12. The Wedding （Chaos, Cock, and Holy Fuck）
The Wedding (Chaos, Cock, and Holy Fuck)
Cinder
I'm getting married today.
To three men.
In a ceremony that my royal advisors have described as "unprecedented," "possibly illegal," and "a diplomatic nightmare that will echo through generations."
I've never been happier.
The Great Hall has been transformed into something that can only be described as "barn-explosion meets brothel." This is intentional. I gave the decorators one instruction: "Make it look like my life now."
They delivered.
Hay bales wrapped in crimson velvet line the aisle. Wildflowers burst from buckets that definitely started life as feeding troughs. The altar is a massive oak table, sturdy, reinforced, selected specifically because I intend to consummate this marriage on it the moment the ceremony ends.
My dress is white. Technically. It's also slit up to my hip, cut down to my navel, and designed with "quick removal" as a key feature. The seamstress wept when I gave her the specifications.
Worth it.
Mira stands beside me in the bridal chamber, helping with the final adjustments. She's sober for the first time in days, a true sacrifice for the occasion.
"You look beautiful, my lady."
"I look like I'm about to get railed at my own wedding."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."
I grin at her in the mirror. She grins back. We've been through a lot together in the past week. Ferret attacks. Cock inspections. A thirty-seven-orgasm carriage ride that neither of us will ever fully recover from.
She's more than earned her raise.
A trumpet sounds from the Great Hall. The ceremony is about to begin.
"Ready?" Mira asks.
I take a deep breath. Think about the three men waiting for me at that altar. Think about everything we've done together and everything we're going to do.
"I've been ready since the moment they walked into my ballroom."
The wedding party is... unconventional.
The rats are ring bearers.
Squeak, Nibbles, and Twitch waddle down the aisle in tiny bow ties, each carrying a ring on a miniature velvet pillow. The congregation watches in stunned silence as three rodents march in perfect formation toward the altar.
"Left, left, left right left," Squeak commands under his breath.
"I feel magnificent," Nibbles whispers.
"Everyone's looking at us," Twitch says. "This is our moment. Our moment."
They reach the altar and arrange themselves in a row, tiny chests puffed with pride.
I'm going to give them cheese. So much cheese. All the cheese in the kingdom.
Next comes Bastard.
The goose has been designated "flower bird" because "flower girl" didn't quite capture his essence. He waddles down the aisle with a basket of rose petals strapped to his back, honking imperiously and scattering petals with each step.
The nobility leans away as he passes.
Smart.
Bastard reaches the altar, surveys the crowd with obvious disdain, and takes his position beside Slade. His work here isn't done. I've given him a very special job for later, but for now, he contents himself with guarding the roses.
Then the ferrets.
Susan and Gerald emerge from behind a hay bale wearing matching crimson capes, tiny, regal, absolutely ridiculous. They're supposed to be additional ring bearers, but I've given up on them actually performing that function.
Sure enough, they make it halfway down the aisle before Gerald spots something shiny on a duchess's hand and launches himself at her fingers.
"Gerald, no," Wreck hisses from the altar.
Gerald does not care about wedding protocol. Gerald has never cared about wedding protocol.
The duchess shrieks. Guards move to intervene. Susan, loyal partner that she is, provides covering fire by doing an aggressive war dance that terrifies everyone within a five-foot radius.
Eventually, Gerald is retrieved, new ring clutched triumphantly in his tiny paws, and deposited at Wreck's feet.
"That's not one of the wedding rings," Wreck says.
Gerald chitters proudly.
"I know it's prettier. That's not the point."
The congregation has not recovered. They will not recover. This is their life now.
Finally, the music shifts.
My cue.
I step into the doorway of the Great Hall, and every head turns.
Three hundred nobles, ambassadors, and various important people who had to be invited for political reasons stare at me with expressions ranging from scandalized to fascinated to deeply concerned about the future of the monarchy.
I don't care about any of them.
I only care about the three men at the altar.
Ash stands in the center, massive and imposing in a midnight-blue doublet that matches his eyes. His expression is stoic, controlled, but I can see his hands flexing at his sides. Impatient. Ready.
Slade is on his left, emerald green suit perfectly tailored, hair artfully disheveled, smile sharp enough to cut glass. Bastard honks approvingly at my approach.
Wreck is on the right, crimson doublet already slightly askew because he cannot exist in formal clothing without immediately destroying it. Susan and Gerald have climbed up to his shoulders, forming a ferret honor guard. His grin could power the sun.
Behind them, perched on the altar like a feathered gargoyle of suffering, One-Eye surveys the scene with his one good eye.
"I can't believe I'm officiating this," he says.
"You're not officiating," Slade reminds him. "Father Bartholomew is officiating. You're just... present."
"My presence is a mistake."
Father Bartholomew stands at the altar, looking like a man who has questioned every life choice that led him to this moment. He's the same priest who read the cock-description proclamation. He volunteered for this duty specifically because, in his words, "It cannot possibly be worse than that."
He was wrong.
I walk down the aisle slowly, savoring every step. The nobles whisper as I pass. I catch fragments:
"Three husbands."
"Former farmhands."
"Did you hear about the carriage."
"Thirty-seven times in one ride."
Good. Let them talk. Let the whole kingdom talk. I'm marrying the three men who ruined me for everyone else, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it.
I reach the altar.
Three sets of eyes meet mine.
Ash's gaze is steady, possessive, promising. Slade's sparkles with mischief and hunger. Wreck's crinkles with barely contained chaos.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," all three respond.
"Let's get married so we can fuck on this altar."
Father Bartholomew makes a sound like a dying animal.
"Perhaps," he manages, "we could begin with the traditional vows?"
The vows are not traditional.
"Dearly beloved," Father Bartholomew begins, voice cracking, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of Lady Cinder, First of Her Name, to... these three... men."
"We have names," Wreck says helpfully.
"I'm aware."
"Just checking."
Gerald chitters from Wreck's shoulder. Father Bartholomew flinches.
"The, ah, the couple, couples? have chosen to write their own vows." He looks at me with the expression of a man walking to his execution. "Lady Cinder, you may begin."
I turn to face my three grooms.
Gods, they're beautiful. Even in formal clothes, especially in formal clothes, they look like trouble wrapped in velvet. Three different flavors of exactly what I need.
"When I was a girl," I begin, "I was told I'd marry a prince. One prince. A boring, adequate prince who would give me boring, adequate heirs and a boring, adequate life."
I let my gaze travel from Ash to Slade to Wreck.
"Instead, I'm marrying three farmhands who crashed my ball, fucked me until I saw colors, and then fled into the night in a disintegrating carriage." I smile. "Best decision I ever made."
The congregation murmurs. I ignore them.
"Ash. You're the one who looks at me like I'm something to be conquered, and then conquers me so thoroughly I forget my own name. You're steady and strong and occasionally terrifying, and I love every massive inch of you."
Ash's jaw tightens. His eyes burn.
"Slade. You're the one who notices everything, every shiver, every gasp, every secret thing I didn't know I wanted. You're clever and wicked and entirely too pretty, and I love the way you take me apart."
Slade's smile sharpens. His fingers twitch toward me.
"Wreck. You're chaos in human form, and being with you is like riding a hurricane, terrifying and exhilarating and impossible to predict. You make me laugh, you make me scream, and you have the best ferrets I've ever met."
Gerald chitters proudly.
"I vow to love all three of you. To keep all three of you.
To never choose between you because I am greedy and insatiable and you've ruined me for anyone else.
" I reach out and take Ash's hand, then Slade's, then Wreck's.
"I vow to let you worship me and wreck me in equal measure, for the rest of our lives. "
Silence.
Squeak's tiny voice says, "That was beautiful."
"Shut up, she's not done,"
"She said 'rest of our lives,' that's definitely the end."
"There might be more."
Father Bartholomew clears his throat violently. "And now... the grooms' vows?"
Ash speaks first.
"I'm not good with words." His voice is low, rough, filling the hall. "Never have been. But you make me want to try."
He steps closer, his hand tightening on mine.
"I vow to protect you. To satisfy you. To make sure you never wonder if you made the right choice." His eyes bore into mine. "And I vow that every time you need to feel claimed, owned, consumed, I'll be there to remind you who you belong to."
A duchess in the third row fans herself frantically.
Slade steps forward next, all elegance and sharp edges.
"I vow to notice every detail of you, every mood, every desire, every secret fantasy you haven't told us yet.
" His thumb traces circles on my palm. "I vow to use my tongue for talking, for teasing, and for making you forget how to form sentences.
I vow to worship you properly, thoroughly, and creatively. "
"And frequently," Wreck adds.
"And frequently," Slade agrees.
Finally, Wreck bounces forward, practically vibrating with energy.