The wedding dress hung in Seraphina's room like a ghost made of silk and vengeance.
She stared at it through the mirror as her hands shook around the delicate china teacup. Pure white Italian silk, hand-beaded with pearls that caught the morning light like tears. It was exquisite. It was perfect. It was everything a girl should dream of wearing on her wedding day.
It was also her funeral shroud.
"You look like you're about to be sick," Damien's voice came from the doorway, low and amused.
Seraphina didn't turn around. She could see his reflection behind hers—tall, imposing, wearing a perfectly tailored black morning coat that made him look like he'd stepped out of a Gothic romance novel. His dark hair was slicked back, his pale gray eyes fixed on her with that unnerving intensity that made her feel like prey.
"Maybe because I am," she replied, setting down the teacup before she dropped it. "It's not every day a girl marries the devil."
"Technically, I'm only the devil's heir." His smile was sharp as he moved into the room. "The devil himself was my father. I'm merely carrying on the family tradition."
He stopped behind her chair, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. His touch was warm through the silk of her robe, possessive in a way that made her shiver.
"Having second thoughts?" he asked, his reflection meeting her eyes in the mirror.
"Third and fourth thoughts," Seraphina admitted. "But it's too late now, isn't it?"
"It's never too late. You could run." His fingers traced along her collarbone, a touch that was both gentle and threatening. "Though I should mention that Edmund Ashford's men are positioned at every exit from London. They've been waiting seventeen years for you to surface. If you leave my protection..."
"I die." She leaned back against him, surprising them both. "You've made that abundantly clear."
"Good girl." His lips brushed against her temple, and she felt heat spiral through her chest. "Remember that when you're standing at the altar, promising to love, honor, and obey me."
"I'll promise to love and honor," Seraphina said, turning in her chair to face him. "But I draw the line at obey."
Damien's laugh was dark and rich. "I wouldn't have it any other way, darling. Obedient wives are so terribly boring."
A knock at the door interrupted them. "Come in," Damien called, not moving away from her.
A severe-looking woman in her fifties entered, carrying a jewelry box that looked older than the British Empire. Her gray hair was pulled back in a perfect chignon, her black dress expensive but understated.
"Mrs. Whitmore," Damien said. "Allow me to introduce my bride. Seraphina, this is Mrs. Whitmore, my head of household. She's been with the family for thirty years."
Mrs. Whitmore's pale eyes assessed Seraphina with the thoroughness of a jeweler examining a potentially valuable stone. "Miss Kane," she said finally. "Or should I say, soon-to-be Mrs. Blackwood."
"Just Seraphina is fine."
"Very well." Mrs. Whitmore opened the jewelry box, revealing a necklace that made Seraphina's borrowed academy diamonds look like costume jewelry. "The Blackwood wedding pearls. Every Blackwood bride has worn them for the past two centuries."
The pearls were lustrous and perfect, interspersed with diamonds that caught the light like captured stars. But it was the centerpiece that made Seraphina's breath catch—a blood-red ruby the size of a robin's egg, surrounded by smaller diamonds in an intricate setting.
"It's called the Devil's Heart," Damien said, lifting the necklace from its velvet bed. "Legend has it that the first Damien Blackwood bought it with the soul of his enemies."
"Cheerful family history," Seraphina murmured as he fastened it around her throat. The ruby settled just above her heart, warm against her skin.
"We've never been known for our cheerfulness." His fingers lingered at her nape, and she suppressed another shiver. "But we're very good at protecting what's ours."
Mrs. Whitmore cleared her throat delicately. "The guests are beginning to arrive, sir. Lord and Lady Pemberton, the Duke of Wessex, the Thornton family..."
"And the Ashfords?" Damien asked, his voice casual.
"Lord Edmund arrived twenty minutes ago with his daughter Isabel. They're in the Rose Garden, as requested."
Seraphina's stomach clenched. In a few hours, she would be face-to-face with her father's killer. The man who had destroyed her family and stolen her childhood was going to watch her get married.
"Perfect." Damien's smile was all teeth and shadows. "Mrs. Whitmore, please ensure they're seated in the front row. I want them to have the best view possible."
After Mrs. Whitmore left, Seraphina stood and moved to the window. The gardens below were a flurry of activity—servants arranging flowers, setting up chairs, preparing for what the society papers would undoubtedly call the wedding of the century.
"Why them?" she asked suddenly. "Why invite the people who want me dead to our wedding?"
Damien joined her at the window, his reflection ghostlike in the glass. "Because, darling, this isn't just a wedding. It's a declaration of war. And in war, you want your enemies close enough to see the blade coming."
"You're using me as bait again."
"I'm using us as bait." His arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "The difference is, this time you know it. And this time, you have claws of your own."
Something in his voice made her turn to study his face. "What aren't you telling me?"
Damien was quiet for a long moment, his gray eyes distant. "My father's murder," he said finally. "I know who killed him."
Seraphina's breath caught. "Edmund?"
"Edmund gave the order. But the man who actually pulled the trigger..." Damien's jaw tightened. "Is going to be serving as Edmund's bodyguard today."
The pieces clicked into place. "You're going to kill him. At our wedding."
"I'm going to give him a choice. Confess his crimes publicly, or die slowly." Damien's smile was arctic. "Either way, justice will be served."
"And what about me? What happens when the shooting starts?"
"You stay close to me. You trust me. And you remember that every person in that garden who's ever hurt you or threatened you is about to learn what it means to cross the Blackwoods."
Before Seraphina could respond, another knock interrupted them. This time it was a young maid, her face flushed with excitement and terror.
"Mr. Blackwood, sir," she stammered. "There's been... an incident. In the gardens."
Damien's expression didn't change, but Seraphina felt his body tense against hers. "What kind of incident?"
"One of the guests, sir. Miss Isabel Ashford. She's been asking questions. About the bride. About the Kane family murders. The other guests are... unsettled."
"Are they now?" Damien's voice was silk over steel. "How interesting. Please tell Miss Ashford that I'd like to speak with her privately before the ceremony. In my study."
The maid bobbed a curtsy and fled. Damien turned back to Seraphina, his eyes intense.
"It seems your new sister-in-law-to-be is making trouble already," he said.
"Isabel Ashford isn't my anything," Seraphina replied sharply. "She's the daughter of the man who killed my father."
"And after today, she'll be nothing at all." Damien cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing across her cheekbones. "Are you ready for this? Ready to watch everything burn?"
Seraphina stared into those pale gray eyes and saw her own reflection—a woman in white pearls and a blood-red ruby, standing in the arms of the most dangerous man in London. She looked like a bride. She looked like a weapon.
She looked like herself for the first time in seventeen years.
"I've been ready my whole life," she said.
Damien's smile was proud and predatory and something else—something that looked almost like love. "That's my girl," he murmured, and claimed her mouth in a kiss that tasted like promises and threats and the sweet poison of revenge.
When he pulled away, they were both breathing hard.
"One hour," he said against her lips. "One hour, and you'll be Mrs. Blackwood. And everyone who ever hurt you will learn what that means."
"And what does it mean?" Seraphina asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"It means," Damien said, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised goosebumps along her arms, "that you belong to the most possessive, protective, dangerously obsessed man in London. It means that your enemies are now my enemies, and I have a very creative imagination when it comes to destroying the people who threaten what's mine."
He stepped back, straightening his cufflinks with practiced ease. "It means, darling wife, that your real life is about to begin."
After he left, Seraphina stood alone in her room, staring at her reflection. The Devil's Heart ruby pulsed against her throat like a second heartbeat, and for a moment, she could swear she felt the weight of every Blackwood bride who had worn it before her.
Women who had married for power, for protection, for revenge. Women who had learned that sometimes the monsters were the ones who kept you safe from other monsters.
Women who had discovered that the devil you marry might just be the angel you didn't know you needed.
Outside, she could hear the murmur of voices, the soft strains of classical music, the rustle of expensive fabric as three hundred of London's elite prepared to witness her transformation from victim to victor.
In one hour, she would walk down an aisle lined with enemies and allies, toward a man who had been pulling strings in her life since before she could walk. She would promise to love, honor, and stand beside him as he destroyed everyone who had ever threatened her.
And for the first time since her father's death, Seraphina Kane was exactly where she wanted to be.
"Let the games begin," she whispered to her reflection, and began getting ready to marry the devil.