Chapter 3
THE MONSTER'S WEDDING
Malakai
"If you stab me with that pin one more time, I will have your hands removed and fed to whatever sad creature you call a pet," I inform my tailor calmly, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror.
The man—Darren, I think his name is—goes pale and mumbles apologies, his fingers now trembling so badly he can barely hold the pins. His Beta scent spikes with terror, flooding the room with the acrid smell of fear. Pathetic.
"That was a joke," I lie. "Do lighten up.
It's nearly my wedding day! Or it will be, in approximately—" I glance at the ornate clock on the wall, "—one more day of this absolute torture.
One more day of fittings and preparations and tedious ceremonial details before I can finally claim what's mine. "
My Alpha instincts are already on edge, hyper-aware of the approaching ceremony.
The claiming. My future mate is somewhere in this palace, and every cell in my body knows it, urging me to find her, to scent her properly, to begin the process of making her mine.
The rut I've kept under iron control stirs dangerously close to the surface, responding to the promise of an Omega. My Omega.
The door opens, and Emmett enters without knocking. One of these days, I really should execute him for his perpetual familiarity, but it's so difficult to find competent help these days.
"Out," he commands the servants, who scatter like mice before a cat. Even Betas can sense the authority in his Alpha presence, though his scent is controlled, professional.
"You're interrupting my fitting," I observe, carefully removing the heavy cape and draping it over a chair.
"And preventing you from terrorizing more of the palace staff before your wedding," Emmett replies, his tone dry but with the slight Northeastern accent that becomes more pronounced when he's concerned.
Unlike the sycophants who populate my court, Emmett earned his position through competence rather than flattery.
He moves to adjust an ornament on the mantel that wasn't quite symmetrical. His obsession with order—everything in its proper place, every schedule meticulously followed—would be irritating if it weren't so useful.
"It's considered poor form to see the bride before the wedding, you know."
"You're not the bride," Emmett points out unnecessarily.
"Details, details," I wave dismissively. "Though in fairness, between the two of us, I suspect Seraphina has more experience with penetrating objects."
"My lord," Emmett says in that particular tone that means he's suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, "we need to discuss your...arrangement. Lady Seraphina is not just any Light Court noble."
I drop into a plush armchair, propping my boots on a delicate ivory side table because I know it will annoy him. "I'm aware. She's the daughter of Councillor Marcus, sister to the incompetent Alpha who barbecued my tax advisor. What's your point?"
"My point is that our latest intelligence confirms what you've suspected—she is one of the most magically gifted members of her generation, perhaps even more powerful than previously thought."
This, I admit, is interesting. "Even more gifted than I'd heard compared to her brother?”
Emmett nods. "Far more. And unlike what we already knew about her brother, our sources confirm she has exceptional control. She wasn't just talented at the Lumina Academy—she was considered their most promising student in centuries."
"Well, isn't that fascinating," I muse, my interest genuinely piqued. My Alpha nature purrs with satisfaction at the thought of such a powerful mate. Strong offspring. A worthy consort. "My bride is even more intriguing than I thought."
"And the Lady's combat training?" I ask casually, taking a sip of wine from the glass I'd poured earlier.
Emmett's expression shifts—subtle, but I've known him eight hundred years. That's his "you're not going to like this" face.
"Extensive," he says carefully. "Our infiltrators in the Light Court academy report she's proficient in seventeen forms of hand-to-hand combat, expert marksmanship with both bow and throwing blades, and has studied anatomy and pressure points with the kind of detail usually reserved for.
.." He pauses. "Specialized professions. "
"Assassins," I say, and tilt my head, delighted despite myself. "You mean assassins."
"I mean your bride is not the delicate flower she appears to be, my lord.
" Emmett's voice carries a warning edge.
"She moves like someone who's been trained to kill.
Our observers noted that even during formal court functions, she automatically positions herself with clear sight lines to exits, never stands with her back fully exposed, and maintains awareness of everyone in the room. "
"How interesting," I murmur, swirling the wine in my glass. "And here I thought I was just getting a politically convenient Omega. Instead, I'm marrying someone who could conceivably kill me."
"My lord—"
"Don't worry, Emmett. Marrying someone trained to murder me is the most excitement I've had in fifty years." I take another sip of wine. "Besides, you know what they say about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer."
"They also say not to sleep next to someone who knows seventy-three ways to kill a man with her bare hands," Emmett mutters.
"Seventy-three?" I raise an eyebrow. "I only know sixty-eight. She's already more interesting than I thought."
"She's dangerous," Emmett says. "Binding yourself to someone with that level of power, who has every reason to hate you—"
"Is strategically brilliant," I finish for him, standing abruptly.
Shadows whirl around me, responding to my sudden shift in mood and the Alpha aggression that flares at the implied criticism.
"If she's truly that powerful, then having her bound to me by ancient magic is far safer than leaving her free to potentially become my enemy. "
"Unless she decides to kill you in your sleep," Emmett mutters.
"She can certainly try," I say with a smile. "It would make our wedding night considerably more exciting. Though I suspect she'll be too busy dealing with her heat to attempt murder."
Emmett's expression shifts slightly. "About that. Our informants confirm she's been on suppressants. Heavy ones. For approximately nine years."
Nine years. Since she presented. My Omega has been hiding her nature since she was fifteen, fighting her biology every single day.
The thought sends a complicated rush through me—respect for her determination, fury at whoever forced her to hide, and dark anticipation for when those suppressants finally fail and her true nature emerges.
"Nine years of suppression," I murmur. "Her first real heat is going to be..." I trail off, my Alpha instincts already imagining it. The scent of her slick, the desperation in her eyes, the way she'll beg for my knot. My cock hardens at the thought.
"Intense," Emmett finishes diplomatically. "Possibly dangerous. Suppressant rebound can cause severe physical distress. The heat may be longer, more painful. She'll need—"
"Me," I interrupt. "She'll need her Alpha. Her mate." The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me.
"So this is entirely strategic?" Emmett presses, clearly unconvinced.
Something cold slithers down my spine. Emmett has always been too observant for his own good.
"Get out," I say lightly, though shadows begin to gather more densely around me. "Go make sure no one's trying to smuggle assassination tools into my wedding. That would be such a mood killer."
After Emmett leaves, I move to the window, restless energy coursing through me.
The truth is, Seraphina has occupied more of my thoughts over the years than she should have.
There's something about her that has always drawn my attention—the perfect posture, the controlled expressions that occasionally crack to reveal flashes of genuine emotion.
And underneath it all, hidden beneath layers of suppressants, the scent of an Omega.
I've wanted to crack that perfect facade since the first time I truly noticed her.
Hours pass in a blur of preparations for tomorrow's ceremony.
The Master of Ceremonies arrives with updates on the final arrangements, his Beta scent carefully neutral despite the obvious anxiety radiating from him.
Marrying a Shadow Lord to a Light Court noble is unprecedented in recent history, and the man is clearly terrified of making a mistake.
"Everything will be prepared by tomorrow evening, my lord," he says with a deep bow. "The courtyard decorations are nearly complete."
I nod absently, only half-listening as he drones on about floral arrangements and seating charts for the various dignitaries.
My mind is already elsewhere—on the ceremony itself, on the moment when I'll finally be able to touch her without restraint, when the blood binding will make her mine in ways she can't even imagine yet.
The grand courtyard is being transformed with black marble platforms for the ceremony, surrounded by thousands of crystal orbs containing writhing shadows. Dark roses and nightshade blossoms will form elaborate arrangements, their scent heavy in the cool air.
At the far end will stand the traditional Shadow Court wedding arch—twisted black metal where shadows form partial images of faces in agony, grasping hands, and blinking eyes. I can just imagine how the Light Court delegation will react. The thought brings a smile to my face.