Thayer Thorne stands at the altar, a tall, imposing monolith of dark, ruinous power. At twenty-eight, he has shed the sharp, reckless edges of his youth and settled into a terrifying, absolute authority. He is dressed in a jet-black suit that molds perfectlyto the broad, heavy lines of his shoulders. His dark hair is swept back with immaculate precision, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic cut of his jawline and the cruel curve of his mouth.
But it’s the stillness of him that makes the breath hitch in my throat. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't smile. He watches me approach with the predatory, unblinking focus of a wolf tracking a wounded doe in the snow.
Even from a hundred feet away, his gaze is a physical weight. It crawls over my skin, stripping away the lace, the silk, the pathetic veil covering my face. He doesn’t look at me like a blushing bride. He looks at me like a ledger being balanced. An acquisition that he has patiently waited six years to collect.
My stomach pitches violently. A wave of dizziness washes over me, blurring the stained-glass windows into streaks of bruised purple and crimson. I squeeze my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, fighting the bile rising in my throat.
Don't let him touch you. Please, God, don't let him touch you.
The panic is a living, breathing entity inside my chest, clawing desperately at my ribs. The trauma of my past, the countless nights of psychological isolation, and my deep-seated terror of male control collide in a blinding flash of anxiety. The thought of a man's hands on me—hisbloodstained hands on me—makes my knees buckle slightly.
My father’s grip tightens, his nails biting into my skin through the silk sleeve. "Walk straight, you stupid girl," he mutters through a fake, plastic smile aimed at the crowd.
I force my eyes open and focus on the priest's robes. Anything to avoid looking back into those pale, glacial gray eyes waiting for me.
We reach the altar. The silence in the cathedral is absolute, thick and heavy with unspoken threats. No one is looking at my dress. They are looking at the new King of the Underworld claiming his spoil of war.
Thayer steps down from the dais.
Up close, the danger radiating from him is catastrophic. He eclipses the light, casting a long, dark shadow over me. The scent of him hits me first—cedarwood, cold winter air, and the faint, metallic ghost of gunpowder. It invades my senses, suffocating any remaining oxygen in my lungs.
"Arthur," Thayer says. His voice is a low, dark velvet rasp that vibrates straight down into the marble floorboards. It sends a violent, involuntary shiver racing down my spine.
"Don Thorne," my father replies, his voice lacking its usual bravado. He practically shoves me forward, eager to sever his ties and erase his debt. "She is yours."
My father steps back, leaving me entirely exposed. Abandoned.
I stand frozen, my hands glued to my sides, my fingers trembling so violently I have to curl them into tight fists to hide the shaking. I stare fixedly at the center of Thayer’s chest, watching the slow, even rise and fall of his breath.
"Look at me, Sybil."
The command is soft, but it carries the crushing weight of an absolute absolute order.
Slowly, fighting the paralyzing terror locking my joints, I tilt my chin up. Through the veil, my midnight blue eyes meet his dead, empty gray ones. There is no mercy there. No reassurance. Only a dark, possessive hunger that makes my blood run cold.
He reaches out.
His large hand moves toward my face, his scarred fingers catching the edge of my veil. I stop breathing entirely. My heart hammers against my sternum in a frantic, bruised rhythm. He flips the tulle back over my head, exposing my face to the cold air and the hundreds of staring eyes.
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second, before moving up to catalog the rapid pulse beating frantically at the base of my throat. He sees the terror. He sees the microscopic tremor in my bottom lip. He knows exactly what he is doing to me.
The priest begins to speak, droning on about the sanctity of marriage, duty, and God. But God has no place in this cathedral today. The only deity in this room is the monster standing inches away from me.
I don't hear the vows. The words blur together in a meaningless hum of Latin and English. My entire nervous system is dialed up to a blinding, agonizing level of hyper-awareness. I can feel the heat radiating from Thayer’s large body. I can hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of his platinum watch.
"Do you, Thayer Thorne, take this woman..."
"I do," Thayer interrupts smoothly, not waiting for the priest to finish. His eyes never leave mine.
"And do you, Sybil Vance..."
The priest’s voice fades into a muffled underwater echo. It’s my turn. The trap is snapping shut. I open my mouth, but my throat is completely dry. No sound comes out. The silence stretches, thick, suffocating, and terrifying. The crowd shiftsuncomfortably. I can feel my father’s murderous rage burning a hole into the back of my head.
Thayer takes a half-step closer, invading my personal space, completely enveloping me in his dark aura.
"Say the words, little bird," he murmurs, his tone dangerously soft, meant only for my ears.
"I... I do," I choke out, the words tasting like ash and defeat.
