The morning of my wedding did not begin with flowers. It began with the cold, sterile touch of three silent women who entered my room at dawn.
They moved like shadows, their faces devoid of emotion, as they scrubbed the grime of the cellar from my skin with scented oils that smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. I sat motionless on a velvet stool, my mind a fractured mirror. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard my father’s voice—She’ll play her part. I had been raised to be a weapon for the Monet Syndicate, but I realized now I was never the hand holding the blade. I was merely the steel being traded to the highest bidder.
“Stand,” one of the women commanded.
I stood. They draped me in a gown of heavy, cream-colored silk. It was a masterpiece of design, high-collared and long-sleeved, dripping in seed pearls that felt like tiny hailstones against my skin. As the corset was laced tight, I felt the air leave my lungs.
This wasn’t a wedding dress; it was a shroud.
I was led down the winding marble staircases of the Roux estate. The house was unnervingly quiet. No guests, no music—only the rhythmic thud of my own heart and the heavy footsteps of the guards following behind me.
We reached the private chapel at the edge of the cliffs. The doors swung open to reveal Girard Roux standing at the altar.
If he had looked like a predator in the cellar, he looked like a god of death now. He wore a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the light. As I walked down the aisle, I felt that strange, magnetic heat again. It radiated from him in waves, an invisible force that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
When I reached him, Girard took my hand. His skin was fever-hot, his grip possessive. He didn’t look at the priest; he looked only at me.
“You look exquisite, Arielle,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration. “A pity you look as though you’re walking to the gallows.”
“Isn’t that what this is?” I hissed back.
“For you, perhaps,” he murmured, leaning closer.
“For me, it is the acquisition of the only thing Marcel Monet ever owned that was worth taking.”
The ceremony was a blur of Latin vows and heavy incense. When it came time for the rings, Girard didn’t produce a standard gold band. He held a ring of blackened silver, engraved with ancient, swirling runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner light.
As he slid it onto my finger, the metal bit into my skin—a sharp sting that made me gasp. For a fleeting second, I saw a flash of something in his eyes. Recognition. Hunger.
“With this, you are mine,” Girard declared, his voice booming in the small chapel. “Body, blood, and soul.”
He didn’t wait for the priest to finish. He pulled me into him, his hand reaching around to the nape of my neck, tilting my head back with a raw dominance that left me breathless.
When his lips met mine, it wasn’t a kiss of affection; it was a claim. He tasted of dark chocolate and smoke. In that moment of contact, I felt a strange sensation—a low, subsonic hum that vibrated from his chest into mine.
It felt like a growl. For a split second, I felt as if I were staring into the eyes of a great beast.
He pulled away, his eyes flashing a brilliant, molten gold before fading back to amber. “Welcome home, Mrs. Roux. Try not to scream when you see the cage I’ve built for you.”
