Nikolai bows his head, the priest offers a blessing I barely hear, and the witnesses shuffle out without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Clara doesn’t move. She stands in front of me, shoulders squared, eyes bright with everything she refuses to give. I want to reach for her, to pull her into my arms, to apologize for every wound I’ve caused—but I know she’d only hate me more for it.
Instead, I force myself to hold her gaze, giving her the only thing I can: honesty.
“I know what this is,” I say quietly, voice rough. “I know what I’ve done to you.”
Her jaw tightens. “Do you?”
“I do,” I whisper. “I’ll spend every day trying to make it matter. Trying to make you safe. Even if you never forgive me.”
The words hang between us, heavier than any vow. For a moment, neither of us breathes.
She turns away, tears bright in her eyes, tears that she won’t let fall.
Nikolai clears his throat, breaking the spell. “It’s done,” he says quietly. “You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word tastes bitter.
I watch as Clara slips away, her steps measured, her head high. I see the tremor in her spine, the fight in every line of her body. I want to tell her she’s free now, that no one will dare hurt her, that she belongs only to herself.
It would be a lie. She belongs to me, and I belong to her, for better or for worse.
The mansion is silent as I watch her disappear down the hall. The candlelight flickers, and the only thing left is the sound of my own heart.
The priest doesn’t linger. As soon as the words are spoken, he lowers his head, murmurs a tired prayer, and lets Nikolai guide him out into the gray morning.
Their footsteps and muffled voices fade down the hall, leaving behind only the heavy hush of the parlor and the flicker of dying candles. The two remaining witnesses, faces drawn and pale, leave just as quickly, shuffling into the rain-soaked garden without a word to either of us.
I remain rooted in place, feeling the ache in my chest pulse with every beat. The ring is cold on my finger, a band of obligation and protection—and something else I’m afraid to name.
The silence presses in from every side. I let it, because I know I deserve it.
Clara’s already gone, vanishing the instant the ceremony ended. She walked away with her shoulders back and her chin up, a queen without a throne, refusing to look at me, refusing tobreak. I watch the last sway of her dress vanish up the staircase, and then the emptiness settles, thick and final.
The candles gutter low. I stand until the last one dies, then leave the parlor and move through the hushed corridors, searching for her. The mansion feels smaller than ever, its familiar rooms suddenly hostile, every shadow a reminder of what I’ve taken from her.
I check the library first, then the conservatory, then the back gallery where the garden doors stand closed against the rain. She’s nowhere to be seen. I tell myself it’s for her safety—this search, this need to find her and make sure she’s not too shattered.
The truth is simpler: I can’t bear the thought of her alone, believing herself more prisoner than bride.
I climb the stairs, boots echoing on the polished wood, and pause outside her door. It’s closed, the old keyhole gleaming dully in the dim light. I listen, breath held, and catch the faintest sound of movement inside—fabric rustling, maybe a quiet sob, maybe just the shifting of someone trying to hold herself together.
I raise my hand, then let it fall against the panel. The knock is gentle, careful. “Clara.” My voice is rougher than I’d like.
No answer.
I rest my forehead against the door. “Let me in.”
Still nothing. A minute passes, then another.
I hear a sharp exhale from the other side, and a voice that’s thin, brittle, full of anger and heartbreak. “Go away, Lukyan.”
“I just want to talk,” I say, but the words sound useless even to me. There’s nothing left to explain. I’ve done what I set out to do.
“You’ve said enough,” she calls, muffled by the wood.
Guilt claws at my chest. I could force the lock. I could have Nikolai fetch the spare key. I don’t. I press my palm flat to the door, feeling the stubborn resistance of old oak, and imagine her sitting on the other side—knees pulled tight, eyes red, hands clenched to keep from shaking.
