My pulse spikes. "For what?"
She twists out of my grip and looks sharply over her shoulder toward the center platform. The torches lining the arena cast arestless glow over her glistening skin. Everywhere around us, the contrast of white and black dances from the flames.
I clench my jaw, ready to kill everyone in this room.
My bride was a force to be reckoned with and in a dress no other could pull off. Yet it only created more hatred for the Underworld.
They dressed her in black not to honor her strength but to shame her as if she carried a stain and was less. And yet she stood there with her head high enough to confront every person who tried to diminish her.
Despite the twisted meaning, she looked incredible. She was stunning in a way the Underworld doesn't deserve to witness. But she should have been in white, not these hypocritical members around us, screaming they were better than her.
It pissed me off the moment I saw it, and the anger spikes hotter now. My Minx was never less than anyone in this room. If anything, she's a hundred times better. Yet, I see the shame they've put in her head.
They're all going to pay.
"We have to go back," she whispers, voice punched with dread.
"What are you talking about? We're done. They announced it. We're leaving," I insist.
Her words tremble. "Three rings on the gong. You heard it and you know the rules."
I drag a harsh breath from my lungs. "What else do they want from us?"
Her expression tightens. It's not the usual storm of killer instinct and confidence. Her eyes widen in a slow stretch, her jaw tightens, and something raw creeps through the cracks of her composure. It isn't a weakness but a warning.
Her voice drops until it's just breath. "Brax, we have to go back."
And I hate it. Fear enters her expression, and that's not the woman I know her to be. No, my Minx will slit someone's throat if they look the wrong way, and I prefer it over her giving her power to these assholes.
Her hand lifts, fingers brushing the side of my face, her cool palm pressing against my cheek. "Brax…please."
I lean closer and murmur in her ear, "Don't let them intimidate you. You're Valentina Abruzzo O'Malley now." I pull back and lock my gaze into hers.
She takes a deep breath and nods.
I tug her into my chest, slide my arm around her waist, and turn us toward the chanting mass. I mumble, "Let's get this over with, Minx."
The crowd parts slowly, their voices scraping in a low hum. Torches return to hitting the ground, but unlike before, it's a soft touch instead of a violent beating.
I lead us up the steps and back onto the center stage toward the king and queen.
Kirill and Fiona stand side by side. He has a protective arm around her, and I can't say I blame him. The last time they were here, they almost got beheaded.
His heavy frame blocks one of the flames behind him, making the scar slicing across his cheek and peeking out from under his mask look darker.
I want to hate him, but I can't. Not for this moment. Not when relief hit me hard when I realized it was him stepping forward instead of one of those Omni bastards who enjoy turning simple instructions into brutal punishments. And deep down, I know he has to do what he has to do. He didn't make up these rituals. Sean and Fiona's father did.
I still don't understand why. So as much as I don't want to admit it, I trust him. He's a Petrov, and somehow, through all this craziness, I don't fear him. Valentina is his only friend, and I know he would never willingly harm her. But I still stare at him with caution. His job is to conduct the ritual, and who knows what else is in store for us.
I ask, "Why did you call us back?"
His voice booms, echoing against the stone columns, "You forgot something."
My gut knots hard. I tighten my hold on Valentina's waist until her breath shudders quietly against me. She doesn't pull away.
Kirill lifts a hand, ordering, "Bring them their robes."
Two members emerge through the shadows, each carrying a folded white robe across both arms. They're thick and luxurious.
