The crimson gown, heavy with embroidered silver thread, felt like a shroud. Elara, now Lyria, watched her reflection in the polished silver of a hand mirror. Her eyes, wide and unnervingly bright against the stark white of her skin, held a flicker of something she couldn't quite name. Fear? Resignation? The silver crown, cool against her scalp, felt like a branding iron. The grand hall hummed with hushed anticipation, a thousand eyes waiting.
Kael Thorne stood at the altar, a statue carved from ice. His sapphire eyes, usually sharp and calculating, held a distant, almost vacant quality. As Elara's gaze met his, a shiver traced its way down her spine. The ceremony blurred, a meaningless recitation of vows she didn't believe, words that felt hollow even as they left her lips. When the moment came for the kiss, Kael leaned in, his breath a cool whisper against her ear.
"You belong to the kingdom now," his voice, a low rumble, barely reached her. "Not to me."
He pulled back, his lips never touching hers, leaving a void where a kiss should have been. The crowd murmured, a ripple of confusion spreading through the opulent hall. Kael's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He raised a hand, silencing the whispers.
The banquet was a blur of forced smiles and clinking glasses. Kael, seated at the head table, raised his goblet.
"To duty," he announced, his voice ringing through the hall, "and to sacrifice." He didn't look at Elara, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles, a king addressing his subjects. He lowered his goblet, taking a long, slow sip.
Elara picked at the rich food on her plate, the flavors bland on her tongue. The conversation around her ebbed and flowed, but she heard none of it. She was a silent observer, a ghost at her own wedding feast.
Later, in the vast, opulent bedchamber, the silence was deafening. The heavy velvet curtains, drawn against the night, cloaked the room in a deep, suffocating darkness. Kael stood by the window, his back to her, a rigid silhouette against the faint glow of the city lights.
"It's over with Seraphina," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Effective immediately."
Elara's breath hitched. She clutched the silk of her nightgown, her knuckles white.
"I will be faithful," he continued, turning to face her, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Not out of desire, but out of obligation to the crown. The kingdom requires an heir."
He took a step towards her, then another, his presence filling the room, pushing the air from her lungs. Elara instinctively recoiled, a sudden, unfamiliar fear gripping her. She had never… she had never written this part. Her stories, her fantasies, had always ended with the kiss, the declaration of love. This stark reality, this cold, clinical approach to intimacy, was foreign, terrifying.
"Kael," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I… I'm not ready."
He stopped before her, his shadow engulfing her. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, a touch devoid of warmth.
"Ready or not," he murmured, his voice a low growl, "duty calls."
His grip tightened on her jaw, tilting her head back. His eyes, now closer, held a glint she couldn't decipher. Fear? Determination? He leaned in, his lips pressing down on hers, not a kiss of passion, but a forceful claim. Her mouth, dry and stiff, resisted for a moment before yielding to the pressure. His tongue, a hot, invasive presence, pushed past her lips, exploring, demanding. A whimper escaped her throat, lost in the suffocating embrace.
He pulled back, his eyes still locked on hers, a silent challenge. His hand moved from her jaw, trailing down her neck, pushing the silk of her nightgown from her shoulder. The fabric slid down, pooling at her feet. The cool air of the room kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. She shivered.
"No," she pleaded, her voice cracking, her eyes wide with unshed tears.
He ignored her, his gaze sweeping over her body, a possessive glint in his eyes. He lifted her, effortlessly, carrying her to the large, four-poster bed. The soft mattress swallowed her as he laid her down. He climbed over her, his weight pressing her into the silken sheets. The scent of him, clean and musky, filled her nostrils, overwhelming her senses.
His lips found her neck, then trailed lower, his breath hot against her skin. His hand moved between her legs, pushing the thin fabric of her panties aside. Her body tensed, her muscles locking up. A sharp, unfamiliar pain shot through her as his fingers probed, cold and unyielding. She gasped, her head thrashing against the pillow.
"Relax," he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin. "It will be over soon."
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She closed them, squeezing them shut, willing herself to disappear. His fingers pressed harder, finding her entrance, stretching her. A searing pain ripped through her as he pushed, a sudden, brutal invasion. She cried out, a choked sob escaping her lips. He ignored her pain, his movements slow, deliberate, a rhythmic thrusting that tore at her. The bedsprings creaked under their combined weight, a mournful song in the silent room.
She felt a dampness between her legs, a sticky warmth spreading across her inner thighs. Her body, unaccustomed to such intrusion, resisted, clenched, but he pushed through, relentless. Each thrust brought a fresh wave of pain, a burning sensation that made her clench her teeth, biting back a scream. Her hands, balled into fists, pounded weakly against his shoulders, a futile protest.
He grunted, a low, guttural sound, his body tensing above hers. A final, deep thrust, and he stilled, his breath ragged against her ear. He pulled out, a wet, squelching sound filling the silence. He rolled off her, turning his back, his body a solid wall of indifference.
Elara lay there, tears silently streaming down her temples, soaking the silk pillow. Her body ached, a dull, throbbing pain between her legs. She felt violated, used, a vessel for a kingdom's desire. The crimson gown, the silver crown, the lavish ceremony – all of it a cruel mockery. She was queen in name, but not in heart, not in body, not in soul. She was a pawn, a sacrifice, stripped bare and discarded. The night stretched before her, an endless void of emptiness and despair.