Oliver let out a long, unharmonious sigh of relief knowing how close they’d gotten to total disaster. It just about sent him to his grave. He’d have to update his Will if this was how the marriage was going to go. Make sure he was buried with everything.

  He adjusted himself to be presentable once more, back straight, chest out. His eyes flicked back to his cousin, ensuring his lily-white hide was, in fact, safe.

  The inky darkness never left Sullivan’s eyes, but the mere sight of his bride quieted the veins on his neck, a retreat he neither willed nor noticed. The tightly coiled tension within him slowly eased with every step she took toward him.

  Petal after petal drifted down. Step after step she approached him. He could feel the chill from her rain-soaked threads seeping in like a gentle breeze between the cracks of a door.

  Every eye in the opulent room was entranced by the surreal oddity of her arrival. The esteemed guests nearest the aisle could hear it—the subtle squelch of waterlogged shoes, the heavy drag of soaked silk as her dress’s train pressed her to the floor.

  The moment the bride was halfway down the aisle, as if a spell had been broken, the organ stirred to life once more, stripping the silence of its overpowering hold. The ceremony resumed as if on cue, pretending nothing had ever happened.

  No delay.

  No whispered scandal.

  As if the bride had never been late to her own wedding.

  Aleiya fought against the creeping shivers ghosting over her skin. The chill clawed deep into her bones. Fear had long since stitched to every sinew of her soul. Planted, rooted, and thriving well before she ever stood beside her husband-to-be.

  The rain had rendered the delicate fabric of her gown near-transparent, her pale flesh barely distinguishable from the white silk that clung to it. None would know where fabric ended and skin began. A woman or an ornament.

  As it should be.

  Whatever role she was given, she could play. Once shaped like clay by another' s hands, like clay, she could harden into whatever form they required. Her mother once called it virtue. The priestesses called it duty. She called it survival. And Aleiya would do anything she could to survive.

  She was very good at it in her opinion.

  The bride felt Sullivan’s gaze settle like two lead weights atop her head, pressing down with silent judgment.

  Was he angry?

  Indifferent?

  Seething beneath a mask of composure?

  She dared not look to find out. Even if curiosity gnawed at her, fear kept her gaze firmly planted on the ground.

  Where it belonged.

  She knew where the ceremony was being held.

  A Vampire Lord with eyes of blue fire had come to fetch her. He did not escort her like a gentleman, but a soldier with a tedious assignment. He showed her the way, and she quietly followed behind.

  But passing by the enclosed courtyard, she was compelled to linger in the rain. All she wanted, for just a brief moment, was to drink in the serenity that came with the falling water.

  It was quiet. And whether out of mercy or tolerance, she was given a moment alone. Long enough to listen for the stillness between drops, where the strands of fate sometimes stirred like silken threads in a breeze.

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  She wanted to be submerged in peace, be washed away by the turbulent storm, and be numbed by the chill of the rain.

  Only then could she let go of the ache buried deep in bottomless silence.

  It was beneath a canopy of crackled glass and metal beams, a design so foreign, so new, she’d never seen its like in all her centuries. They mirrored the gray and the storm of the open sky above them. Their shimmering reflections offered no shelter as the frigid rain fell through, unimpeded by a humming, magical resonance.

  The illusion of safety.

  It was beautiful—too brief, too fragile to last.

  Her blissful respite soon shattered as thunder rolled from the heavens to the earth, bathing the drowning courtyard in blinding light.

  Then silence.

  “It is time, Your Highness.” His voice, though quietly measured, cut through the rainfall like a graceful blade. It gave nothing away, and left no room to argue.

  So she followed without question, defiance a long dead dream.

  As they made their way to the venue, the grand hums of the organ echoed through the hallway. Her escort stopped to open the door for her, and his eyes beckoned her forward, not another word needed.

  So she marched toward an unholy matrimony she had no say in. She was grateful she hadn’t missed the wedding entirely. Her presence was enough, she supposed.

  A formality.

  A requirement.

  Her feelings, her will, were all irrelevant. She had been summoned like a relic to complete the ritual. And so she came. She had no idea what this union would demand of her, but what other choice did she have than to comply?

  Nothing.

  Like always.

  Runes etched in ancient stone shimmered faintly, flickering with each step she took. Behind her, the malevolent stares of noble eyes echoed like ghosts in the walls. The venue doors groaned shut, sealing the little bird in her brand-new cage with a sharp, resounding snap.

  Her breath hitched in her throat just as her long march halted. The sudden stop sent petals and raindrops tumbling, clinging to the hem of her sodden dress—as if trying to hold her together. With gentle ease, Sullivan took one of the hands still clutching her bouquet, and she surrendered it without fuss.

  As she stood before her groom, hand in unlovable hand, she was eclipsed by his presence and suffocating duty.

  Another flash. Another click.Another piece of herself she could never reclaim.

  Total isolation.

  She didn’t need to look to know. His judgment—cold and coiled—slithered around her like a starving python, tightening its grip before their eyes could even meet. The abyssal black of his gaze locked with her pupil-less white, swallowing any hope of liberation, even through her sodden veil.

  The sensation sent her gaze fleeing like a frightened animal. The pounding rush of her blood mingled with the low rumble of distant thunder. With it, she allowed the eyes, the murmurs, and the fear to all fade away. Let herself dissolve into the air as the priest’s voice dwindled to a muted hum.

  As her troubles deepened, Sullivan’s slowly waned. Her rain-chilled fingers trembled against the palm of his silk gloved hand. The drops of cold water seeped through white fabric and spread across his blackened skin—gently abating the ache that no healing had ever eased.

  Firm, thick fingers curled around her dainty hand, chasing that merciful, numbing chill. Behind his back, his free hand squeezed until the seams strained, his glove pulled taut as raw need warred with cultivated restraint. He resented that need. Why it haunted him here, of all places, he couldn’t say.

  Even so, he remained dignified and inscrutable, revealing nothing of the thoughts that churned beneath the placid surface. His gaze never left the frail silhouette of his trembling bride. He knew she was terrified of him.

  Rightfully so.

  The subtle flex of his fingers against hers nearly betrayed him—the urge to clutch her frozen skin sent a wave of predatory anticipation through him. That ancient instinct, bred and buried over centuries, stirred now with sharp focus on trembling prey. The priest’s voice blurred to static, little more than background noise beneath the frantic thrum of her heart.

  Once again, that thickly sweet aroma filled his nostrils and coated his tongue. Pure, agonizing bliss that coiled and whispered—to simply take a girl too soft to survive him. His thoughts had no choice but to wrap around the delectable little field mouse, doomed to a snake’s ever-loving embrace.

  And though his hand held hers, she remained distant. Untouchable, yet appetizing.

  The tiny hairs on the back of Aleiya’s neck stood on end.

  Instinctual fear, mingled with frigid flesh, belatedly left her trembling. It wasn’t the rain, the eyes, or the chill that did her in, but her primal intuition. She felt naked, and so very afraid.

  Her pure white dress shimmered and sparkled, wrapped around her in elegant, almost loving layers—all prim and proper, polished to a shine by another’s hands. The waterlogged veil lightly clung to her lips and nose, the damp shroud concealing her fear and smothering whatever defiance that might have remained.

  None of this had been hers to choose. Not her flowers of lilies and asters. Not her dress of silk and lace. And not her groom of darkness and hunger. She swallowed her tears as they threatened to fall, her mother’s snide remarks echoing in her mind.

  “Ugly little creature.”

  “How unsightly it would be if you smiled on such a day.”

  “Everything ruined all because you’ve shown up.”

  ‘She’s right.’

  As her groom loomed over her, she could only imagine his scowl contorting to disgust at the unstately sight of her.

  Her ghostly white dress, clinging to cold, pale skin, seized the crowd’s attention, drawing every eye in a stunned, spellbound hush. Sharp pins painfully twisted her long silver hair into perfectly immaculate braids, fastening freshly cut lilies into place. Her veil, thick with water—wet and heavy—was a welcomed shield. She longed to hide, to run, to quietly fade away.

  "I do." Flat. Inevitable. Absolute.

  Sullivan’s voice plucked her from her mind and placed her back inside the chapel.

  All alone yet surrounded by people.