Chapter 8
Zarek
A MORE INTIMATE CEREMONY
The air in the temple is so heavily perfumed that it makes my head throb.
Or maybe that’s the hangover pounding at the inside of my skull, making the harsh light of the many candelabras and crystal chandeliers feel like a personal attack. The organ starts to play, a deep, pulsing melody, and I try not to wince.
Getting drunk last night was a mistake, yes. I just—
I glance down at my feet as the crowd begins to shift in their pews, murmuring and gasping.
This is the smaller temple, for a more intimate ceremony, as Hussen, the priest of the goddess of fidelity, had the nerve to tell me this morning.
If I hadn’t been nursing my third cup of tea and chewing raw willow bark, I might have punched him.
Intimate. That’s bullshit. None of King Malrik’s sons were married in the smaller temple. This, just like giving me new quarters on the ground level and forcing my bride to travel through the night, is just another way of reminding me exactly where I sit in the order of things.
Although part of me honestly appreciates the smaller temple.
Royal weddings are usually humiliating, especially for the bride.
Most of them sob the whole way through. Hells, Malrik’s third son, Jak, cried during his own ceremony.
Overcome with emotion, the priest said, and the groomsmen around me sniggered.
He’d been in love with a serving maid, and we all knew it.
He was lucky I was able to smuggle his lover out of the castle before Malrik could have her executed for corrupting his son.
The music changes, and there’s a great rustling as the crowd comes to their feet.
Lucian, Malrik’s fourth son and the only remaining unmarried member of the royal family, clears his throat.
He’s my lone groomsman, and I know he’s trying to remind me to act the part.
He was never enough of an asshole to be a prince, Lucian.
I raise my head.
Princess Lilias stands at the far end of the temple, alone in the aisle. She’s wearing a scarlet dress, the traditional color for brides, and holding a small bouquet of tulips that must have been forced to bloom in the royal greenhouse.
And holy hells does she look good.
My chest feels tight as she walks toward me. Some low, animal thing inside my gut urges me to run. There’s danger here, bright and clear as day.
I swallow hard. The music swells as Lilias walks toward me. Closer, closer. Gods, the perfume makes my eyes water.
And then her expression changes. Her lips part as she recognizes me from yesterday, when I rode next to her through the city gates.
Her eyes widen. She misses a step.
But just a step. Then she’s walking toward me once more, her handmaiden carrying the trail of her dress, tiny jewels sparkling along a neckline that plunges to reveal what really are fantastic tits.
Which I’m staring at.
I drag my eyes back to her face before Lucian can clear his throat again. Our eyes meet. That low animal inside of me scratches at its cage, but I’m not at all sure what it wants. Run? Fight? Fuck?
Shit. She’s standing next to me now, and frowning, a delicate furrow between her eyes.
She’s not crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a royal wedding where the bride wasn’t crying.
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold against mine, and suddenly, I’m remembering my mother sitting at the table, laughing as she told us she and my father were married in the town square at first light because they didn’t want to spend another night apart.
The memory feels like a knife between my ribs. I blink at the priest, who’s staring at Lilias’s tits in a way that’s entirely inappropriate for someone who serves the goddess of fidelity. I clear my throat in what I dearly hope is a threatening manner.
The priest looks up, then begins his long, sonorous blessing.
I’m very aware of Lilias’s hand in mine, the soft weight of it, the press of skin against skin.
My black velvet jacket feels far too hot, and the stupid amulet I’m wearing to signify my loyalty to Vsenrog is too damn heavy.
The chain cuts at the back of my neck and presses the little vial into the base of my throat. My head throbs.
Getting drunk last night really was a mistake. But I was—
I steal a glance at the woman who is about to become my wife and wonder if she chose not to wear a veil or if that choice was made for her. Her eyes have been lined with kohl, her cheeks and lips painted. The effect is rather stunning.
And she was beautiful before. Even after riding through the night, in the rain, and approaching the walls of a kingdom that could crush her like a beetle beneath a boot. She was both beautiful and surprising.
It was the surprising part that made me reach for a third bottle of wine last night. I expected my new wife would be mildly attractive, or at least inoffensive. Most princesses are.
I didn’t think she’d surprise me.
The priest takes my shoulder, then hers, and turns us so we’re facing each other. The rest of the overheated, overly perfumed room falls away.
My bride’s hair is dark, and it falls over her shoulders in waves, almost like it’s asking to spill over a pillow.
Her eyes are a deep sapphire blue, and she meets my gaze in a way that’s almost defiant.
For a heartbeat, it’s almost like we’re staring at each other over the crossed tips of swords, waiting for the judge to tell us to begin our duel.
And she’s still not crying. Not even close. No, my bride looks like a woman who would spit in the executioner’s face even as she was being dragged to the gallows.
As the priest begins to bind our hands together with a blood-colored silk ribbon, my heart sinks to the polished tiles at my feet.
Malrik uses every tool at his disposal. When I refused to call him Father on my first night in the palace, he had Petrys and Gerrart, the other boys who came down from the mountains with me, brought into the dining room. He made them kneel on the floor.
And then he had his servant whip them until they bled. I watched, cowering and powerless, choking on my own sobs as the only people I knew in the entire kingdom suffered and bled in front of a crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen.
“You did this,” Malrik told me, once it was over. “Look at how your insolence makes your own people suffer. Next time, I won’t be so merciful.”
I learned my lesson.
And now, as I force myself to parrot the vows of fidelity the priest gives me, that panicked animal inside my chest claws and howls.
This beautiful woman will be in danger every day of her life. Because of me. A man she did not choose and most certainly does not want.
My eyes sting; I bite the inside of my cheek to focus on something else. Anything else.
“And now you,” the priest says, turning to Lilias. “Repeat after me.”
She does. She looks me in the eye the entire time.
She does not cry.