Chapter 64 Make Me Yours
Make Me Yours
Lucian
L
ilac is at my side as the seamstresses dress me in my wedding suit.
It’s the most elaborate I’ve worn yet. The royal blue cape drapes down to my feet, with pure silver threaded along the seams. Shoulder pads elevate the cape, making me appear larger.
The outfit beneath is black and silver, and they drape a plethora of jewels around my neck, the pendants resting on my chest.
I think of Desdemona and the seamstresses who must be dressing her at this moment. I wonder if her hands are steady or if they are shaking, if she hates the fabric the way I hate mine. Her last words to me were ones of despair. She does not want to do this.
The crown was never something I wished for. Though, unlike Desdemona, I feel that having her at my side will make this bearable.
I run a hand across the metal at my chest, and Lilac meets my gaze in the mirror ahead.
“Marriage,” she whispers, her voice breathy and uncertain, as though she isn’t sure what to say but wants to start a conversation nonetheless.
“The youngest in our generation,” I say with a smile. “If our grandparents were alive, I’m certain they’d call me a trollop.”
Lilac cracks a soft smile back, though I see past it.
“How are you, Li?”
She shakes her head, clasping her hands tightly at her sides. “I never wanted this for you,” she says, her voice nasally. Tears slide down her cheeks.
“You never wanted it for yourself, either.”
We haven’t yet spoken about her murders at the academy. I hesitate to guess how many people she killed.
Lilac continues crying, this time audibly. I turn toward her, grabbing her tightly clenched hands.
“Li, it was bound to end this way,” I say. “I’m grateful it’s only one of us. You can be grateful, too. You don’t have to feel guilty.”
“But… you’re doing it for me.”
I pull her into a hug, resting a hand on the back of her head.
I’m unsure what to say next. I could bring up the murders, but it doesn’t feel like the right time.
Someday I’ll have to. And yet, what could I possibly do about them?
Perhaps Azaire was right. I am selfish. Maybe the mask I wear is one of selflessness.
I’m not only taking the throne for Lilac, but to end the Arcanes, as I’ve always wanted.
Naturally, it would be easier with power.
Would I do this for Lilac without an ulterior motive?
I tell myself yes.
Then there is Desdemona. At last, I can admit that I love her. Yet, just as when I first met her, I’m drawing her closer for her power, as if the mistakes of the past are bound to repeat. I have yet to learn my lesson.
Perhaps I am the most selfish person in the world. That is why I only hug Lilac and do not try to talk to her about the murders. I don’t believe I could handle it.
Lilac pulls away first, dabbing the tears beneath her eyes with a rounded piece of cotton and some powder. I imagine that, had Leiana ever cried, she would have done the same. She clears her throat and offers me her hand. Side by side, we walk to the throne room in stride.
The crowd is larger than when I took the throne. It isn’t only Lyrians and Folk in the room this time; there are numerous Draes in the crowd and a couple of Eunoia. They must have wanted to see an Arcane take the throne. Notably, no Nepenthes are present.
Calista and Kai stand in the middle of the crowd, Lilac offering Calista a soft nod as we pass. My sister stops at the front of the room as I step forward, up the step to the thrones. I stand, straight as an arrow. The door opens.
Desdemona enters.
Something in my chest goes entirely still, yet it’s the opposite of calm. It’s as if the sight of her has consumed my heartbeats, consumed me.
There are dozens of small braids in her orange hair, woven into one another. Her hands are folded softly beneath her chest. They tremble, though only enough for me to notice.
She takes tentative steps down the aisle, and I watch her. My palms are sweating, my breaths uneven, and my posture feels suddenly crooked.
She is walking toward me.
I should be thinking of nothing but the thrones and the watching world. Yet I’m thinking only of how easily I could reach for her. How little space there truly is between us. I never imagined my wedding day would be pleasurable. Yet… now it’s happening with her.
How it’s come to this seems purely imaginary. I struggle to believe this is real. Desdemona could not truly be walking down the aisle, donned in red on Ilyria, coming to take my hand.
To make me her husband. To be her eternity.
She says there is love between us, even if we cannot act on it.
That is enough for me. At the very least, I will be able to watch her from up close and not afar.
I will spend my days at her side, even if I cannot spend them as hers.
Her fingers will be a breath away, even if I cannot touch them.
There is no honor in my depravity, in all the ways I will restrict my love to simply have her close, yet honor be damned.
If this is the best I can have, then this is all I will take.
Desdemona’s gaze lifts. She offers the faintest of smiles, her lips dabbed with a red pigment. My lungs forget their only job. She looks like fire, and I hate how willingly I would be burned by her.
How I crave it.
She approaches. I move before I’m aware of it, offering my hand.
She ascends the few steps to stand beside me, her gaze sweeping over the room.
Her spine is straight, as if in the last few days, a servant placed a book upon her head and slapped her knuckles with wood each time it fell—just as they once did to me.
My fingers itch at my sides. I want to hold her. Instead, I shift my gaze over the room and adjust my posture as well.