Around us, whispers rise. I catch fragments—"...never seen an Omega move like that..." "...Light Court must train them differently..." "...the Shadow Lord's wife is insane..."
"Who taught you to fight like this?" I ask, blocking a vicious thrust aimed at my throat. "The Academy doesn't train diplomats to kill."
"My father believed in a well-rounded education," she replies, spinning away from my counterattack. Her light magic pulses, warming the air in direct contrast to my shadows' chill.
"Your father," I repeat, testing the bond between us for any emotional reaction. I get only muted echoes—frustration, perhaps, but filtered through whatever barrier she's erected. For days now, I've sensed only dampened signals, as if she's found some way to shield her thoughts and feelings from me. "How thoughtful of him to prepare you so thoroughly for marriage to a monster."
"He taught me to survive in hostile environments."
"And are you surviving, wife? Or thriving? Because I've noticed you've adapted to Shadow Court life with surprising ease."
It's true. In the few days since our wedding, she's taken control of the household. The servants both fear and respect her, the court ladies watch her with jealous eyes, and even some of my advisors have begun treating her with cautious deference.
From the corner of my eye, I see Emmett enter the training yard, his expression shifting from casual curiosity to concern. My second-in-command positions himself near the exit, watching. He catches my eye briefly, and I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head. This is between my wife and me.
"I adapt to whatever prison I find myself in," Seraphina replies, launching a flurry of attacks that force me backward several steps. "It's a skill."
The watching crowd grows silent now, transfixed. Even Lady Lucinda has stopped scowling, her expression shifted to grudging interest.
"You know," I remark, "most brides spend their first week of marriage arranging flowers or planning dinners. Mine apparently prefers attempting to murder me in broad daylight. I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered."
"Be whatever you want," she retorts, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken her ear off. "I couldn't care less."
"Oh, but you do care," I counter. "You care very much about what I am to you now. What was his name again? Oh yes—Asher. Tell me, do you still see his face when you close your eyes? Do you remember the sounds he made as my shadows tore him apart?"
Something wild and dangerous flares in her eyes. Even through her shields, I sense the spike of raw fury. Perfect.
She attacks with renewed intensity, her strikes no longer measured but powered by emotion. It makes her stronger but less precise—exactly what I wanted. Her light magic flares brighter, hotter.
"He died like a dog," I continue, blocking her increasingly aggressive attacks. "Whimpering. Begging. Calling your name until the very end."
Her next attack is pure emotion, all technique forgotten.
I sidestep easily, hooking my ankle behind hers and sending her crashing to the ground. Before she can recover, I'm on her, my shadow-sword at her throat, my knee pressing into her sternum.
"And now you're in the dirt again," I whisper. "Just like that night in my bed when I knotted you. Tell me, wife, do you dream of him while I touch you? Does it ease your conscience to pretend that wasn't your pulse racing under my hands?"
This close, I catch her scent—fury and humiliation and something else that makes my Alpha instincts roar with possessive satisfaction. Her pupils dilate slightly, her body responding even as her mind rebels.
Her response is unexpected—she laughs, bitter and humorless. "Is that what this is about? Your wounded pride because I don't melt at your touch like your whores do?"
It's a direct hit, more effective than any sword stroke. I mask my surprise with a smile that shows too many teeth. "My pride isn't what's wounded, Omega. But you will be if you continue to provoke me."
"Then kill me," she challenges. "End this farce of a marriage. Or are you afraid to lose your shiny new political asset?"
I lean closer until our noses nearly touch. "Death would be a mercy you haven't earned yet. Besides, I'm not nearly done playing with you."
With a controlled surge of light magic, she creates a barrier that forces me backward. I roll to my feet, genuinely impressed, just in time to meet her renewed attack.
Our audience has grown beyond the training yard now. I see faces in windows, servants abandoning their duties to watch. Even the Beta guards have moved closer. Emmett remains where he stands, but his posture has shifted—ready to intervene if this escalates beyond sparring.
Seraphina fights with the desperation of someone with nothing left to lose. She's magnificent in her fury, all golden eyes and deadly grace, her dark hair coming loose from its braid. Sweat glistens on her skin, making her almost luminous in the eternal twilight of the Shadow Court.
My body reacts traitorously to the sight—wild, powerful, unleashed. A primal part of me wants to throw down my sword and claim that furious mouth, to press her into the dirt and knot her right here in front of everyone. The intensity of my desire catches me off guard, and I miss blocking a strike I should have easily deflected.
Her blade slices across my chest, drawing blood through my torn tunic. The pain is sharp, immediate, and utterly shocking.
The yard grows deathly quiet. Not a whisper, not a breath. Just shocked silence.
