“You made him angry,” he says, not bothering to ask what happened. “That’s a talent. Not many people can do that and still be breathing.”
I glare at him, trying to hide how rattled I am. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
He shrugs, moving closer but keeping a respectful distance. “You should get some sleep. Things always look worse at night.”
I almost laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. “Doesn’t feel like they’ll look any better in the morning.”
Nikolai studies me for a long moment. “You’re braver than you look. That’s not always a good thing in this house.”
I don’t answer. He lingers at the door, then finally leaves, the lock clicking softly behind him.
I curl back onto the floor, exhausted, but now the silence feels heavier than ever.
Chapter Fourteen - Lukyan
The morning of the wedding dawns gray, the sky pressed low over the city. The mansion is stripped of its usual excess—no glittering chandeliers, no laughter from the kitchen, no clink of glasses or rustle of expensive suits. Even the air feels thin, as if the house itself knows that nothing about this day is meant to be celebrated.
I watch the staff move like shadows, their faces tight, their words few. It’s not joy that fills the halls but the weight of necessity.
Nikolai oversees every detail, barking quiet orders to the priest and the two men who will act as witnesses. No flowers. No music. No family. No friends. Just what is required to make a union legal… and, in my world, untouchable.
I arrange for the ceremony to be held in the old parlor, the only room that feels private enough for this. Candlelight softens the edges of cracked paint and faded velvet.
I wait by the mantel, my suit too tight at the throat, jaw clenched, hands flexing at my sides.
The priest arrives, ancient and half deaf, blinking at the handful of us as if trying to understand why he was summoned at dawn to a place like this.
It isn’t love that drives me. It’s something rawer—possession, protection, the urge to shield what I’ve claimed, to make her mine in every way that matters to the world and my enemies alike.
There’s a part of me that wants to believe I’m doing this for her safety. The rest knows better: I’m doing it because the thought of letting her go, of seeing her in another man’s hands, is unbearable.
I pace the rug, each step dragging against the certainty I’ve worn like armor my whole life. There’s unease in my chest, an ache that grows sharper the closer the hour draws. I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m about to ruin both of us. I’ve crossed the line already. There’s no going back.
A soft knock breaks the stillness. Nikolai opens the door, nods once, and steps aside.
Clara stands in the hallway, a pale dress clinging to her frame, her hair twisted back in loose waves. She looks as if she’s been carved from moonlight, her hands trembling at her sides but her chin lifted high. When her eyes meet mine, the world sharpens to a single point of collision.
She hesitates just outside the doorway. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll bolt, if the fury and fear in her will finally crack into something that even I can’t fix. Instead, she takes a breath and steps forward, letting Nikolai offer his arm. He leads her down the length of the parlor, slow and steady, as if this is some ordinary moment in a life she chose.
Every step she takes feels like a dare, her posture rigid, her eyes locked on mine. I can feel the accusation burning behind her careful control.
My heart pounds, hands curling tight at my sides. I almost tell her she doesn’t have to do this, that I’d burn the world before seeing her broken.
The words die on my tongue. I’ve already crossed too many lines for mercy.
The priest murmurs his greetings, oblivious to the tension in the room. The witnesses shift uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at the two of us. Nikolai stands a respectful distance behind Clara, shoulders squared, jaw set.
The ceremony begins—simple, brutal in its efficiency. The priest asks if I take her as my wife, to protect and keep, in sickness and in health. My answer is ironclad, my voice steady. “Yes.”
He asks her the same. Clara’s lips part. I see the tremor in her hand as she clutches the ring Nikolai pressed into her palm.
She glances at me, and for a split second, I see the war inside her: rage, terror, something fierce and shining I don’t deserve. But she lifts her chin, voice unbroken, and says, “Yes.”
The rings slide onto trembling fingers. The priest pronounces us husband and wife.
It’s done.
For a heartbeat, the room is silent except for the crackle of candlelight and the hollow thump of my heart.
