Chapter 13
13
Fiona
" A re you still feeling okay?" Zara frets.
"All good. You can stop worrying now," I reply. Shortly after the medics arrived, my heart stopped racing and I could breathe again.
They did an EKG and echocardiogram. Both tests were perfect. So they claimed I had a panic attack and asked if I had been under any stress.
It was the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked me.
All day, Zara and Valentina have been exchanging nervous glances, checking my heart status, and fussing over me. It's getting old, adding to the unsettledness of my upcoming nuptials to a stranger.
The makeup artist orders, "Close, please."
I shut my eyelids, and she brushes more shadow on them.
"We just needed a bit more," she mutters, spinning my chair, then chirps, "Perfect!"
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection. My hair is sleek at the front and pulled back in a low, poofy bun. Shimmering gold, brown, and a bit of copper adorn my eyes. Soft pink highlights my cheeks, and my neutral-colored lips have gloss over them.
I praise, "You're talented, Lainey."
"Thank you. You're naturally beautiful, so I only had to enhance your features," she claims.
There's a knock on the door, and I spin in the chair.
Valentina answers it, and a woman with a long, gold, spaghetti-strapped dress, stilettos encrusted in jewels, and a matching-colored eye mask steps inside.
It's the same outfit Zara and Valentina are wearing, but their eye masks are sitting on the table. I asked them what they're for and they said I'll see.
The woman states, "I have the wardrobe."
Valentina steps back. "Please, bring it in."
A woman in the same outfit wheels in a cart. Two garment bags hang on the rack, and a shoebox sits on top.
A third woman carries a black box with a gold bow. She holds it out toward Valentina, declaring, "The king said to make sure only our future queen opens this."
Butterflies take flight in my stomach, confusing me. I don't know why I get them whenever the king sends me anything. I shouldn't when I haven't met him, and this entire situation is bizarre. Yet they always appear and mix with my apprehension.
Valentina takes the box and sets it on the table. "Thank you."
The three women line up in front of me, curtsy, and say, "It is an honor to serve you," in unison.
The same strange feeling that hit me when Vaughn referred to me as queen flares in my belly, fighting with my butterflies. Not knowing what else to do, I awkwardly reply, "Thank you."
They smile, rise, and leave the room.
As soon as the door shuts, I sigh in relief.
Zara unzips the garment bags and takes the lingerie and wedding dress out.
Anxiety builds within me, canceling out my relief.
She exclaims, "Wow! These are stunning!"
Valentina nods, adding, "I can't believe he picked these on his own."
"Why?" I snap, suddenly feeling like I need to defend the king's ability to choose my wedding attire.
She glances at me. "No need to get upset."
"Then explain yourself."
She smirks. "Already speaking like royalty, I see."
I glare at her.
"Calm down. The king doesn't have any fashion sense. I usually have to tell him what coordinates with what," she states.
That's going to end.
I point out, "He didn't need your help picking out anything for the coronation. I guess you've been wrong all these years about his fashion sense."
"No, I haven't. You'll see," she retorts.
Zara interjects, "Stop fighting, you two. We don't have time to waste. Fiona, come get dressed." She shakes the lingerie, adding, "This is a sexy little number. "
The butterflies flitter restlessly, and I take a deep breath, rising off the chair. I close the gap between us, take the delicate piece, and step into it. I pull it to my waist, untie my silk belt, and tug the rest of it up.
Zara slides my robe off my arms. "Let's see." She spins me and wiggles her eyebrows. "Wow."
"He's going to go nuts over you in that," Valentina states.
I toss her a death glare, then stare at my reflection.
Will I want him to like me in this?
What does he look like?
I'm marrying a man, and I don't even know his name.
Panic hits me, and my heart races faster. I take deep breaths.
Zara puts her hand on my arm. "Fiona, are you okay?"
I lift my chin. "Yes. Help me get into my dress, please."
She studies me.
"Dress," I utter.
Valentina carries the dress to us and unfastens it. She gathers the exquisite material and arranges it on the ground in front of me.
I carefully step into it, and she slides it up my legs and over my torso, then I secure it over my arms. She carefully closes the front, secures it, and gushes, "This dress was made for you."
"Hot damn!" Zara exclaims.
I spend a long time assessing myself.
The dove is an incredible statement.
He has fashion sense; he just doesn't know it.
Zara holds out a pair of gold stilettos. "These are keepers too. "
I nod, unable to disagree.
She bends and helps me into them.
Gesturing to the box, Valentina ponders, "I wonder what's in this."
I glance at the black box. The anxious feeling intensifying. I go to the table, carefully tug the gold bow, lift the lid, and freeze, gaping.
A glass box showcases an ornate tiara with interlocking diamond circles. Large drop pearls adorn the gold circlet. It sits on a white satin pillow, and fifteen pendant emeralds gleam around it.
Where did he get this?
"There's a note," Zara says, tearing me out of my thoughts.
My gaze darts to a small black envelope pressed against the box. I pick up the package, take it to the couch, and sit. I reach for the envelope, break the seal, and pull out the note.
My dearest Fiona,
Based on your response, I opted for something older for you, my queen.
The Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia first wore the tiara in 1874. In 1918, Albert Stopford, a British art dealer and friend of the Grand Duchess, smuggled the tiara and 200 other jewels out of Russia and into Britain.
After Vladimir's death, her daughter sold it to Queen Mary in 1921. Queen Elizabeth II inherited it in her coronation year in 1953. She wore it many times, with pearls, emeralds, or neither.
I hope you love it and appreciate all the royalty before you who wore it. Undoubtedly, you will be the most memorable of all the queens.
Sincerely,
The Kin g
Zara asks, "What does it say?"
I slide the note back into the envelope, answering, "It belonged to the Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia. Queen Mary bought it from her daughter, then Queen Elizabeth II owned it."
"You're joking, right?" Zara asks.
I unlatch the glass lid, pick it up, and peer closer at the magnificent piece laced with history. I carefully slide my fingers over the different parts of the metal and pearls, then hold a green emerald next to a pearl.
"That's insane," Valentina comments.
For once, I agree with her, nodding at her comment.
"What are the emeralds for?" Zara prods, sitting next to me.
I pull the pillow out, set the box on the table, and put the tiara on the white satin. I reach for the middle pearl, explaining, "You can wear it with pearls or emeralds," and unfasten the jewel. I put it on the pillow, pick up the emerald, and attach it in the same spot.
Valentina notes, "They don't make jewelry the same anymore."
"You're right," I agree.
She asks, "How are you going to wear it? Pearls or emeralds?"
My gaze moves between the two options. I spend several minutes studying it with all the pearls and emeralds. Then I do a combination, rotating every other one. After a few minutes, I acknowledge, "This isn't helping." I put the pearls back on except for the middle one.
"It's pretty like that," Zara offers.
I hold it out.
"Let's go to the mirror and try it on," she suggests .
I obey, step in front of my reflection, and hold the tiara above my head.
"Let me put it on you," Zara says.
Lainey clears her throat. "May I?"
Surprised, I blurt out, "You've been so quiet, I forgot you were here!"
She smiles and closes the gap between us, repeating, "May I secure it? If you wish to change the jewels, I can do it for you."
Zara steps back. "Good idea. I'll screw up your hair. Besides, what do I know about how to secure a tiara?"
Lainey takes the headpiece, pushes it against my hair, fastens it, and says, "Valentina, grab her veil."
Valentina brings over a long, goldish-cream lace veil. She raves, "It has doves on it!"
Enthusiasm takes over as I study the intricate details, internally praising the king for his good taste.
Lainey takes it, adds it to the bottom of my hair, and grins. She spins me toward the mirror, praising, "Now you look like a queen!"
The flutters in my stomach resume. Never in a million years would I have thought I'd be standing here, in a dress made for royalty, in a tiara queens have worn, about to go through my own coronation—whatever that means.
Valentina pulls a box out of her pocket. "A final gift from the king."
My adrenaline rises. I reach for the black leather box, untie the gold ribbon, and lift the lid, gaping again.
"Holy shit," Zara breathes.
"He definitely has a knack for jewelry," Valentina commends .
A pair of teardrop pearls, similar to the ones on the tiara, encased in gold with tiny emeralds in the same shape dancing around the edges shimmer in the light.
"There's a note on the lid," Zara states, holding the top upside down.
I read it.
The king's personal gift for the Irish queen.
A smile so big erupts on my face, I feel giddy.
"Aw. That's sweet," Zara coos.
My hand shakes. I pick up an earring and loop it through my ear. I put the other one on and then stare at myself.
Lainey interjects, "Did you want to see how the tiara looks with all pearls or all emeralds?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm going to wear it with just one emerald."
Zara concurs. "It does look perfect like that, especially with the earrings."
"Yes," I affirm.
There's a knock on the door, and I turn.
Valentina moves toward it and then opens it.
The woman who brought the wardrobe declares, "It's time."
My excitement turns to panic. My pulse skyrockets and a sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead. I reach for Zara's arm and stare at her.
"Breathe, Fiona," she orders.
I take several deep breaths, calming myself as best as possible.
"Are you okay?" she frets .
There's no backing out. Everyone will die if I do.
I pull it together and lift my chin, squaring my shoulders. "Yes."
"Ready?" Valentina questions.
Not wanting to show her any weakness, I force my legs to move. I hold the sides of my dress, brush past her, and ask the woman, "Where am I going?"
She curtsies, then replies, "Follow me, please." She guides me down a long hallway lit by the flickering flames of the candles in sconces.
With every step I take, my nerves intensify. By the time I get to the door, my insides quiver.
She pushes the heavy wood open, and vibrations from humming hit me. It's loud, unexpected, and seeps into my skin, digging into my bones until my trembling seems a natural part of the moment.
"Zara," the woman says, motioning her forward.
Zara hugs me. "I'll always owe you," she whispers in my ear, then kisses me on the cheek. She offers a remorseful smile, secures her mask over her face, and steps through the door. She disappears.
Valentina offers, "You'll do great," puts on her eye mask, and exits.
The hums turn to masculine oms . A stomping sound follows, then a feminine ah .
The hairs on my arms rise. My anxiety explodes.
The woman nods. "Your turn."
I stare at her.
"It'll be okay," she reassures.
Get it together.
I find my strength, lift my chin, and step inside .
The sounds echo around me.
A man in a tuxedo, wearing a skull mask, steps beside me. He hugs me. "Fiona, you look beautiful."
"Sean!" I blurt out, relieved it's him.
"You okay?" he questions.
This isn't the time to be weak.
"Yes," I reply as calmly as I can.
He retreats, and his eyes meet mine. The mask can't hide his guilt. "Fiona?—"
"Don't," I warn, knowing if he gives me his apologies again, I won't be able to get through this.
He takes a deep breath and nods.
I lace my arm through his, and he leads me through a crowd. It takes a few minutes to realize we're in an arena with no ceiling. It's a cloudless night, and the full moon shines over the audience, competing with the beautiful glow of the candles the women hold. They're all dressed in the same gold dresses. Men are in tuxes with skull masks, holding torches and banging them on the ground.
The chanting and stomping grow louder as I approach the center of the arena. Sean leads me up the stairs toward a well-defined, tall, masked man. Zara's near him, holding roses. Another man in a robe and mask stands behind them.
My stomach flip-flops.
I don't get to see what he looks like?
I glance around the arena, and more panic hits me.
How many thousands of people are here?
Who are they ?
Sean positions me before the man, leans into his ear, and says something. He turns and hugs me, then steps behind him.
The wind chooses that moment to gently blow through, and I freeze.
The intoxicating smell of leather, rosewater, saffron, jasmine, and other notes I can't identify teases my core.
He smells like Kirill.
It's not possible.
The man takes two steps toward me, closing the gap between us. I search his eyes, seeing the same heat and danger I always saw in Kirill.
It can't be him.
What if it is?
Please be him.
He reaches for my hands, and I glance down. One has my father's mark branded into it. The other has a tattoo of tiny pink hearts on top of crossed bones hanging off a black chain.
It's the same hand tattoo as Kirill's.
Happiness fills me, replacing my panic. I gasp, blurting out, "Kirill?"
His chest rises with air. He stands taller, towering over me, squeezing my hands. His Russian accent sounds thicker as he says, "You look more beautiful than I imagined."
A smile erupts on my lips. I blink hard, overwhelmed with all the hours I spent wondering who I was going to marry. I don't know much about this man, but the little I know is enough for this situation. And all the letters he wrote and the time he took to find attire I'd love, flood my memory, intensifying the attraction I've felt for him since the moment we first met.
The audience quiets .
Kirill doesn't break our gaze, rubbing his thumbs over my hands.
My butterflies go into a frenzy.
A man with a German accent roars, "We have waited for this coronation for a long time. The Underworld will once again be complete!"
A deafening applause erupts.
I cringe.
The man holds his hand up, and everything goes quiet again. He declares, "Tonight's coronation will consist of three parts: Commitment, Consummation, and Closure."
The crowd roars.
My panic returns. Consummation? Here?
Kirill closes the gap between us, leans down, and murmurs, "It will be as private as I could get it."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
The man announces, "I am Ulrich, acting magistrate of the Omnipotence, and I am most humbled to conduct this ceremony."
The crowd cheers again.
Ulrich quiets it again and begins, "Your Majesty, do you take this woman, Fiona O'Malley, to be your eternal wife?"
The audience returns to their soft humming.
Kirill meets my eyes. He confidently states, "I do."
My insides quiver, mixing with a growing ache that expands deep in my core.
Ulrich adds, "Do you vow to adore, protect, and rule by her side for eternity?"
Eternity .
My knees wobble.
Kirill rolls his thumbs over my hands again, answering, "During our lifetime and eternity, I pledge to adore, protect, and rule by her side to further The Underworld's agenda. I promise to defend my bride's sacred role as my top priority, forsaking anyone who tries to dethrone her."
Dethrone me?
He roars toward the crowd, "From this day forward, a threat to my bride is a direct declaration of war upon The Underworld, handled only by death." He pins his blues back on mine.
Direct war?
Death?
A strange feeling comes over me. I don't flinch under his stare, realizing there's something amazingly sexy about his declaration to protect me to the end of time.
He'll kill for me.
Maybe I shouldn't feel good about that, but I do. It lights my core so hot I have to press my thighs together.
Ulrich nods.
Kirill releases a hand and holds it out toward Sean. My brother puts a ring in it, and Kirill turns back to me. He slides a wedding band next to the diamond and returns to assessing me.
Tingles run down my spine, vibrating along with the hums.
Ulrich booms, "Do you, Fiona O'Malley, take our king, Kirill Petrov, to be your eternal husband?"
"I—" I freeze.
Petrov ?
I gape at Kirill.
There's no way he's a Petrov.
The look in his eyes tells me I'm wrong.
I glance at my brother.
Guilt flashes in his eyes, and he nods.
Kirill glides his thumbs over my hands again.
My family will kill me if I marry a Petrov.
"Fiona," Zara nudges.
I turn and look at her, my panic building.
"It'll be okay," she offers.
How?
Ulrich questions, "Do you take the king as yours, or do you refuse your role as queen?"
My insides quiver. I can't speak. My entire life, my family has warned me who my enemies are, and the Petrovs are one of them.
Kirill leans into my ear, stating, "I promise you I am not like the family members whose blood runs through my veins. We will figure out the logistics of everything later." He meets my eye.
For some reason, his confident stare makes me believe him.
Ulrich pushes, "Are you choosing to dismiss your vows and refuse your role as queen?"
I release an anxious breath and state, "I do not refuse my role as queen."
"Then do you take Kirill Petrov to be your eternal husband?" Ulrich repeats.
My racing heart makes me dizzy, but I state, "I do. "
Kirill squeezes my hands.
Zara holds out a ring.
I take it and shakily slide it on Kirill's finger.
He grips my hands again.
Ulrich declares, "By the power vested in me by The Underworld and my seat at the table, I pronounce to you, King Kirill and his eternal queen, Fiona!"
The audience cheers so loudly my ears hurt.
Ulrich holds up his arm, and they quiet back to a low hum. He adds, "To the rest of the world, you are now Mr. and Mrs. Kirill Petrov."
Mrs. Kirill Petrov.
Oh my God.
My family will never forgive me.
"Kiss your bride," Ulrich orders.
Kirill's eyes rage with fire.
Electricity surges through my veins.
He tugs me into him and slides his hand over my throat. His scent floods me, intensifying the chaos in my core. He lifts his mask and tosses it on the floor.
Adrenaline pools in my cells. The sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on, whom I've thought about for too many hours to count, stands before me, bonded to me for eternity. His scar glows under the moon, illuminating every bad boy vibe he possesses.
He gently pushes his thumb against my pulse, then slides it up and down, staring at me.
I take short breaths as my gaze drifts to his lips .
He moves his face an inch from mine, his hot breath teasing my mouth. He studies my expression, continuing to caress my neck, to the point I'm reeling with anticipation. Then he finally closes the gap.
Our tongues collide in a long-waited battle, tangling with need and desperate for more until I'm out of breath and my knees give out.
He tightens his hold on me, his erection growing and pushing into my stomach.
I whimper, unable to take my gaze off his blues, sliding my tongue deeper into his mouth.
He retreats first, dragging his mouth to my ear, and murmuring, "Make sure you tap out, my beautiful queen."