"Nine years of suppression," I murmur. "Her first real heat is going to be..." I trail off, my Alpha instincts already imagining it. The scent of her slick, the desperation in her eyes, the way she'll beg for my knot. My cock hardens at the thought.
"Intense," Emmett finishes diplomatically. "Possibly dangerous. Suppressant rebound can cause severe physical distress. The heat may be longer, more painful. She'll need?—"
"Me," I interrupt. "She'll need her Alpha. Her mate." The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me.
"So this is entirely strategic?" Emmett presses, clearly unconvinced.
Something cold slithers down my spine. Emmett has always been too observant for his own good.
"Get out," I say lightly, though shadows begin to gather more densely around me. "Go make sure no one's trying to smuggle assassination tools into my wedding. That would be such a mood killer."
After Emmett leaves, I move to the window, restless energy coursing through me. The truth is, Seraphina has occupied more of my thoughts over the years than she should have. There's something about her that has always drawn my attention—the perfect posture, the controlled expressions that occasionally crack to reveal flashes of genuine emotion. And underneath it all, hidden beneath layers of suppressants, the scent of an Omega.
I've wanted to crack that perfect facade since the first time I truly noticed her.
Hours pass in a blur of preparations for tomorrow's ceremony. The Master of Ceremonies arrives with updates on the final arrangements, his Beta scent carefully neutral despite the obvious anxiety radiating from him. Marrying a Shadow Lord to a Light Court noble is unprecedented in recent history, and the man is clearly terrified of making a mistake.
"Everything will be prepared by tomorrow evening, my lord," he says with a deep bow. "The courtyard decorations are nearly complete."
I nod absently, only half-listening as he drones on about floral arrangements and seating charts for the various dignitaries. My mind is already elsewhere—on the ceremony itself, on the moment when I'll finally be able to touch her without restraint, when the blood binding will make her mine in ways she can't even imagine yet.
The grand courtyard is being transformed with black marble platforms for the ceremony, surrounded by thousands of crystal orbs containing writhing shadows. Dark roses and nightshade blossoms will form elaborate arrangements, their scent heavy in the cool air.
At the far end will stand the traditional Shadow Court wedding arch—twisted black metal where shadows form partial images of faces in agony, grasping hands, and blinking eyes. I can just imagine how the Light Court delegation will react. The thought brings a smile to my face.
The blood binding altar gleams with ancient runes beneath the wedding arch. I've studied the ancient texts extensively in preparation for this day, though they're frustratingly inconsistent about what the binding actually does. Some texts say it creates a mild magical connection—allowing spouses to sense each other's general location, to feel echoes of strong emotions. Others claim far more dramatic consequences, including shared agony upon death, or even mutual destruction.
Honestly? I don't know which version is true. The rituals are so old that their exact mechanics have been lost to time, embellished through centuries of myth and fear. But Seraphina doesn't need to know that.
When the moment comes, I'll tell her the bond means if one of us dies, the other suffers unbearable torment—perhaps even death itself. I'll make it sound absolute, terrifying, inescapable. She needs to believe that killing me means destroying herself—it's the only insurance policy I have against an Omega who's almost certainly planning my murder.
The truth is far less certain. The blood binding will create some kind of connection between us—I know that much. Our scents will mingle, marking each other permanently. We'll sense each other's presence when close, feel echoes of strong emotions. For an Alpha and Omega, the mate bond will reinforce whatever magical binding forms. Beyond that? Everything else is speculation wrapped in centuries of superstition.
But she'll never know I'm uncertain. Fear of consequences is often more effective than the consequences themselves. And if she believes that severing the bond means her own death, she'll never try.
"And the bride's preparations?" I ask, aiming for casual disinterest even as my Alpha instincts strain to know how my Omega is faring.
"Lady Seraphina has completed her fitting for the ceremonial gown, my lord," the Master of Ceremonies replies. "She...initially refused to cooperate with the seamstresses."
"Did she?" I ask, amused. Of course she did. My fierce little Omega. "And how was that resolved?"
"Your grandmother's handmaidens insisted she submit to the measurements and adjustments. They can be quite...persuasive."
"Bunch of terrifying old bats," I agree cheerfully. "Did she try to escape? Set anything on fire? Curse my name to the seven hells?"
"She has been...remarkably composed, according to reports. Though she made her displeasure with the gown's design quite clear."
This surprises me. I expected rage, tears, perhaps an assassination attempt. What is she planning?
"Double the guards outside her chambers tonight," I order. "And tell Emmett—if any of them so much as look at her wrong, if they scent her with anything other than professional disinterest, I'll gut them myself. She's mine. No one else looks at her that way."
The possessive Alpha growl in my voice makes the Master of Ceremonies step back slightly. "Of course, my lord. I'll inform him immediately."
As twilight deepens, I find myself growing increasingly restless. Less than a day until Seraphina becomes my wife. My rut stirs again, responding to the approaching consummation. I'll need to maintain strict control during tomorrow's ceremony—can't have shadows writhing everywhere because my Alpha nature is demanding I take my mate.
I wonder what she's thinking right now. Is she crying? Plotting my demise? Feeling the first stirrings of heat as her suppressants break down under the stress? The thought of her fury brings a strange feeling I don't immediately recognize—something almost like respect.
And beneath the respect, hunger. Such intense hunger.
