"He kissed me like a vow, but it tasted like a threat."
By morning, the world had already decided what we were.
The union of two dynasties.
The resurrection of Devereaux.
The taming of the Varezzi heir.
Headlines whispered lies wrapped in gold while the truth lay beneath, something raw and unholy, written in ink and vengeance.
They called it a wedding. It felt more like a transaction dressed in lace.
The gown hung over me like a whisper of surrender….gray, not white. A deliberate absence of purity. Satin that shimmered without warmth. My reflection in the mirror looked like someone halfway between bride and ghost.
The veil stayed untouched. I refused to wear it.
When I stepped outside, the air bit with winter. Black cars lined the cathedral steps, gleaming beneath the soft drizzle. Cameras turned toward me like a firing squad, the sound of shutters snapping through the cold.
A murmur rose through the crowd….praise, envy, speculation. They didn't see a sacrifice. They saw a spectacle.
He was waiting at the top of the stairs.
Nikolai Varezzi.
The man I had just promised my future to, though not my heart. His posture was stillness incarnate, every line of his body carved with precision. The city's noise bent around him, as if even chaos learned to hold its breath in his presence.
He extended his arm. "Elxara."
My fingers brushed the fine fabric of his sleeve, and something electric moved through the contact…not warmth, not affection, just awareness.
Light filtered through stained glass, fractured into colors that bled across the marble. Candles flickered against the scent of roses…hundreds of them, all the same pale shade, stripped of thorns. The symbolism didn't escape me.
Each step toward the altar felt like walking through a dream built by someone who mistook devotion for control.
The priest waited beneath the vaulted dome, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his robe. He didn't meet Nikolai's eyes.
I didn't look at the crowd. Their applause wasn't meant for me…it was for the performance we were staging.
The ceremony began.
Words blurred. The air inside the cathedral felt thick, heavy with unspoken things. Every vow tasted of irony. I could feel his gaze the entire time…steady, unreadable, the kind that stripped away defenses without a word.
When he took my hand, his skin was colder than I expected.
The ring slid onto my finger without resistance. Plain, silver, unyielding. Then I saw it…the one on his hand. Carved with the Varezzi crest. The same crest I'd seen carved into my father's coffin.
A pulse of cold spread through me.
The priest's voice broke through the silence: You may kiss the bride.
He didn't move immediately. For a breathless moment, there was only the space between us…the echo of what we both knew this was.
Then he leaned in.
His lips brushed mine. The contact was brief, deliberate. It wasn't tender. It was a declaration...ownership, warning, and promise all in one quiet act.
Applause erupted like thunder.
Cameras flashed, capturing the illusion of love.
He didn't look at me again until we reached the car.
The ride was silent. The city stretched out around us, rain streaking the windows like veins of glass. I watched the lights smear and blur until the reflection of his face merged with mine. Two ghosts bound in contract.
We drove past the reception hall without stopping. The car turned toward the cliffs, where the sky met the sea in shades of blue.
His estate appeared through the fog…a cold fortress mimicking the looks of home.
Inside, everything gleamed. Gold fixtures, marble floors, oil paintings of ancestors who looked just as merciless as their heir. The silence was oppressive, the kind that listened.
Nikolai unfastened the button of his shirt, one button at a time, slowly revealing his broad chest, his movements precise, deliberate. "Your things will be brought here," he said, backing me.
I traced the seam of my dress, my voice quiet. "So this is home now."
He didn't answer.
My reflection caught in the mirror behind him…gray silk, tired eyes, a stranger wearing my face.
He turned finally, gaze sharp. "Do you regret it?"
"Regret requires choice."
For the first time, something in his composure cracked, a small shift, the flicker of something unguarded. It was gone a moment later.
He crossed the space between us. Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable.
"You're not afraid of me."
"No," I said softly. "I just don't believe fear works twice," I say, trying to avoid staring at his chest.
His eyes darkened, a shadow of memory moving behind them. "He said the same thing once."
"My father?"
Nikolai's jaw clenched. "He believed loyalty could buy forgiveness," he said, flexing his muscles.
I wanted to ask what that meant, but his voice carried a finality that made the air colder.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the same silver ring I'd seen yesterday…the simple one, no crest. He took my hand and replaced the ornate one with this, sliding it onto my finger as if erasing something he couldn't stand to see.
"For appearances," he murmured.
I could feel the faint tremor beneath his calm. It wasn't affection. It was something far more dangerous…like possession tempered by guilt.
Thunder rolled across the horizon.
He looked at me, and the distance between us vanished…not in space, but in the kind of silence that swallowed everything it touched.
"I don't want your loyalty," he said finally.
"Then what do you want?"
His gaze lingered…on my face, my defiance, the thin edge of my control.
He stepped closer, so close I could feel the whisper of his breath against my skin. The scent of smoke and rain surrounded him, intoxicating and sharp.
His voice dropped low, almost reverent, almost cruel.
"You're not my wife, Elxara." His eyes didn't waver. "You're my penance."