I adjusted my cufflinks—silver serpents, naturally—and caught my reflection in the glass doors.
Sharp lines. Sharper eyes.
The kind of man they warned you about in fairy tales.
Good.
I’d always preferred the villain role. More freedom in it.
I turned back toward my little theater of control, letting a slow curl of satisfaction tug at my mouth.
Every piece in place.
Every illusion peeled back.
Every inch of her resistance catalogued and prepared for destruction.
The air thrummed with tension—or maybe that was just me.
I was wired tight tonight, every nerve tuned to one singular, delicious thought:
Midnight.
When I’d unmake her name and give her mine.
The candles swayed in rhythm with my pulse.
Fast. Steady.
Hungry.
“Everything’s ready,” I muttered, my voice low enough to belong to the dark itself.
A breeze drifted through the trees—cool, silent, scented faintly like her perfume.
She was near.
Even when she wasn’t in the room, she haunted it.
I allowed myself a flicker of indulgence. Just a taste.
Soon, she’d walk that aisle in that dress I chose.
That veil I placed.
That silence she’d wear like a collar.
And when she said “I do”?
That wouldn’t be surrender.
That would be mine.
I slipped into the tuxedo like it was skin I’d been waiting to wear.
Black-on-black—stitched sharp, tailored to cut.
The jacket whispered over my shoulders, the fabric gliding like a serpent curling into place. It didn’t cling. It coiled. Possessive. Precise.
