9. Jules #2
I point at her. “I’ll refine the strategy.”
***
The next morning, Camille and I stand in a conference room that looks aggressively determined to prevent anyone from developing feelings.
Glass table. Neutral walls. Soft projector hum. A neat stack of contracts waiting beneath lighting designed for quarterly reports and mild interrogations.
Very courthouse wedding. Minus the courthouse. And apparently the cake.
I dressed for it anyway, which now feels embarrassing.
Nothing dramatic, definitely not a wedding dress, but I look cute.
A fitted ivory dress that skims my body and falls just above my knees, delicate gold at my throat, heels I’m already pretending don’t hurt, and my hair actually behaving for once.
Enough effort to acknowledge that, fake or not, this is technically my wedding.
Camille is wearing a variation of what she always wears.
Cream trousers. Cream blouse. Platinum-blonde hair pulled neatly back. Gold watch at her wrist.
It’s insulting.
It’s also so completely Camille that I should’ve expected nothing else.
Mr. Bane waits at the head of the table with his usual expensive funeral-director energy, a dark case open beside him. Apparently he isn’t only responsible for wards, memory corrections, and making supernatural disasters disappear. He also performs magical unions.
Although, technically, this bond is a ward. Just one wrapped around two people instead of a building.
Romantic.
I lean back in my chair with my arms crossed, looking around like someone might have hidden cake out of guilt. “So this is, like, a wedding without cake?”
No one laughs.
Again.
Incredible. Am I losing my touch?
Camille doesn’t look at me. “It’s a risk mitigation strategy. Try to sign your name legibly.”
I grin despite myself. “Wow. Romance isn’t dead.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
God, she’s exhausting.
Mr. Bane slides the documents toward us. The public marriage contract sits on top, followed by Eon’s publicity agreement, the Council’s bonding terms, and several pages detailing what happens if either of us violates them.
Nothing good, obviously.
I pick up the pen, twirl it once, and study the signature line like it might blink first.
This is fake. It’s paperwork. PR. A protective arrangement with excellent branding.
I sign before I can hesitate again. I already spent most of the night having second thoughts. I’m not giving them another vote.
I slide the contract forward.
Camille signs next, clean and efficient, like she’s approving a budget instead of becoming my wife.
Rude.
Mr. Bane closes the folder. “Please stand.”
Of course there’s a ritual.
I push back my chair and step around the table. Camille is already in position, because she is always exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Mr. Bane removes a narrow metal instrument from his case, something between a tuning fork and a ritual blade, its surface etched with thin geometric lines.
“Hands,” he says.
I glance at Camille.
She holds one hand out, palm up, without hesitation. Like this is routine. Like marrying me is simply the next item on her schedule.
Show-off.
I place my hand in hers.
Her skin is cool. Her grip is steady. Not even a hint of nerves.
Mr. Bane positions the instrument above our joined hands. The etched lines brighten with a muted gold glow.
“Your bond will establish mutual protection,” he says. “Proximity strengthens the effect. Rejection weakens it.”
“Nothing says healthy marriage like mandatory emotional cooperation,” I mutter.
Camille’s fingers tighten once around mine.
There.
A reaction.
Tiny, but I’ll take it.
Mr. Bane continues as if I haven’t spoken. “The union does not permit access to thoughts or memories. Sensory and emotional bleed may occur.”
I look at Camille. “You hear that? We’re sharing feelings.”
“We are not.”
“Denial already. This marriage is moving fast.”
“Miss Navarro,” Mr. Bane says.
“Sorry. Please continue marrying us.”
The faintest shift touches Camille’s mouth. Not a smile. More like her face considered one and rejected the proposal.
Still counts.
Mr. Bane lowers the instrument until the light spills over our hands.
“Mutual protection,” he says.
The lines flare.
“Stability of bond.”
Warmth travels through my palm and up my arm.
“Shared containment.”
I snort softly. “Wow. You really know how to set the mood.”
Then something shifts. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone watching to understand. But I feel it.
Like a thread snapping into place somewhere deep in my chest.
The air stills, and the constant noise inside my head simply stops.
Gone.
I inhale. And for the first time in—I don’t know how long—everything is… quiet.
Not empty.
Clear.
Grounded.
My shoulders loosen, my breathing evens out, and the restless energy that has been buzzing beneath my skin since Harbor’s Edge settles all at once. But my grip tightens around Camille’s without meaning to, because I suddenly realize the quiet isn’t mine.
It’s her.
Camille.
Not her thoughts or memories. Nothing that clear. Just the shape of her presence pressing lightly against mine. Structure. Steady rhythm. Clean lines. Control layered over everything with such precision that my entire nervous system clicks into place around it.
Oh.
I didn’t realise how far off-center I was until this.
I look at her.
Really look.
And for one strange second… I get it. I understand why she moves through the world the way she does. Why everything about her is measured, controlled, and exact.
Because beneath all that ice, she feels solid.
Stable.
Safe.
The thought hits somewhere uncomfortable.
Then something comes back through the bond. Irritation first. Sharp and immediate.
That’s definitely Camille.
Beneath it is resistance, tension drawing tight as she tries to analyze a connection that refuses to become data. Then another current reaches me. Restless, bright, kinetic. Too much energy packed into too little space.
Me.
Huh.
She probably hates that.
Fair.
I don’t push at the connection or try to name what else might be inside it.
Mr. Bane lifts the instrument. “Bond established.”
Just like that, it’s done.
Our hands separate.
The connection doesn’t.
It remains at the edge of my awareness, faint but constant. A quiet hum I can’t turn off.
Cool.
Cool, cool, cool.
I clap once and step back. “Great. So are we kissing now, or...?”
No one even pretends to consider it.
Camille is already moving away, flexing the hand that held mine before adjusting her gold watch.
Of course she is.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the strange clarity inside me. It doesn’t leave. Everything still feels too steady. Too quiet.
I don’t like it.
Or maybe I do, which is significantly worse.
“This is fine,” I mutter.
Because it is. Obviously. It’s fake. Controlled. Temporary.
I glance at Camille and feel that cool, steady presence answering from somewhere just beyond my own pulse.
Yeah. This is definitely not a problem.
“Completely fine.”