Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Seraphina
She hated him. Everything about him. His hypocrisy. His lack of morals. His poor manners. The way he insisted on calling her kirei and wife instead of Your Majesty, as would be polite and proper.
Of course, she very rarely referred to him as Your Highness, but that was beside the point.
Even his current appearance was an affront to her senses, given that he actually looked like a true prince of Drakmor—for once—rather than a grubby warrior fresh off the battlefield.
His dark hair was styled in gentle waves beneath a white gold coronet.
His gray-speckled beard was trimmed. He even had a new eyepatch shimmering in a rich shade of emerald to match his wedding attire: green and silver satin.
The royal colors of Drakmor—of House Hargrave.
The colors complemented his dusky complexion well.
He looked…nice. Were he anyone else, she might have even used the dreaded h-word.
Handsome.
As if aware she was thinking about how much she loathed him at that moment, the Crow tightened his grip on her hand with his strong, callused fingers, clinging to her as if to remind her of his presence. As if she could ever forget he was there.
Or perhaps he was simply responding to something Father Perero was saying.
What was poor Father Perero saying?
She furrowed her brow and tried to concentrate on the drone of the Shepherd’s words, but it was an utterly impossible task.
The ceremony was dragging on. Her thoughts hazed, exhaustion pressing heavily against her temples.
Why had she stayed up all night? Her calves ached from standing so long in her heeled slippers.
Why had she worn heeled slippers? It was just going to make it that much more difficult when she had to crouch down in them to receive her new husband’s kiss and seal their marital vows.
Oh, by the Lord. The kiss. She had almost forgotten about the kiss. The irony was almost too much to bear. To think that the very idea had haunted her merely two nights ago and now—
“Your Majesty?”
Her attention snapped to Father Perero, who stared at her expectantly, his eyebrows knitting together. Oh, no. What had he just said? Her sluggish mind scrambled to recall.
Behind her, somewhere in one of the pews, a man chuckled.
“Do you, Seraphina Marie de la Croix,” the Shepherd patiently repeated himself, “first of your name, Queen of Elmoria, take Aldric Warwick Hargrave, Prince of Drakmor, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” she loudly confirmed, letting her voice echo throughout the cathedral. She even pinned a smile to her lips for good measure, to spite whoever had dared chuckle at her expense.
The Crow’s hands were steady, in direct contrast to her own tired tremble, as he slid the ring that she was supposed to wear until death did them part onto the third finger of her left hand: a delicate, golden band set with diamonds and an enormous emerald of all things.
An emerald, in the color of Drakmor. Not a sapphire for Elmoria. Even Olivia had ensured the glass jewel set on the ring she wore on her right hand—still filled with a single dose of sleeping poison—was blue.
The desire to shoot him a withering look at the subtle snub to her heritage was almost too strong to ignore, but she resigned herself to be the better person and shoved his own band onto his finger: a sturdy gold ring with an emerald framed by twin depictions of the Hargrave griffin.
Because at least she had the forethought and manners to order him a ring in the right color.
Perhaps she could have her stone reset later.
The moment the ring was upon his hand, her new husband twitched away, his warm touch retreating. Clearly, he was just as eager to get this all over with as she was.
My new husband. She slanted the Crow a sidelong look, studying the way he stared straight forward at Father Perero rather than at her. At the way he swallowed visibly. At the way he tapped his fingers against his hip. Impatient.
She was married. She was married to this man. A man who hated her. A man with a mistress. She almost couldn’t believe it.
Like a woman about to take a plunge into a cold lake, Seraphina sucked in a deep breath—steeling her nerves for this final portion of the show they must put on for the sake of the world—just as Father Perero announced to the Crow, “You may now kiss the bride, Your Highness.”
This was it. All they had left was the kiss, the Shepherd’s closing statements, the procession back to the palace for a modest reception, and then they could go back to pretending the other didn’t exist until it was time for the next war council.
Usually, weddings in the Elmorian midlands were extravagant affairs made to last two or three days, but her treasury simply couldn’t afford such unnecessary expenses right now.
For once, she was glad her father had left their coffers depleted.
There was no need to drag this ceremony out any longer than was utterly necessary.
Right, the kiss. She forced herself to meet the Crow’s one-eyed gaze as she leaned toward him, drawing near.
Nearer than she would have liked. Near enough to drink in the subtle whiff of his cologne.
He actually smelled pleasant for once rather than merely like sweat and leather and horse.
The warm scent ensnared her senses, reminding her of something she couldn’t quite place.
Like dark amber and rich earth.
She had thought he would meet her halfway, that he would rise up on tiptoe and kiss her as everyone expected him to do. But he didn’t.
She frowned at him, wondering what his problem was.
As ever when he wasn’t snarling abuse at her, the Crow’s face remained unreadable. Utterly devoid of feeling. Save for his single dark eye that smoldered with some strange emotion before he jerked his gaze away and looked elsewhere, leaving her studying his scarred jaw instead.
“What are you doing?” she hissed into his ear, fighting hard to not wobble atop her heeled slippers as she lingered there, ever-so-slightly crouched to combat the height difference between them.
But he didn’t answer her. He didn’t so much as look her way. He simply lifted his face and brushed a chaste little kiss against her cheek rather than her mouth. His short beard scraped her skin with the motion—an unpleasant rasp that made her long to retreat from their alarmingly close quarters.
Was that…it?
Something bitter churned in her stomach as the realization that her husband did not want to kiss her properly slammed home. But of course, why would he? She was not his woman in the woods.
A fresh spark of anger ignited in her heart.
It just needed to be a quick kiss. Just for the sake of appearances.
All of her court was watching. Waiting. And here he stood, determined to humiliate her before them all.
No doubt King Edmund even had a few spies in the crowd as well, ready to report to their master any hint of trouble.
Well, there would be no hint of trouble to report. This was exactly what Edmund had wanted after all—that she marry his older brother. So far as everyone within the cathedral knew, her alliance with the younger Hargrave remained strong.
For now.
Just until Mysai was safe. Just until her own shores were secured. Just until it was finally time for her to make good on her arrangement with Aldric and back his claim as the King of Drakmor.
And if he wanted that, he would have to do this first.
Tired of crouching, tired of waiting, tired of the feel of hundreds of eyes scalding the side of her face, Seraphina let both of her hands fall to the Crow’s shoulders, bracing herself. He flinched beneath her touch, but it had the desired effect on her new husband.
At least he finally looked at her.
“Kiss me,” she hardly dared to whisper, afraid the crowd might hear her desperation. That they might see. That anyone at all might know that she was having to demand the Drakmori prince do his duty.
And there he stood, merely staring at her, thoughts she had no hope of deciphering swirling within his gaze. And yet still he made no move to press his lips to hers.
She hoped he could see the fury smoldering within her eyes for him and him alone. She hoped he knew deep in his bones that she would pay him back for this humiliation at some point.
The seconds ticked on. Mere heartbeats and nothing more. Yet it felt like an eternity.
“Aldric,” she entreated a second time through clenched teeth. For a single wild moment, she wished she had her bodice dagger back so that she could stab him with it again. “If you do not kiss me right now—”
He moved faster than she would have ever expected. Rising on tiptoe, fingers tangling in the chain of her sun pendant, he tugged her down closer as his mouth crushed to hers. Hot. Demanding. He sought to steal her breath. To turn her thoughts to ash. To make her heart wing from her chest.
He succeeded.
Try as she might to resist, her eyes fluttered closed. The cathedral melted away. Father Perero. The crowd. Everything ceased to exist. Everything save for this moment.
For the taste of fresh mint lingering on her Crow’s lips.
For the warmth of his mouth.
For the strength of his touch.
Her thoughts scrambled to remind herself that she hated this man even as her body longed to melt into his arms. Hate.
Where had her hatred for him gone? She reached for it desperately, trying to wrap it around her heart, to protect herself from the horrifying truth that was beginning to yawn open like a chasm within her soul.
She wanted him to keep kissing her until she had no breath left.
She…wanted the Crow.
Disgust reared its ugly head—disgust at her own person. That she would even consider embarrassing herself further by longing after a man who did not care for her in even the smallest measure. A man who already had another woman. A man who thought her stupid. Who insulted her at every opportunity.
Out of nowhere, a quiet laugh echoed within her mind, as if even her thoughts wished to mock her for her ridiculousness. But in the next moment, her heart froze. Her blood turned to ice.
She knew that laugh. That voice. It was him. The darkness from her vision.
The one destined to destroy all of Avirel.
Tendrils of fear snaked through her, rooting her in place, as a great cold seeped into her heart, her bones, her soul.
“There you are…Seraphina de la Croix…” the voice whispered directly into her mind again—an oily rasp that saw her clinging to Aldric all the more tightly, as if he could possibly save her from her own thoughts.
She didn’t understand.
What was happening?
This was like no vision she had ever received before. She was still in the moment. She could still feel the Crow, if only barely. The heat of his mouth against hers was all that kept her anchored. Grounded.
And yet even that could not keep her muscles from turning to water when that insidious voice whispered again within her thoughts, “You cannot save him, child. He is already mine.”
Nor when it added, oozing with triumph: “And before too long, you will be, too.”