Chapter 17
Valentina
Two Days Later
Zara circles me with a concentration that borders on predatory artistry, her fingers adjusting the final fold of the obsidian bodice.
Fiona stands behind me, anchoring a veil so it drapes down my back.
Both women move around me with decisive precision, almost ceremonial, as though the three of us stepped into a different realm the moment they closed the dressing room doors.
It's freaking me out.
"Hold still," Zara murmurs, lowering to smooth one of the skirts' fiery layers. "If you shift again, it's going to fall wrong in the back."
"I'm not shifting," I counter, even though my hands have betrayed me at least a dozen times, drifting up, then down, then hovering uselessly at my ribs. Each breath coils tighter inside me, and the room gradually shrinks, pressing against my temples.
"You're vibrating," Fiona says lightly, though her words land with more weight than she probably intends.
I attempt humor but miss the mark. "This ritual isn't exactly tea and gossip."
She gives me a sympathetic glance in the mirror. Then she smiles wider. "If anyone can do it, you can."
Zara stands, dusts off her palms, then angles my shoulders so I face myself head-on. "Exactly. Now look. Eat your heart out, Brax O'Malley."
My butterflies have a field day in my gut.
The gown dominates every inch of the reflection.
It clings to me as though it were poured onto my torso.
The bodice is a sleek slab of obsidian, sculpted to my torso with an unforgiving grip.
From the waist down, the skirt erupts into a molten cascade.
Charcoal melts into deep ember red, blazing gold, then violent orange.
The colors merge and clash with breathtaking drama, each fold shifting with the slightest movement, as though alive.
The train behind me ripples across the floor, a fiery tide stretching outward like a living reminder that I'm walking into a ritual that will change everything.
Fiona takes my shoulders and turns me. "Look at the veil!"
It's a black sheet of sheer darkness, edged with painted flames that curl upward as if trying to lick the back of my neck.
"An elemental bride," Zara murmurs, watching me through the mirror.
"Brax is going to flip," Fiona comments.
My pulse picks up. I try to draw a slow breath. The attempt only intensifies the flutters in my stomach that surge up my throat. Panic hits, and I blurt out, "I don't think I can do this."
Fiona presses her hands around my wrists, grounding me. "You're allowed to be anxious, but you're not going to crumble. You're Finzia Valentina Abruzzo. I have witnessed you command the arena, be cut-throat in negotiations, and win in situations far more hostile than a cleansing ritual."
I mutter, "That is debatable."
Zara laughs under her breath. "It's not. You're a badass and you need to remember that."
My pulse kicks faster with each passing second.
The air thickens as if warning me that once I walk out of this room, the Underworld will swallow me whole.
The cleansing ritual has always been an imposing, half-mythical tradition from a distance.
Standing on its threshold makes it something else entirely.
It's more binding, permanent, and intimate than any vow I ever declared.
A brisk knock breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Fiona opens the door an inch, listens, then turns to me with a small nod. "It's time."
A cold prickle crawls up my spine. I close my eyes and take deep breaths.
Pull it together!
Zara takes my hands and squeezes them. "You're ready."
"You are! And soon you'll have your seat on the Royal Council," Fiona reminds me.
I slowly open my eyes. No part of me shares her confidence, yet the two of them flank me without hesitation, guiding me toward the hall.
The guards posted outside dip their heads as if the dress alone demands reverence.
The low hum of chanting bleeds through the stone walls.
It vibrates through the air, the cadence steady and deep, almost ancient.
The closer we get to the arena doors, the louder it becomes, expanding until the floor beneath my shoes thrums with the rhythm.
My breath grows shallow. I stop just before the entrance.
"Just…give me a second." I brace my palm against the cold stone, my gaze fixed on the thick wooden doors ahead of me.
The chanting rises and falls in waves as raw, primal, and relentless as ever.
It surges through my bones, rearranging the atmosphere around me until the corridor seems to pulse along with the crowd.
Fiona touches my elbow. "The longer you wait, the higher your nerves will spike. Walk in before your head starts inventing reasons not to."
She's right.
I swallow once, set my shoulders, and force myself forward.
A guard opens the doors, and a roar slams into me from thousands of voices chanting in unison, echoing into the moonlight.
Women wear long white formal dresses and eye masks.
Men are in tuxes and skull masks. Torches line every row, flickering enough to cast an eerie glow around the thousands of white lotuses, neatly placed in a huge circle.
The heat mixes with the rhythmic shouting, gripping the edges of my lungs and tightening them.
People aren't simply watching. They're participating, feeding some invisible current that pulses through the air. It should be no different than any ritual or ceremony the Underworld conducts in the arena, but this time, everything feels exponentially extreme.
Zara and Fiona hug me one last time, then the chanting switches to low hums.
I pull away and walk through the crowd. A lifetime passes before I see Brax.
He stands near the edge of the ritual circle, a black tux framing the hard angles of his body with sinfully precise lines. The suit clings to his broad shoulders and powerful stance.
He's the only one not chanting. He's completely still, except for the slight rise of his chest and the dark, unblinking stare locked on me.
My pulse slams into my ribs. My insides shiver with anxiety.
His gaze drags over me, and the closer I get, the more I realize it's approval.
Everything is going to be fine, I tell myself.
I just have to get through this.
Heat rolls across my skin under the obsidian bodice.
He studies me with an intensity that coils through my stomach. It's a wordless promise threaded through his expression. A comfort that whatever this ritual demands, he intends to take control of the situation the moment it arises.
My steps carry me forward even as my heartbeat spikes. The skirt fans behind me in a fiery trail.
Brax tracks my movement, his jaw tightening, his mouth curving with a hunger that sends a sharp current between my ribs.
When I reach the steps leading to him, he takes a single step forward, and the air shifts.
The arena, the chanting, and the torches all blur around the edges.
His voice cuts through the noise, low and rough in a way that should be illegal. "Good to see you, Minx." His lips curl.
A shiver snakes down my spine. My anxiety dies a little.
His eyes sweep over me again, slower this time, taking in the dress, the veil, the fire curling along my hem.
My chest tightens with a rush that has nothing to do with nerves.
Brax offers his hand. The simple gesture shouldn't have the power to steady me, yet something beneath his composed expression anchors the scattered pieces rattling inside my rib cage.
A man in a skull mask steps forward from the shadows of the platform. His crimson robe sweeps along the ground, the gold embroidery catching in the firelight until he looks carved from the same flames swirling along my dress.
A woman wearing the same white dress as the women in the crowd, matching eye mask, and blonde hair moves beside him. Her expression shifts from regal calm to something suspiciously tender when her eyes meet mine. Her subtle nod encourages me forward.
"Stand before us." Kirill's Russian accent slices through the arena with an authority that reverberates from the lowest rows to the highest balcony.
Relief hits me.
Thank God the Omni let him lead the ritual.
It also gives me comfort knowing it's Fiona next to him behind the mask.
Brax's fingers tighten around mine as he guides us past the white lotuses and into the ritual circle. The torches surrounding it flare brighter, and the crowd's hum intensifies, becoming a living current pressing at our backs.
We stop at the center.
Kirill faces us, his posture straight, while Fiona takes her place slightly behind him, hands folded with a serene confidence.
Kirill begins, "Tonight, two alliances bind into one. Two bloodlines merge under oath. Let the vows be spoken so the Underworld may witness."
A knight steps forward. He bends and lights the edge of the lotuses. A ring of fire bursts around them.
Kirill holds up his hand for silence. Once it's quiet, he gestures to me. "Do you enter this marriage freely?"
"Y-yes," I say, then clear my throat.
Brax squeezes my hands.
I glance at him.
He gives me an arrogant look.
I try not to laugh, and more anxiety flies out of me.
His attention doesn't drift. Not once. He watches me like the arena doesn't exist, and it's only us and the vows we're about to state.
I inhale slowly, lifting my chin.
Kirill inquires, "What brings this marriage to the Underworld?"
Silence fills the arena.
I whisper, "You have to answer."
Brax grunts and looks at Kirill. "Love." He pins his gaze back on me.
The king orders, "If love brought you here, then speak your vows for all to hear."
Brax rubs his thumb over my hand and grins. Then he wiggles his eyebrows.
I can do this.