Chapter 16
ALEXANDER
His bride had looked magnificent coming down the path between the two temples. Her gait was uneven, yes, but she moved with such care and resolve that he hardly noticed. And when he took her hand in his, the gnawing dread that had lived in his chest since his father’s death finally quieted.
This was the woman who would stand beside him. Not just as a bride, but as the cornerstone of House Wulfbane’s restoration.
He gave his vow freely, voice steady as stone. When she echoed it, soft and thick with emotion, it nearly broke him open. He slid the ring onto her finger—limyerite and gold, worn by his mother and grandmother before her. It fit as if it had always been hers.
Alexander felt, almost foolishly, hopeful. Like a boy again, staring at the sky and thinking it might never fall.
When the priest gave a signal for the unveiling, his impatience, too, was like that of a boy. He reached. The silk was heavier than he’d expected. He lifted the embroidered edge—and for the first time, looked upon his wife’s face.
The world vanished.
A large, mottled birthmark bloomed across her left cheek and jaw in a deep red hue, stark against her pale skin. His insides balked.
This couldn’t be.
He remembered the portrait sent from X?en-Sarai. The poised, flawless beauty. Then he remembered: It had shown only her right side. Not a lie, but an omission. A calculated one.
Cold clarity seeped into his veins. They hadn’t told him. Why? Because they assumed he’d be grateful for anyone? Or because they knew his house was too helpless to protest?
He should have asked. He should have insisted on meeting her. Self-reproach crested, sharp and bitter. Beneath it, another question emerged: How must she feel, standing here, being judged by him?
The contradiction twisted his gut. From the direction of the pews, he heard gasps, stifled giggles. Murmurs rustled through the temple. The priest, to his credit, did not falter.
“You may kiss the bride three times to seal the vow. One for luck. Two for love. Three for a long life together.”
Alexander stared at the bride he’d thought he knew. In truth, he didn’t know her at all. The hope that had lifted him curled inward, leaving a hollow ache.
The first kiss—for luck. He bent and brushed her lips. Cool. Brief. A soldier following orders.
The second—for love. The ceremony demanded his mouth meet the marked side of her face. His jaw tensed. Her skin was warm, softer than he’d braced for. He pulled back before the contradiction could settle.
The third—for a long life together. He placed it on her right cheek, steady and deliberate. To the hall, the Wolf of Tremore hadn’t faltered. But the sentiment tasted like ash.
He’d been made a fool. By the Emperor. By his daughter. Perhaps even by his own king. They thought House Wulfbane so diminished he’d accept scraps. That he’d bow his head and take whatever was sent.
Anger churned.
He didn’t realize how tightly he’d gripped her hand until she flinched. He loosened his hold at once. Her fingers were cold. Her face, pale. The mark vivid against her skin like a wound beneath the autumn light.
He turned her toward the aisle and guided her forward. Scattered clapping sounded thin and confused in his ears, drowned out by the roaring silence in his head.
They walked. Or rather, she hobbled beside him—a careful, stilted rhythm he’d attributed to the ambush, to the road, to anything temporary.
But now—
Will she always walk like this?
The question hooked into his gut. His jaw clenched until the muscle jumped.
Something dark and sharp uncoiled behind his ribs—a serrated edge of fury, freshly whetted.
He wanted to spin her around, back her against the nearest stone wall, and strip every hidden truth from her with his bare hands.
He wanted to watch her composure crack. To make her admit it.
But the great hall and the feast awaited—a cavern of candlelight, laughter, and watching eyes. Tonight, the Lord of Blackwood-Veyrde would smile. He would raise his cup. He would play the grateful bridegroom for every vulture perched at his tables.
That cold, coiled thing inside him would wait.
He led his bride beneath the soaring arches of the great hall, where their best tapestries had been hung, flowers arranged in every corner, tables groaning beneath roasted meats and sugared breads. It was a feast worthy of kings.
And he wanted none of it.
He pulled out her chair at the high table. She sat with the stiffness of a blade.
When he took his place beside her, his voice was low and sharp. “You’ll explain, Princess. Nothing but the truth—now.”
She didn’t meet his gaze. Her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles pale.
“I have never spoken anything but the truth, my lord,” she said, her voice strained.
“Your father sent a painting. Our ambassadors delivered it. In it, you were flawless.”
She blinked, visibly startled. “A painting? Of me?”
Alexander’s mouth twisted. “Indeed. Cunningly posed. It showed only the right side of your face. The left remained hidden.”
Her shoulders drooped, as if the fight had left her. She turned her face away.
He didn’t let up. “Why didn’t you mention your birthmark?”
She hesitated. Then, in a voice barely audible, she said, “It is not something I speak of, my lord.”
“And your leg? You let me believe your limp was from the ambush.”
“I said no such thing,” she replied, more firmly now. “When you remarked on my leg, I said it troubled me before. I only meant I’ve lived with the pain for years.”
His jaw ticked. The betrayal wasn’t just in what she’d hidden. It was in how easily she’d let him believe what he wanted—how deftly she’d played into his need for hope.
The music swelled as platters were passed.
Laughter flitted from the lower tables. In the center of it all, he sat beside the bride he’d imagined to be a balm to his House’s disgrace, and realized she’d draw stares for all the wrong reasons.
She’d never dazzle a court into silence.
Never be the vision he had promised himself.
And that, more than the mark itself, burned.
Once, not long ago, he’d imagined a celebration for her. A night of dancing, of joy. Of light.
The thought sickened him.