Chapter 1 – Noa #2
When it is my turn to speak, I hesitate. Just for a breath. Just long enough to hear the fabric of my mother’s gown shift beside me, long enough to feel the weight of dozens of eyes pressing in, waiting.
Those same warm fingers tighten around mine, just like that. Just enough to remind me.
I lift my chin. My voice does not shake when I vow, “I do.”
The words have barely left my lips when the priest nods solemnly. "And now, the rings."
But before he can continue, Matías speaks. "No,” his voice thunders. "What the fuck is gold to me? She will earn the Castillo name first."
A scattered murmuring ripples through the crowd like a tremor beneath the earth, a shifting unease in the room.
I stiffen, pulse hammering beneath my aching ribs as Matías releases his hold on my hand.
The relief is short-lived. I look on as even the priest hesitates, his brows drawing together, but Matías does not deign to glance his way.
He reaches inside his jacket, instead. His movements slow, deliberate, a predator playing with his prey.
A flash of silver catches the candlelight. Then the knife is in his grip.
A blade.
I swallow hard, beginning to feel faint. Sweat beads at my lip.
Someone—one of the elders, perhaps—clears his throat. A chair scrapes against the marble. My mother is still as a statue beside me, but I can feel her tension. Even Magdalena, seated in the place of honor, lifts her chin slightly, observing.
Matías acknowledges none of it. His arresting gaze remains on me as he raises the knife, pressing the edge to his own palm.
Without flinching, he draws it across his skin.
The cut is deep. Blood wells instantly, spilling in thick crimson rivulets over his fingers, down his wrist. A sacrifice. A vow.
The priest pales, lips parting to protest, but Matías silences him with a single scathing look. Then he extends his hand to me, palm still bleeding, his voice low and edged with something dark. "Yours, Noa?" he asks casually, almost bored.
My breath catches painfully. A dozen thoughts scramble in my head, colliding, screaming. This is madness. He isn’t just a monster, he may just be actually, clinically insane. This is archaic, violent, unnecessary.
Only… refusing him—humiliating him in front of the elders, in front of his mother—would be far worse.
There is no choice. There is never any other choice for me.
I lift my hand. Gradually. Delicately. He takes it, his grip firm, steady.
The blade is unnervingly warm when it presses against my skin, coated in his blood.
I do not pull away. I do not look away. It moves in quick, clean slice.
The sting is sharp and biting, followed by gnawing heat, by wetness that pours towards my wrist, staining the lace edge of my sleeve.
I refuse to relinquish the sob that lodges itself in my throat.
I won’t—I will never give him the satisfaction.
My groom turns our hands, pressing his bloodied palm to mine. Our mingled blood is slick between our fingers. His head bows; his lips press to the back of my hand. The room erupts—gasps, hushed whispers, a ripple of stunned disbelief.
His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, smearing red across my skin.
"You are bound to me now, Noa." His voice is a whisper only I can hear, rough, unrelenting. "Not by paper. Not by name. By blood."
I cannot breathe.
The priest swallows audibly, his hands trembling around his book. "The rings—"
Matías smiles, a slow, dangerous thing. "Yes. Now, she can have my ring."
The reception is a kingdom of excess.
Beneath an open-air pavilion draped in gold and deep crimson silk, the Castillo estate has been transformed into something out of legend.
Hundreds of candles flicker against the night, their flames dancing in ornate iron lanterns.
Crystal chandeliers hang like stars above tables adorned with even more grandiose floral arrangements—roses, orchids, and lilies spilling over the edges like cascading waterfalls of blood and ivory.
The scent is overwhelming, thick with jasmine, cigar smoke, and the warm spice of aguardiente.
A band plays vallenato, its melody weaving through the air like a whispered spell, drowning out the murmurs of the assembled guests.
Someone has wrapped my hand in silk bandages, expertly tied, but the dull sting lingers beneath the fabric. A reminder of the blood oath. A reminder that I belong to him now.
Matías stands at my side, a monolith in black, his presence a sharp contrast to the indulgence surrounding us.
He does not drink, does not speak unless spoken to.
Yet still, he commands the room. Even the most hardened men glance his way before stepping too close, their conversations hushed, their gazes uncertain.
And then there are the elders.
Seated at a long mahogany table, they watch us with eyes like vultures, their suits crisp, their faces carved from stone.
Some are old, their skin worn like aged parchment, their hands adorned with rings so heavy they could crush bone.
Others are younger, men in their forties and fifties, dangerous in a different way.
Their smiles are pleasant, their movements measured, but there is no mistaking what they are.
These are the men who hold the weight of the Castillo empire in their hands.
Magdalena moves like a ghost between them. She has been a widow for as long as I have known her—and now, she has lost her eldest son as well. Still, one cannot pity her. I respect that. Diamonds glint at her throat, and she is a queen among kings, unchallenged in her authority.
When she finally stops before us, the air stills. Conversation quiets. Even the music fades into the background. Whatever is about to fall from her lips, I do not expect it to be kind. At least there is nothing she can say that will top my new husband’s display at the altar.
“You were always a beautiful girl,” she muses, her voice smooth as honey over steel. My jaw drops over the words. I expected something in a different vein entirely. Then, she adds, “Beautiful enough that people might not even look at Matías.”
The words settle over me like a weight, cold and crushing. My breath stills.
I know what she is saying.
I know the implications.
This is about Matías’ scarred face, the darkness in his gaze, the violence that clings to him like a second skin—he unsettles even men hardened by blood. But I? I am meant to be the distraction. The softness in contrast to the terror he brings. This is my role now.
Magdalena tilts her head slightly, waiting for my reaction, testing me.
“I will do my best,” I say, head bowing just a fraction.
Still, I can catch the trace of what looks suspiciously like gut-wrenching sorrow passing through her features before she nods, a small, imperceptible approval. “That will serve him well.”
Then, just like that, she shifts her attention elsewhere, as if I am no longer worth her time.
The evening stretches unbearably long, an unending symphony of murmured conversations and the clinking of crystal glasses.
It blurs around me, an exhausting parade of pleasantries exchanged under the weight of low-hanging cigar smoke and candlelight flickering against polished mahogany.
Toasts are made, alliances cemented with knowing glances, hands clasped in firm, silent agreements over aged whiskey poured into cut-glass tumblers.
The scent of tobacco lingers heavy in the air, mingling with the rich perfume of the Arias cartel wives, their laughter like the chime of bells, too sweet to be trusted.
Men lean in close, their words hushed and calculated, their dealings woven into the very fabric of the night.
Every movement is a power play, every glance an unspoken warning.
My body aches, protesting the weight of my new name, the invisible chains that have latched onto my skin since the moment I spoke the vow.
I remain still, a statue carved of duty and necessity, bearing the weight of their scrutiny, their judgment.
They watch me. I feel it in my bones. Some look at me with veiled interest, others with barely concealed derision.
A bride who was meant for another. A woman bound to the monster instead.
And then Matías is done.
He does not need to say it. He simply moves, and I know. A flick of his wrist, a minute shift in his posture—so subtle that no one else might notice. But I do.
His fingers brush the edge of his cuff, an unspoken command, a claim that echoes through the marrow of my bones. While I may be standing on my own two feet, my strings are held in his hands.
I do not move.
Defiance flickers in my chest, brief and stubborn. I hate the way he commands without words, without so much as a glance in my direction. I hate even more the way my body obeys before I can will it otherwise, the pulse in my throat fluttering.
Matías turns his head just slightly, and a flicker of amusement glints in the darkness of his gaze. "You can either walk, or I can have Gabo escort you. Your choice."
The threat slithers between us, wrapping around my spine.
I know what he means. I have heard enough stories about his henchman—though I had never understood why Tomás so relished in relaying those to me—to know he would enjoy the task too much, his rough hands a calculated reminder of what submission truly means in this world.
I walk on my own, alone, even when I am surrounded. I may as well get used to it.
I’ve no appreciation for this estate that unfolds around us in opulence, towering columns casting long shadows against the marble, and the air thick with humidity and the distant murmur of the jungle beyond the high walls.
The guards stationed at every corner remain still, their eyes tracking our every move, silent sentinels of a kingdom built on power and blood.
Matías does not look back, but I know he is aware of every step I take.
And I know that tonight is far from over.