“Let me go!” I hiss, thrashing in his hold, the gold cuffs biting into my skin until I feel the warm slide of blood. “You can’t do this! You can’t force me!”
He turns me around in his arms, his hands moving to my throat—not to choke me, but to cradle my jaw in a grip of iron. He forces my head back, making me look at the Council, at the black-clad soldiers lining the walls, atthe terrifying reality that I am the only thing in this room not made of stone.
“Look at them, Wendy,” he growls, his eyes dark and blown out, reflecting the predatory shimmer of the chandeliers. “They didn’t come for a wedding. They came to see me take what’s mine. You think I’m going to let you embarrass me? You think I’m going to let you walk out that door after I’ve already burned the map to your old life?”
His face hardens, his lips pulling back in a snarl that is pure Peter Hale.
“You will fucking marry me today,” he whispers, the words dropping like lead weights into the silence between the organ’s roars. “You will stand there, you will say the words, and you will wear my name like a brand. And if you try to run again, I’ll skip the ceremony and skip the party and take you right here on the altar in front of every man I employ, just to remind you who owns the air in your lungs.”
He jerks the chain again, forcing my hands up to his chest.
“Now,” he says, his voice smoothing out into that terrifying, calm silk. “The priest is waiting. Don’t make me ask again.”
The organ reaches a deafening, dissonant peak, and Peter begins to walk, dragging me with him toward the altar. I’m stumbling, my white skirts catching on his boots, my soul screaming in the silence of my own head. The luxury is a chokehold. The light is a cage. And as the priest opens his mouth to begin the rites of my captivity, I realise the fire twelve years ago was mercy compared to this.
Wendy
The priest’s voice is a drone, a hollow background noise to the thunder of the organ and the frantic, rhythmic clink-clink-clink of my gold shackles. The chapel is a masterpiece of cruelty—every white lily smells like a funeral, every flickering candle feels like a countdown.
Peter doesn’t wait for the priest to prompt him. He steps forward, his shadow engulfing me, and takes my bound hands in his. His touch is steady, warm, and utterly terrifying. He looks at me, ignoring the Council, ignoring the war, ignoring the blood beginning to smear the gold of my cuffs.
“My turn, Darling,” he whispers.
He doesn’t use a book. He doesn’t need a script. He leans in close, his voice dropping into that low rasp that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my marrow.
“Wendy,” he begins, and the way he says my name sounds like a prayer being whispered in a torture chamber. “I didn’t choose you because you were a victim. Ichose you because you were the only beautiful thing to ever survive the fire I’ve felt in my head since the day I was born. People talk about love like it’s a gift. They’re wrong. Love is a siege. It’s the total occupation of another person’s soul.”
I try to look away, but his grip on my wrists tightens, forcing me to stay anchored to him.
“I vow to be the wall that keeps the world out and the floor that keeps you from falling,” he continues, his eyes searching mine with a devastating, unhinged honesty. “I vow to burn every bridge you ever thought about crossing back to the life you had. I will be your morning, your midnight, and every breath of air you’re allowed to take. I won’t just cherish you, Wendy. I will consume you. I will track your heartbeats until mine stop, and even then, I’ll find a way to haunt the space you occupy.”
My breath hitches. It’s not a vow; it’s a declaration of war. It’s so dark, so absolute, that for a flickering, treacherous second, my hatred wavers. He’s promising me a cage, yes, but he’s promising to stay in it with me.
“You are the only thing I have ever truly owned,” he says, his thumb tracing the blue vein in my wrist, right above the gold. “And I vow to never, ever let you be free of me. Not in this life, and not in whatever hell comes after. You are the fire, Wendy. And I am the man who decided to never stop burning.”
He stops, and the silence that follows is more deafening than the organ. He’s looking at me with such raw, predatory worship that it shatters me. It throws me off my axis—I want to spit in his face, but I also want to collapse into his chest and let the world end.
The priest clears his throat, his hands shakingso violently the Bible leaves ruffles in the air. “And… and you, Wendy? Your vows?”
I look at Peter. I look at the gold chains. I look at the man who drugged me, shackled me, and just told me he would haunt my very existence. My mouth opens, but the words are stuck in the wreckage of my throat.
“Say it, Wendy,” he prompts, his voice a soft, lethal caress. “Tell them what happens to the girl who smiled at the flames.”
I shake my head, the movement frantic and jagged, sending tears flying into the lace of my bodice. The chandeliers above me blur into a dizzying, mocking halo of light. I can’t breathe. The lilies, the silk, the gold—it’s all a chokehold.
“No,” I choke out, my voice a wet, broken splinter. “No, Peter. You can’t… you can’t say those things and then keep me in chains. It’s not love. It’s not.”
For a heartbeat, he softens. It’s the most cruel thing he’s done yet. He reaches out, his hand moving with a slow, devastating gentleness to brush a tear from my cheek. His skin is warm, his touch so light it feels like a ghost’s caress, making me want to lean into him even as I loathe the very air he breathes. He looks at me like I’m the only light in a dying universe.
“Don’t cry, Darling,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. “You’re far too beautiful to ruin the makeup.”
Then, the warmth vanishes.
In one fluid motion, his hand slides from my jaw to my throat. His fingers don’t just rest there; they clamp down, not enough to kill, but enough to remind me exactly who is holding the leash. He jerks me forward until my chest is crushed against his charcoal suit,my bound hands forced up between us, the gold chain biting into my collarbone.
“The time for tears is over,” he snarls, his face inches from mine, his eyes turning into bottomless pits of obsidian. The “human man” is gone, buried under the weight of the King who won’t be denied. “I gave you my soul, Wendy. Now give me your fucking word.”
“Peter—” I gasp, my hands clawing at his wrists.
