The wedding ceremony is a blur in my memory—a tedious formality I endured only because tradition demanded it. I remember the way her golden eyes, still red-rimmed from tears she'd tried to hide, refused to meet mine as our blood mingled at the ancient obsidian altar. I remember the delicious sight of those silver chains wrapped around her body—restraints I'd ordered specially for her, designed to suppress both her light magic and her Omega biology, marking her as mine while keeping her from entering heat prematurely.
The thought of what awaits us in those chambers sends a dark thrill through me. I'd given Emmett very specific instructions the moment the Light Court prince's body had cooled—every bone collected, cleaned, and delivered to my personal craftsmen. They'd worked through the day, fueled by shadow magic and fear, to complete my wedding gift to myself. A fitting throne for claiming my bride, built from the remains of her former lover.
Now, as I push open the door to our chambers, I feel the heady rush of victory. The magical fated mate bond thrums between us, a newly forged connection that allows me to sense the storm of emotions beneath her carefully composed exterior: revulsion, grief, fear, and a burning hatred that makes my shadows pulse with hunger. Absolutely delicious.
"Welcome to your new home, wife," I announce, gesturing grandly at the room.
The chamber is a study in shadow and luxury—black silk drapes, obsidian furnishings, and hundreds of crystal orbs containing writhing shadows that cast the room in an ever-shifting twilight. At its center stands a massive bed with an ornate white frame that gleams like polished bone in the shifting light, draped in black silk.
Seraphina stands just inside the doorway, still wearing my grandmother's black wedding gown, her posture rigid with tension. The memory of those silver chains I'd removed before entering our chambers lingers in my mind—the way they encircled her throat, bound her wrists, emphasized the curves of her body. There's something about her power contained but not broken that makes my blood run hot.
"Those chains suited you," I observe, circling her like a predator. "Perhaps I'll have new ones made. Gold, I think, to complement your eyes."
She hasn't spoken a word to me since the ceremony, maintaining a wall of icy silence that I find both amusing and infuriating. Even now, when we're finally alone, she refuses to give me the satisfaction of her voice.
"The fated mate bond is nearly complete," I say, moving closer, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla and light magic, but tainted now with fear and fury. The combination is intoxicating, even with the suppressants dulling most of her natural Omega fragrance. I also start to feel her emotions, right now she’s furious, ready to claw her nails through my face. "Can you feel it? The way our magic seeks to merge?"
"I feel nothing but contempt," she replies, finally breaking her silence.
"A start," I concede with a smile. "Though the bond will reveal much more than that, I promise you."
I move to a nearby table and pour two glasses of wine, offering one to her. "A wedding tradition. Or would you prefer to skip the formalities?" I gesture toward the bed with my glass.
She knocks the glass from my hand, wine splattering across the obsidian floor like spilled blood.
"Damn your traditions," she hisses, golden eyes blazing with hatred so pure it takes my breath away. "This is a farce."
"Ah, that's better," I laugh, delighted by her outburst. "There's the fire I was looking for. Let's be very clear about what this is—you're mine now. Not just a political arrangement. Mine to possess, to breed."
"I am not a possession," she hisses, her voice like the whisper of wind, beautiful yet dangerous.
"Ah, it's far more than that," I counter, setting down both glasses. "Remove your gown."
Her eyes widen slightly at the abrupt command. "What?"
"Your gown," I repeat, leaning against a bedpost with calculated casualness. "Remove it. Piece by piece. I want to see what I've acquired."
The fury that flashes across her face is magnificent. "Acquired. Like livestock at auction. How romantic."
"The fated mate bond and ancient law disagree," I reply. "Now, shall we continue with this tiresome resistance, or shall you accept the inevitable?"
She holds my gaze for a long moment, calculation clear in her eyes. Finally, with deliberate slowness, she reaches for the first ornate pin in her hair.
"You mean these?" she asks, her voice deceptively sweet as she withdraws a pin from her dark locks.
A flicker of something—not quite light, but a pale echo of her former power—sparks around her fingertips. The pin glows faintly as she hurls it across the room, the suppressed magic giving it just enough force to embed itself in my shoulder with surprising sharpness. The mate bond may suppress most of her Light magic, but strong emotion seems to be breaking through the restraints in small, desperate bursts.
Pain sears through me, sharp, immediate, and utterly unexpected. I hiss, more in surprise than actual discomfort, as I pluck the glowing pin from my flesh. It dims between my fingers, leaving a smoking wound that my shadows immediately begin to heal.
"Interesting," I say, genuinely amused. "Most Light Court nobles can barely conjure an illumination spell, yet you've fashioned a weapon from a hairpin. I wonder what else they taught you at that precious academy of yours."
She removes another pin, a dangerous smile playing at her lips. "I'm full of surprises."
Another weakly glowing projectile flies toward me, this one aimed at my heart. My shadows deflect it easily now that I'm prepared, but her aggression sends a thrill of excitement through me. This is no cowering Omega bride, but a warrior. I'm going to enjoy breaking her slowly.
"Continue," I encourage her, shadows swirling more densely around me. "I'm curious how many more surprises you've hidden in that ensemble."
She removes her jewelry next—each earring, each bracelet becoming a faintly glowing projectile that she hurls at me with increasing precision. I dodge or deflect most, allowing a few to graze me just for the thrill of her small victories.
