I focus on Sera. I can’t look away. She stands in darkness, a vision conjured from every hope and nightmare I have ever known. She is not meek, not silent, not broken. She is everything I never believed I would have.
“After this,” I murmur, “there’s no going back.”
She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “Fine by me.”
The priest motions for us to step closer, voice trembling. “The vows, please.”
I release her hand, only to brush my fingers over her knuckles once more—a silent promise, a mark. The hush deepens.
I see the faces turned toward us: men who have killed and died for less, women who measure power in blood and whispers.
Sera lifts her chin, eyes locked on mine. I sense her heart pounding, her certainty burning beneath the fear. I straighten, letting them see it—my pride, my obsession, my claim.
This is no ordinary wedding. This is war made sacred. This is the world remade, with Sera at its center.
The priest clears his throat again, waiting for us to speak. I feel the whole city balanced on the edge of this moment.
I take one last breath, and then—just before the vows begin—everything falls silent, the world holding its breath for us alone.
Every muscle in my body is tuned to Sera—her breath, the way her lashes flicker, the faint tremor of her fingers in mine. I can feel every gaze in the church: allies and rivals, men who’d kill for my favor and men who’d kill for a single mistake. None of them matter. The only thing real is her.
The priest nods for me to begin. I face Sera, holding her hand between both of mine. My voice is quiet at first, meant only for her, but as the words leave my mouth they gather weight, filling the vaulted space like thunder.
“I take you, Seraphina Hale, as my wife.” I don’t pause for the expected repetition, don’t wait for the old ritual. I forge my own promise, raw and final. “I swear to protect you, to fight for you, to keep you by my side. No force—no man, no god—will take you from me. Not ever.”
Her breath catches. I feel it, a subtle shift in the air between us. The ring is heavy, old, a partner to the engagement ring I gave her earlier, gold warmed by the heat of my palm. I press it onto her finger, sliding it past her knuckle until it sits snug, a shackle and a crown all at once.
I lower my voice so only she can hear. “You’re mine, Sera. In life, in death. In war, in peace. You belong to me.”
She meets my gaze, unblinking. I see fear there, and pride, and something like joy that terrifies us both. The priest turns to her, reciting the words, and Sera’s reply rings clear and unyielding through the church.
“I take you, Miron Sharov, as my husband,” she says, her tone steady, eyes never leaving mine. “I choose this: your world, your name, your war.” She lifts her chin, daring the room to object. “I swear to fight for you, to stand with you, to be your equal.”
A ripple passes through the crowd: shock, awe, maybe even approval. These aren’t the polite, rehearsed vows they expect.
She takes the second ring—silver, thinner, a piece of her own family’s history. She slides it onto my finger, her hand trembling only slightly. “You’re mine too, Miron. No one takes what’s mine.”
I grin, unable to help it. The words are a challenge and a promise.
The priest seems dazed, voice faltering as he says, “By the power vested in me…” He’s just a figurehead, a frightened man in a collar, but the old rituals matter for witnesses. He gives the final blessing, voice wavering. “You are husband and wife.”
I pull Sera in, ignoring protocol. My hands cup her face, lips crushing hers in a kiss that is anything but gentle. The room erupts: some applause, some murmured prayers, some cold, stunned silence. I don’t care. I kiss her until she surrenders, until she melts against me, until everyone in the room knows exactly who she belongs to.
When I let her go, her eyes are glazed, cheeks flushed. She grins at me, feral and fierce. “You really do love a spectacle,” she whispers.
I answer just as quietly, my voice rough. “You love the attention too, little raven.”
She laughs, low and unafraid. “Maybe I do.”
Pavel steps forward, nodding his respect. “Congratulations, Boss. Queen.” He nods at Sera, the nickname heavy with meaning. Around us, the Bratva are on their feet, watching, calculating.
Boris sidles closer, glass raised. “To the happy couple,” he drawls, a hint of menace in every syllable. “Congrats.”
Sera tilts her head, cool as winter. “Thank you.”
I watch her as the crowd closes in, as handshakes and bows and toasts pile up. She is regal, unbending, accepting every greeting with a smile that is all teeth and no apology. They look at her differently now—no longer as a prize, but as a force to be reckoned with.
In the swirl of bodies, I never let her drift far. My hand stays at her back, a silent claim. When I lean in, I whisper, “They see you now. They fear you.”
