped out.

He had traded his bespoke overcoat for a rugged navy-blue flight jacket, dark slacks, and heavy boots. On his left ring finger, a heavy antique silver signet ring set with a deep blue lapis stone caught the pale morning sun. Despite the casual mortal attire, his imposing height and lethal grace made him look like a wolf trying to pass as a golden retriever.

"Morning," I said, checking my watch. "Punctual."

"I value efficiency," Cyril replied smoothly, offering a slight nod. "Shall we?"

Inside the clerk's office, the paperwork was laid out. When the clerk asked for identification and proof of employment, Cyril placed his wallet on the counter. I glanced sideways and saw his standard FAA commercial pilot's license.

Cyril Sweeney. First Officer / Cargo Pilot. Polaris Air Cargo, a division of Astra Aeromarine.

"You're a cargo pilot?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as we waited for the clerk to notarize the forms.

"Night routes, mostly," Cyril said, his voice level. "International logistics and private freight. Long hours, erratic schedule, very little time for a social life."

A night-shift cargo pilot. It made total sense. That explained his unnatural pallor, his exhaustion, his icy hands, and why he was so willing to enter an unattached marriage—he was probably in the air five days a week.

"Perfect," I murmured. "That means we won't get in each other's way."

Cyril's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Indeed."

When he took the pen to sign the registry, I noticed his handwriting. It was exquisite—ornate, flowing copperplate script that looked like it belonged on a seventeenth-century treaty rather than a modern marriage license. As he handed the pen back to me, our fingers brushed again. His skin was still startlingly cold.

"Do you have poor circulation?" I asked bluntly, signing Joseline Goodwin-Sweeney without flinching. "Your hands feel like ice packs."

"Occupational hazard," Cyril answered without missing a beat. "High-altitude cockpit drafts and bad heating systems. You get used to it."

The clerk stamped the document with a heavy, satisfying thud.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney. You are legally wed."

I stared at the gold seal on the paper. Just like that, Uncle Arthur's trap was dismantled. I turned to Cyril, extending the document. "I'll make copies for my lawyer. As agreed, you have your freedom, and I have mine. If your family ever demands proof, call me and I'll play the devoted wife."

I turned to leave, but Cyril's long arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. The touch was firm, yet remarkably gentle, applying just enough pressure to stop me without causing pain.

"A moment, Joseline." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key attached to a leather fob, along with a slip of paper. "If you return to your old apartment, your uncle will have investigators watching you within the hour. If they see us living entirely separate lives, they can challenge the validity of this union in probate court on grounds of fraudulent intent."

My mind raced. He was right. Uncle Arthur was vile enough to hire private eyes to prove our marriage was a sham.

"This is the key to my place," Cyril continued, pressing the brass into my palm. "A glass cabin on the edge of the Frost-Fir woods north of town. It's secluded, private, and secure. I have a two-week rotation of night flights starting tonight, so the house is yours. Set up your restoration tools there. It will keep your uncle's dogs off your scent."

I looked down at the key. "You're offering me your house while you're away?"

"I'm offering my wife a defensible position," he said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Take it. Consider it part of the contract."

"Thank you, Cyril," I said sincerely, closing my fingers around the cold metal. "I owe you one."

"No," he whispered, stepping back into the morning mist. "You really don't."

Cyril Sweeney POV:

The moment the black SUV crossed the boundary line of the ancient forest, the illusion of the modern vehicle dissolved.

I drove past the cloaking wards, entering the subterranean driveway of the Astra Sanctorum. Colin Hayes, my chief seneschal, was waiting by the elevator doors, holding a crystal goblet filled with chilled donor blood.

I took the glass and drained it in a single swallow, letting the burning ache in my throat subside. For forty minutes in that tiny clerk's office, standing beside Joseline while her sweet, intoxicating pulse thrummed beneath her delicate porcelain skin, I had endured the agony of a thousand blades.

"My Lord," Colin bowed deeply. "The coven has received the marriage filing. The Elders are in an uproar."

"Let them scream," I wiped a stray drop of crimson from my lip with the back of my hand. "Send an immediate decree to every bloodline in the territory. Joseline Goodwin is now the High Lady of Astra. No vampire is to approach her. No thrall is to speak in her presence. And strip the glass cabin of all relics, blood reserves, and coven sigils before dusk."

"And if she notices the lack of a heartbeat during the day, Sire?"

I looked at the silver ring on my finger, watching the lapis stone absorb the ambient daylight. "She thinks I'm a freezing cargo pilot on night shift. Keep it that way."