Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Aric
The priest’s words barely register.
You may kiss the bride.
I lift the sheer fabric as though peeling away her shield. And there she is. My enemy. My obligation. My bride.
She’s beautiful, yes. Infuriatingly so. The kind of beauty that could tempt any man to sin just to taste the ruin. The kind of beauty that’s dangerous, designed to break men down to nothing. The kind of beauty that makes me want her. Any man in my place would.
But it changes nothing. I don’t care. I won’t have feelings for her, nor she for me.
I can see it in her eyes—black as midnight, filled with hatred.
The kind of hatred that makes me still in place.
A reminder of what this is. What we are.
At its core, it’s a pact. A transaction.
Two strangers bound by signatures to end a war and secure an alliance neither of us chose.
She looks at me like she’d rather die than stand here.
Fair enough. The feeling isn’t far off.
And then there’s pain.
The kind that ignites a fury I can’t explain. She looks like the saddest bride in history, and for some incomprehensible reason, the sight of it gets under my skin.
She doesn’t want me. Doesn’t even try to hide it.
I shouldn’t care less, so why don’t I?
I grip her chin between my fingers, forcing her gaze to collide with mine, and I swear I feel her pulse racing against my touch. Whether it’s fear or fury, makes no difference.
My jaw tightens imperceptibly, locking my expression into stone. I was raised to conceal my emotions—joy, rage, suffering, desire.
I lean closer, my mouth a breath from hers. “It’s just an arrangement,” I whisper, as much to myself as to her.
Is it a reminder? A warning?
Maybe a lie.
Then I press my lips against hers, merely to end this ridiculous ritual. She trembles but doesn’t pull back. Her breath hitches, body quivers, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s praying for rescue.
Too late for that.
She’s mine now.
Her gaze drops after the kiss, settling somewhere around my collar as though she can’t quite bring herself to look at me. Her lips are pressed into a tight line—the ghost of my mouth still on them, unwelcome and unacknowledged.
I slip my hand into my jacket pocket.
Her gaze follows instinctively as though she expects me to reach for a gun.
Given the circumstances, I don’t blame her.
But I’m not reaching for a weapon. I’m reaching for a ring. The engagement ring. The one I sent with Zhang. The one she returned in its velvet box, a folded note tucked beside the diamond like a grenade wrapped in silk.
I hold it between us, pinched between my index and middle finger. Close enough that she can’t avoid looking at it. Close enough that the space between us narrows to nothing but white gold and a glimmering stone.
Her gaze drifts to the ring before she finally meets mine. Something flickers behind those midnight eyes. Something like a dare—like she made the first move and challenges me to make mine.
I lean in, my lips brush her ear, and lower my voice so that no one in this chapel hears what I say except her.
“I won’t be sticking this up my arse,” I murmur.
She stiffens against me, a sharp, startled breath betraying that she hadn’t expected to hear her own words thrown back at her at the altar.
“But I appreciate the suggestion. Creative. Bold. Very royal of you.”
Her jaw tightens. I can practically hear her teeth grinding.
“You will wear this ring, Princess.” I draw back until I can see her face again—those dark, furious, devastating eyes that haven’t stopped defying me since the moment I first looked into them.
I take her left hand, steady her fingers in mine, and slide the ring into place above the band. “Because you’re mine now.”
Not because I want her. Not because I chose her. But because she wears my name now.
And in my world, that’s a claim.
The reception takes place in a vast venue. Gilded arches. Mosaic floors. Light filtering through carved screens like something out of an ancient tale. We move through the crowd that isn’t here to celebrate us, but to measure us. Predators in suits. Vultures with champagne flutes.
But I don’t pay attention to any of them now. I focus on her.
Her hand is small in mine. The other rests against my shoulder, light, reluctant, like she’s ready to pull away at any second. She’s stiff.
She changed after we arrived at the venue.
The ceremonial gown is gone, and in its place is an off-the-shoulder white silk dress, clinging to curves I have no business noticing.
Her hair is swept into a high ponytail now, leaving the elegant line of her neck bare.
My eyes find it before I can stop them, but I redirect my attention before it can linger.
She’s tall—five-eight, maybe—but even in heels, she barely reaches me.
At six-five, I loom over her like a shadow she can’t step out of.
She feels it. I see it in the tension of her jaw and in the way her gaze lands anywhere but my eyes.
The music swells. Eventually, she breaks the silence that’s been sitting between us like a third guest. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
The corner of my eye twitches, barely a smirk, more like a crack in the ice. “No.”
She gives the faintest nod.
“The man who interrupted the ceremony.” I finally give in to the nagging question, and she straightens her spine as if steadying herself. “Who was he to you?”
“My ex,” she says calmly, with that effortless elegance she carries. “But it’s over. I ended it.”
“Any more I should know about?”
Her brows twitch faintly. “No.”
I nod once. The matter’s closed.
“Listen,” I speak low, “I know we’re bound by…unusual circumstances despite our desire to do so. But if we set some rules, we might make it work.” Or more like, make it out alive.
Her expression softens with surprise, but before she can reply, the clinking of glass cuts through the air.
“A toast!” Leandro, her father, speaks, champagne flute in hand. “To my daughter and her husband! Mr. and Mrs. Vold!”
The crowd murmurs in approval, raising their glasses. Across the room, I spot my father nodding at Leandro, his expression giving nothing. Then he turns his focus to me.
“There’s no time to waste. The plane’s waiting,” Vidar says without infection.
Ayanna stiffens in my arms, turning her head toward him. “Already?”
Vidar stares at her for a moment with the faint surprise that she dared to question him. “The deal’s done. It’s time to go home.”
“But—” Ayanna looks at me, her eyes flicking like a plea she’s too proud to speak, then they search for her parents as if begging for saving. “The wedding reception has barely started. I thought—”
“Oh please, don’t be so dramatic.” Vidar cuts in.
The air seems to thicken as every eye in the room settles on us. Then a familiar voice slices through the suffocating silence from a table at the edge of the room.
“So is it over yet?” Eero, my half brother. Two years younger, different mothers. Hence, his almost white-blond hair, a contrast to my raven black—a reminder of our separate bloodlines. He tugs his tie, grimacing. “Because this thing is choking me. I’m ready to set it on fire.”
A ripple of laughter breaks through the room, defusing the tension just enough.
For a fraction, my jaw unclenches. Because leave it to Eero to cut the air when everyone else is too busy suffocating in it.
We’re at thirty thousand feet, and the low hum of the engine—occasionally broken by the soft clink of ice shifting in my glass—is the only sound filling the silence. An hour has passed since takeoff, and neither of us has said a word.
I glance her way. She sits across from me, arms crossed, legs tucked beneath her.
She’s changed again, into a beige blouse and loose pants.
The kind of outfit that shouldn’t look regal but it does on her.
She should look small in that seat, in that outfit.
Fragile. Yet she doesn’t. She looks defiant, chin lifted, jaw set, like she’s already planning ways to make my life difficult.
I let my gaze linger a beat too long because she notices, and her arms tighten across her chest.
“I know you’re not happy about your new life,” I say. The grimace that twists her face almost pulls a smirk out of me. Almost.
“That’s an understatement,” she snaps back without hesitation. “I hate everything about it.”
I swirl the whiskey in my glass. “I had plans too, you know. A life. Before this arrangement.”
She looks at me for the first time since we boarded, and her brows furrow.
“What was her name?”
My jaw tightens despite myself. “It’s all in the past now. Where it should stay.”
She leans forward. The movement pulls the blouse taut against her collarbone, and I keep my eyes on hers. Barely.
“I deserve to know.” Her voice drops, dark eyes burning into mine. “After all”—the sarcasm drips deliberately—“we’re about to spend a lifetime together, aren’t we?”
“Chiara.” The name leaves my mouth like a door closing. “Her name was Chiara.”
She speaks again after a beat of silence, her voice quiet and soft. “Did you love her?”
“I’m not built for love.”
She studies me for a moment before nodding.
I set the glass down, the clink sharp in the quiet. “Now tell me, is there anyone else you’re seeing that I should be aware of?”
Her eyes flash. A death glare that would send weaker men running.
“What?” My head angles. “I’d rather not be caught off guard again.”
“I told you.” Her jaw ticks. “There was just Luca. And you saw how that ended.”
“Good.”
Mirroring her posture, I rest my forearms on my thighs, angling my body toward hers. The sweet scent of her perfume lingers between us. “Because now…you’re mine, Ayanna.”
Her breath hitches, but she covers it with a sharp scoff.
“God. So conceited, aren’t you?” She leans even closer until only a fraction of an inch separates us.
If I tilted my head, I’d know what she tastes like.
“Just for the record,” she breathes, her voice is steadier than her pulse, which I can see fluttering at the base of her throat, “I’ll never be yours. ”
A smirk tugs at my mouth. “You already are.” My hand lifts, and my fingers catch her chin, tilting her face toward mine until those black eyes have nowhere to go but me.
Her lips part, and I watch her swallow. “You vowed to be mine until death do us part,” I murmur, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “Remember?”