Chapter 37 Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
If the first wedding had been an execution in disguise, this one is a celebration. No shackles hidden in vows. No council decree hanging over my head like a sword. This time, I don’t feel like I’m walking toward my own funeral—I feel like I’m walking toward life. Toward him.
The air hums with it, different from the dread that had pressed down on me before. Lighter. Warmer. Hope threaded through with laughter and music. For the first time, the word marriage doesn’t taste like dirt and ash. It tastes like promise. Like a choice I made with my own lips.
And gods, that changes everything.
The air is thick with laughter, the kind that spills loudly and freely.
I stand with Minerva and Serafina and bask in it.
Earlier, I watched from the window as people filled the church to witness our wedding.
Faces I never thought I’d see again. Faces I mourned and grieved and raged over.
And now they’re here, flesh and blood, blinking at the light, breathing the same air as me.
The scent of beeswax and flowers, polished pews and perfume, wraps around us like a blessing.
Our families are restored. At first, they were stunned, stumbling like newborn foals, their voices hoarse from silence and the trauma.
But gratitude bloomed fast, fierce, overwhelming.
Mercifully, they don’t remember anything.
No hunger or thirst tortured them. No living corpses, trapped in their own bodies.
When I heard that, I wept for days. I cried until there was nothing left to wring out, then cried again just because I could.
And now, like them, I’m grateful for every laugh, every smile, even every grouch on bad days. Hell, I’ll take it all and anything because I know the torment of losing them. The way absence echoes. The way a quiet hallway can feel like a tomb.
They don’t know every detail of what Marcus and I went through—the blood, the betrayals, the nights where survival felt like a coin toss—but they don’t need to.
Their smiles are enough. Proof that the nightmare ended, that we dragged light back into the world.
Proof that the gods, for once, didn’t look away.
I catch my mother’s laugh, and it knocks the air from my lungs. My father clasps my shoulder, his hand heavy with a weight that says everything words can’t.
“Are you ready?”
I nod. This time, when I step forward and see cousins, council members, allies, enemies-turned-family in the pews, it will be all of them alive, all of them here. I feel the truth settle low and warm: I’m not walking alone anymore.
For the first time in too long, I let myself believe in this moment. Believe that it’s real. That it’s mine.
Minerva smooths the fabric of my dress for the fifth time, fussing like a hawk with claws instead of talons.
“Wrinkle,” she mutters, even though there isn’t one.
Beside her, Serafina grins so wide I’m half afraid her jaw might lock.
My bridesmaids. My bridesmaids. Who in all the gods’ realms would have guessed?
Minerva keeps leaning close, whispering half-inappropriate jokes just raunchy enough to make me snort instead of cry.
Damn her, it works. Serafina, still radiant, shifts easily now between her wolf and human form.
She’s lost the magic that made her the vessel, but instead of mourning it, she carries herself with a new kind of permanence.
Solid. Rooted. She doesn’t seem to care about what she’s lost; if anything, she looks freer. It steadies me just to stand near her.
Minerva, of course, has decided this means it’s her personal mission to tutor Serafina in “shifter basics”, with the kind of wink and brow waggle that earns her a sharp smack on the arm from me every time.
Serafina only shakes her head, laughing low, and the way Minerva beams at her makes me happy.
They haven’t come out and explicitly said something is going on between them, but it’s obvious.
The smug little grin she throws me is pure Minerva, like making me roll my eyes is her holy duty. Who knows, maybe it is?
The wedding march starts, and the doors open.
There’s a collective gasp at my gown. Simple, figure-hugging, embroidered with pearls.
And if you look closely, real closely, you’ll see that in between those pearls is nothing at all but net.
However, it’s so closely packed that nothing shows.
Last time it was burgundy, this time scandalous.
Ain’t no one going to stop me from trying to get a rise out of my husband. Whichever way I get it.
My wolf preens, and I let her.
Across the aisle, Belvedere and Leonard flank Marcus like mismatched bookends.
Belvedere, of course, looks unbearably smug, as if he orchestrated the entire thing and is just waiting for applause.
He’s also wearing purple sequins that’s gaudy as shit, and I love it.
Leonard shifts on his feet, restless energy buzzing off him like sparks, claws probably itching for a fight even here, or to ease the tension with a dad joke.
If he dares, I’ll gut him in front of our guests.
He knows it. He looks delighted by the risk.
But Marcus? Marcus doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t preen.
He just looks at me. As if the room has emptied, as if every candle, every face, every sound has been swallowed whole, leaving only his gaze pinning me in place.
There’s reverence there, fierce and unshakable, like I’m not just the bride walking toward him—I’m the vow itself.
My knees nearly give out. I breathe, once, twice, and keep going.
The vows are simple. No pomp. No council decree scrawled on parchment, no sword of politics dangling overhead, ready to slice us apart. And none of Marcus’s prostrating. No grandstanding, either. No theater. Just us. Just words. Just hands clasped tight enough to bruise.
Just us.
And somehow, that makes them heavier than any decree ever could. Because this time, it isn’t about survival or duty. It’s about choice—our choice—and that makes all the difference.
When Marcus leans down and kisses me, the hall erupts.
This time, when he dips me, he isn’t doing it to hide the fact he isn’t kissing me.
He’s doing it to hide the fact that he’s devouring me with his mouth.
When he lets me up, a wicked grin lights his face.
The cheers crash like thunder, raw and jubilant, rolling over us in waves.
Our families stand, clapping, whooping, voices breaking with laughter and relief.
Someone even shouts for us to kiss again, and the room roars with agreement. I don’t mind obliging. Not today.
But none of it touches me. Not really. Because for once, it doesn’t feel like we’re performing for them. His mouth on mine isn’t duty, or survival, or politics. It’s just him. It’s just me. It’s real.
And boy, I kiss him back like I’ve been waiting lifetimes for this. Maybe I have. Every battle, every scar, every night spent wondering if we’d survive long enough to see tomorrow… it all narrows to this one breath, this one kiss.
The world doesn’t fade. It splinters into nothing but the taste of him, the press of his hand at my back, the thrum of his heartbeat against mine.
Time itself could stop, and I wouldn’t care.
Because after everything, after stone prisons and blood-soaked halls and choices ripped from us, this is ours.
Chosen.
Claimed.
Irrevocable.
Mine.
This time, we take photos. And Marcus tells me about how he ruminated on the fact that they didn’t take mugshots.
When I punch him in the arm, he merely grins.
Everyone piles in, hugging, laughing, jostling for space, cheeks pressed together while tears streak down faces.
My cheeks ache from grinning, but I don’t care.
I want proof. I want it all framed and hung and sticky with fingerprints from too much touching.
At the reception, Marcus and I can’t stop smiling. Or at least, I can’t. Marcus tries to hold onto that stoic composure of his, but it’s useless. There’s a giddy tilt to his mouth he can’t quite hide, a softness in his eyes every time they meet mine. And that? That betrays him completely.
And for once, I don’t tease him for it. I let myself fall into the warmth of it, into him.
When we take the floor for our first dance, Marcus stands a few steps away from me.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
“I just remembered how dangerous it is dancing with you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Get over here, or you’ll be the first groom in history not to get lucky on his wedding night.”
“Good thing I wore steel toe caps then.”
He steps in and wraps a hand around my waist.
“You’re awfully brave, Mr. Benyamina.”
“Love does that to me, Mrs. Benyamina.”
I grin. “Wanna know a secret?”
“Did Min finally confirm Leonard wears woman’s underwear?”
I swat his arm. “No, silly. I actually don’t mind being called Mrs. Benyamina.”
“That’s not how it went on our honeymoon.”
“No, but I got you back really well, didn’t I?
“Telling the concierge I was a virgin was quite genius. But tell me, wife, as a man as inexperienced as myself, how do I fare?”
He’s smug as sin, and I hate how much I love it.
“Are you asking me to stroke your ego?”
The moment the words are out my mouth, he gives me a wicked grin. I raise my hand. “Don’t even say it. Wrong choice of word.”
He laughs into my hair, the sound warm and obnoxious. “I can’t fault it myself.”
“What do you say we ditch this party and make our own?” I ask.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
It’s almost laughable, how impossible that once seemed—how bitterly I would have denied it, how fiercely I fought against even the idea. And yet here we are, moving as though the gods themselves choreographed us. His hand steady. My heart steady. Us—steady.
For the first time, there’s no doubt, no shadow, no blade hanging overhead. Just Marcus. Just me. Just this.
Oh, and a getaway car.