Holy shit—
The curse is already on the tip of my tongue, ready to fly out, but I somehow manage to swallow it back. Instead, I force out a smile. It's a miracle in itself that my knees haven't buckled because, darn, my future husband's true form is, let's say, imposing.
Yeah, imposing sounds about right.
He's standing in profile, his head turned toward me. Putting aside the six pairs of jet-black wings and the massive horns crowning his head, he's mostly humanoid in appearance. A few inches taller than average and well-built, with the suit enhancing his broad shoulders and long legs, but nothing too out of the ordinary.
Again, that's if I don't take into account the third eye sitting vertically in the middle of his forehead, the golden iris hovering in the black of what's usually the white of the eyeball.
Not gonna lie, that's creepy as hell.
And that's not all yet. His sharp eyes, which are at least located where they should be, like the rest of his facial features, are as striking, mimicking the third one in colors. Excluding the eyes, the only other noticeable difference I see is his pointy ears. For the rest, it's oddly similar to a human body. There's no third arm or deformed limbs.
Objectively speaking, the man's not ugly—no, even I, with my non-existent sense of esthetic, can tell he's handsome. He's also human-like enough not to make me want to pluck my eyeballs whenever I have to look at him, something I'll need to do quite a bit in the future as his spouse. I can't help but heave a discreet sigh of relief. Let's say he's much better looking than the glob of worms seated behind us.
Then, subjectively speaking, I'm fucked.
I've got this irresistible desire to burst out laughing. Not because the situation is funny, but because it's ridiculous.
Ludicrous, even.
Seriously, what the hell is a patriarch doing here, standing beside the altar?! It seems as improbable as me walking down the aisle in my underwear and in high heels—well, I've done just that, but still! It's already troubling enough to see rows of demons sitting in a church, never mind a goddamn patriarch.
And he's the groom!
The groom! Meaning, my future husband!
Ah, shit. You gotta be kidding—
But no matter how unbelievable this is, I know I'm not mistaken. The number of wings and horns, as well as the color of his eyes, are clear indicators of his standing in the demon society. Wings take time to develop fully, centuries or so for one single pair. And he has six! Six!
They're all grown-up, too!
Let me say it again: I don't have an age-gap fetish! Even if, earlier, I've somehow managed to make peace with the idea of marrying someone older, as my chosen partner is a demon and most of them are old coots, what I've been expecting is a few decades difference in our age, a century at most. Not centuries, with a s.
…Whatever. I haven't seen the wings, I know nothing, and everything's fine.
I mean, no one else seems to know. The lesser demons are too poised, whereas Miria has been relatively calm on our way to the church, and even now, despite seething in anger. There's no way she would be if she knew who, or more like, what my soon-to-be husband is.
Most likely, no one has been made aware. The demon clan has sent someone, and that's it. No one's thought of asking about the groom's lineage or standing. If he has only given the name he goes by as a human, there's no way to know what his real name is, too.
It says a lot about how much of a farce this is.
Damn it, maybe I shouldn't have walked down the aisle in my underwear after all; my prospective spouse isn't the lesser demon I've been expecting. It changes things quite a bit.
But it's too late for regrets. I've already walked up to the altar.
The de facto priest, who I've seen working as a part-time exorcist, glances back and forth between me and the demon. He seems unsure. Well, it's too late for regrets for you, too, pal.
The standstill lasts until my soon-to-be husband opens his mouth. His voice is calm, steady, yet dignified, sending shivers down my spine. Despite the gentle, polite tone, he can't hide the authoritative inflection. He's clearly used to barking orders.
"Since my groom has arrived, shouldn't we proceed? Or is there a particular reason why you haven't started the ceremony yet?"
"N-no, of course not." The priest takes a deep breath and offers a weak smile. "Let's begin with the wedding ceremony."
I can't help but peer at the demon with a cocked eyebrow, and he responds with a well-measured smile. I guess when you're as old as him, you've seen it all, and you need more than a random dude walking down the aisle half-naked to faze you. Respect, man.
Anyway, I notice his gaze wandering down to my waist, albeit only briefly. Even he can't pretend not to have seen the glaring web-like burn mark flanking the left side of my waist, down to my hip. Considering how big the scar is, it's impossible to miss. But at least, he doesn't stare and doesn't comment on it, quickly focusing his attention back onto the blabbering priest.
I don't, though.
Honestly, I can't bring myself to listen to whatever speeches he has in store for us: I don't care if this is a beautiful night to unite our two factions through marriage. It is not in my book. It makes me sick. This whole farce is making me sick, in fact.
A throat being cleared brings me back down to earth, and I throw a questioning glare at the priest. What now?
His eyebrows twitch in annoyance, and I think I've heard the demon stifle a laugh beside me. I can't be sure, though, as the priest's raspy voice resounds once more.
"Scott Banker." Yes, that's me. "Your vows, please. Or do you need me to repeat?"
Oh, right. I'm supposed to say something here. Not exactly sure what, since I've been letting my mind wander on other stuff, but I'll do my best. I've seen one or two marriage scenes in movies, so it shouldn't be hard.
"No, it's fine."
In any case, I remember the gist of the classic marital vows—I think.
"I, Scott Banker, take you, uh…"
I pause.
"What's your name again?"
This time, the demon can't muffle a chuckle, and I hear it crystal clear, just as I can hear the shocked gasps from the humans seated on the benches behind me. I can feel their burning glares on my back. Well, sorry, my stepmother has forgotten to tell me the name of the demon I'm to marry, so what can I do?
Alright, granted, I could have listened to the priest's tirade, but y'know? I'm not exactly in the mood to be compliant today.
"Jordan. Jordan Lukewarm."
"Thanks." I cough, for good measure. "Let me try again."
Looking at the priest's face, he seems about to suffer from a stroke. Fine, fine. I'll do it properly this time. Whether it's sincere or not, only God knows.
That's what I'd love to say, but I'm pretty sure everyone knows it's not.
"I, Scott Banker, take you, Jordan Lukewarm, to be my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish always."
Happy now?
Well, it looks like that's a no. Our dear officiant doesn't smile and snaps his head toward Jordan instead. Hawn, so cold. But the demon doesn't need the priest's directive and proceeds right away, cutting him short.
"I, Jordan Lukewarm, take you, Scott Banker, to be my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish always."
Alright, the farce's almost over.
Only the exchange of rings and the kiss are left.
Oh, right, the kiss.
Fuck, I've forgotten about that.
…
More importantly, my toes hurt. My legs and lower back, too. Frigging high heels.