“What… what is this?” I rasp, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel.
“A beginning,” Peter whispers, his hand settling on the small of my back, his touch as viral and possessive as ever. “I told you, Wendy. No more fires. No more choices. Just us.”
The realisation hits me like a physical blow. The stars, the wine, the way he held me—it wasn’t a surrender. It was a distraction.
I yank at thegold chains, the metal biting into my skin, theclink-clink-clinkechoing through the silent, expectant chapel. I struggle, my heels slipping on the marble, my breath coming in panicked, ragged gasps. I look at him, at the calm, terrifying devotion in his eyes, and the sweetness I felt in the observatory turns into a mouthful of ash.
“You drugged me,” I choke out, the tears hot and jagged. “Just when I think there is a human fucking man in there—just when I think you might actually be capable of something other than a goddamn transaction—you do this?”
“I am a human man, Wendy,” he says, stepping closer until he’s shielding me from the gaze of the Council. His voice drops to a low, lethal vibration. “And a human man protects what is his. I’m not losing you to a war, and I’m sure as hell not losing you to your own indecision. You wanted a claim? This is it. In front of God and the men who would kill us both.”
“This isn’t a wedding! It’s a sentencing!” I scream, the sound tearing through the floral-scented air.
I pull at the shackles again, my wrists turning raw and red beneath the gold. “I hate you! Do you hear me, Peter? I fucking hate you!”
“I know,” he says, and he actually smiles—a small, heartbreakingly beautiful smile that shatters what’s left of my heart. He leans in, his lips brushing my temple as the priest begins to read. “But you’ll look so beautiful in the photos, Darling. Now, be a good bride and say your vows. The city is waiting.”
I yank the gold chains upward, the metal jarring against my bones, a frantic, rhythmic clinking that sounds like a deathknell against the silence of the chapel. The lace of the gown—this beautiful, cursed shroud—bunches around my legs as I try to stumble back, but the weight of the tulle is a trap.
“I won’t fucking marry you!” I scream, the words tearing out of my throat, raw and jagged. I don’t care about the Council. I don’t care about the grey-faced men in the pews who are watching my unraveling like it’s a piece of performance art. “I don’t fucking want this! I don’t want you!”
The air in the room goes still. It’s the kind of silence that precedes a lightning strike—pressurised, ozone-heavy, and lethal.
Peter doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t beg. The warmth that had been in his eyes when I woke up—that lingering trace of the man who held me under the stars—evaporates. His features shift, the bone structure of his face hardening into something granite-hewn and terrifying. He looks like the King of a graveyard again.
He steps into my space, his massive frame eclipsing the light of the chandeliers. He grabs the centre of the gold chain between my wrists, his knuckles white, and jerks me toward him until our chests collide.
“Well, isn’t that a fucking shame,” he snarls, his voice a low, guttural vibration that I feel in my teeth. “Because I’m not asking for your permission, Wendy. I’m telling you how this ends. You can do this with your head held high, or I can have Vane hold you upright while I slide the ring onto a finger I’ll break if I have to. But you will be a Hale before the sun touches the horizon.”
“You’re a monster,” I sob, the word a broken, pathetic thing.
“I’m the monster you let into your bed,” he corrects, his eyes dark and bottomless, devoid of any mercy. “I’m the monster you tasted wine from. You don’t get to retreat into the light now that you’ve seen the view from the bottom of the pit.”
He lets go of the chain and looks over my shoulder, nodding once to the back of the room.
The organ erupts.
It’s not a soft, bridal march. It’s a thunderous, aggressive Wagnerian crescendo that shakes the very foundation of the chapel. The pipes roar, a wall of sound that swallows my screams, making the white lilies tremble in their vases. It sounds like a war march. It sounds like a conquest.
The Council stands as one, a sea of black silk and cold intentions.
“Walk,” Peter commands, his hand clamping onto my waist with a grip that will leave bruises beneath the lace. “Smile for the cameras, Darling. Show them how much you love the leash.”
My legs feel like lead, my heart a frantic bird hitting the bars of my ribs. As he forces me forward, step by agonising step toward the trembling priest, the glittering light of the chandeliers reflects off my gold shackles, casting dancing, mocking shadows across the white marble aisle. I am being marched to my own execution, dressed in the finest silk money can buy, while the man I thought I loved holds the blade to my back.
The music is a physical weight, a symphony of conquest that vibrates through the soles of my feet. I look at the priest, his eyes darting between me and the gold-cuffed wrists I’m clutching to my chest, and a sudden,jagged bolt of pure survival instinct overrides the sedative.
I don’t think. I bolt.
I spin away from Peter, my heavy skirts flaring out like a dying star. I lunge for the side aisle, my heels skidding on the polished marble. I just need to reach the shadows behind the silk-draped pillars. I just need to find a door, a window, a crack in this gilded nightmare.
I don’t even make it three steps.
The gold chain between my wrists snaps taut with a violent, metallic clack. Peter hasn’t moved his feet; he’s simply reached out and caught the centre of my shackles in one fist. The momentum of my flight jerks me backward, my spine slamming into his chest with a force that knocks the air from my lungs in a strangled gasp.
He wraps his other arm around my waist, hauling me flush against him, his grip so tight I feel the delicate lace of the bodice groan. He leans down, his mouth pressing hard against my ear, his breath a hot, viral contrast to the cold gold at my wrists.
“Oh, Darling,” he purrs, and the sound is a terrifying mix of amusement and absolute, lethal authority. “What in that pretty, fractured head of yours made you think you get a fucking choice?”
