She hated him. Everything about him. His hypocrisy. His lack of morals. His poor manners. The way he insisted on calling herkireiandwifeinstead ofYour Majesty, as would be polite and proper.
Of course, she very rarely referred to him asYour Highness, but that was beside the point.
Even his current appearance was an affront to her senses, given that he actually looked like a true prince of Drakmor—for once—rather than a grubby warrior fresh off the battlefield.
His dark hair was styled in gentle waves beneath a white gold coronet. His gray-speckled beard was trimmed. He even had a new eyepatch shimmering in a rich shade of emerald to match hiswedding attire: green and silver satin. The royal colors of Drakmor—of House Hargrave. The colors complemented his dusky complexion well.
He looked…nice. Were he anyone else, she might have even used the dreaded h-word.
Handsome.
As if aware she was thinking about how much she loathed him at that moment, the Crow tightened his grip on her hand with his strong, callused fingers, clinging to her as if to remind her of his presence. As if she could ever forget he was there.
Or perhaps he was simply responding to something Father Perero was saying.
Whatwaspoor Father Perero saying?
She furrowed her brow and tried to concentrate on the drone of the Shepherd’s words, but it was an utterly impossible task. The ceremony was dragging on. Her thoughts hazed, exhaustion pressing heavily against her temples. Why had she stayed up all night? Her calves ached from standing so long in her heeled slippers. Why had she worn heeled slippers? It was just going to make it that much more difficult when she had to crouch down in them to receive her new husband’s kiss and seal their marital vows.
Oh, by the Lord.The kiss.She had almost forgotten about the kiss. The irony was almost too much to bear. To think that the very idea had haunted her merely two nights ago and now—
“Your Majesty?”
Her attention snapped to Father Perero, who stared at her expectantly, his eyebrows knitting together. Oh, no. What had he just said? Her sluggish mind scrambled to recall.
Behind her, somewhere in one of the pews, a man chuckled.
“Do you, Seraphina Marie de la Croix,” the Shepherd patiently repeated himself, “first of your name, Queen of Elmoria, take Aldric Warwick Hargrave, Prince of Drakmor, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” she loudly confirmed, letting her voice echo throughout the cathedral. She even pinned a smile to her lips for good measure, to spite whoever had dared chuckle at her expense.
The Crow’s hands were steady, in direct contrast to her own tired tremble, as he slid the ring that she was supposed to wear until death did them part onto the third finger of her left hand: a delicate, golden band set with diamonds and an enormous emerald of all things.
An emerald, in the color of Drakmor. Not a sapphire for Elmoria. Even Olivia had ensured the glass jewel set on the ring she wore on her right hand—still filled with a single dose of sleeping poison—was blue.
The desire to shoot him a withering look at the subtle snub to her heritage was almost too strong to ignore, but she resigned herself to be the better person and shoved his own band onto his finger: a sturdy gold ring with anemeraldframed by twin depictions of the Hargrave griffin. Because at leastshehad the forethought and manners to order him a ring in the right color.
Perhaps she could have her stone reset later.
The moment the ring was upon his hand, her new husband twitched away, his warm touch retreating. Clearly, he was just as eager to get this all over with as she was.
My new husband.She slanted the Crow a sidelong look, studying the way he stared straight forward at Father Perero rather than at her. At the way he swallowed visibly. At the way he tapped his fingers against his hip. Impatient.
She was married. She was married tothisman. A man who hated her. A man with a mistress. She almost couldn’t believe it.
Like a woman about to take a plunge into a cold lake, Seraphina sucked in a deep breath—steeling her nerves for this final portion of the show they must put on for the sake of the world—just as Father Perero announced to the Crow, “You may now kiss the bride, Your Highness.”
This was it. All they had left was the kiss, the Shepherd’s closing statements, the procession back to the palace for a modest reception, and then they could go back to pretending the other didn’t exist until it was time for the next war council.
Usually, weddings in the Elmorian midlands were extravagant affairs made to last two or three days, but her treasury simply couldn’t afford such unnecessary expenses right now. For once, she was glad her father had left their coffers depleted. There was no need to drag this ceremony out any longer than was utterly necessary.
Right, thekiss. She forced herself to meet the Crow’s one-eyed gaze as she leaned toward him, drawing near. Nearer than she would have liked. Near enough to drink in the subtle whiff of hiscologne. He actually smelled pleasant for once rather than merely like sweat and leather andhorse. The warm scent ensnared her senses, reminding her of something she couldn’t quite place.
Like dark amber and rich earth.
She had thought he would meet her halfway, that he would rise up on tiptoe and kiss her as everyone expected him to do. But he didn’t.
She frowned at him, wondering what his problem was.
