“Say it,” he commands, his grip tightening just a fraction, his voice dropping to a guttural, lethal rasp that echoes off the marble walls. “Say those two fucking words. Say them now, or I swear to God, I’ll clear this room and make you say them while you’re screaming for mercy on the floor. Give me the vow, Wendy. Say. I. Do.”
The Council leans forward. The priest looks like he’s about to faint. The organ music has died down to a low, ominous hum that feels like the heartbeat of the house itself.
I look up at him, my vision tunnelling until there is nothing but his terrifying, beautiful face and the cold certainty that I am his. I am the girl from the fire, and he is the one who finally caught me.
“I…” my voice breaks, a sob catching in my throat.
“Say it,” he repeats, his thumb pressing into the soft dip above my windpipe, his gaze unyielding.
“I do,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash and surrender. “I do.”
Peter doesn’t let go of my throat. He leans down, his lips crushing mine in a kiss that is more conquest than celebration, marking the exact moment my life became a footnote in his legend.
The priest’s hands are shaking so violently the gold band rattles against the silver tray. Peter releases my throat, but the ghost of his grip remains, a cold brand on my skin. He reaches for the ring.
It isn’t a traditional band. It’s a heavy, ornate piece of engineering, encrusted with diamonds that looks like frozen tears. In the centre, a deep red ruby pulses like a dying star.
“With this ring,” Peter murmurs, his voice dropping into that dark register that makes my skin crawl and my heart ache in equal measure, “I lock the door. I seal the cage. I make sure that no matter where you run, the shadows will always lead back to me.”
He takes my left hand. His fingers are steady, ice-cold against my feverish skin. I try to pull back, the gold chains clashing together with a desperate, frantic ching, but he increases his pressure, his eyes boring into mine with a lethal, unyielding promise.
“You’re mine, Wendy. Down to the very bone.”
He slides the ring onto my finger. It’s a perfect fit, sliding over the knuckle with a sickening smoothness. But the moment it sits flush against the base of my finger, I hear it.
Click.
A mechanical, metallic snap echoes in the silence of the chapel.
I scream.
Tiny, microscopic needles—surgical-grade pins hidden within the inner lining of the band—fire inward. They don’t just graze me; they embed themselves deep into my skin, anchoring the ring to the bone. The pain isa white-hot lightning strike that travels up my arm and settles in my chest.
“Peter!” I gasp, my knees buckling.
He catches me, his arm snaking around my waist to hold me upright as the first drops of crimson begin to leak from beneath the diamonds, staining the pristine white silk of my skirt. The blood is vivid, shocking against the opulence, a visceral reminder that this isn’t a marriage—it’s a branding.
He lifts my hand, the gold chains draped over his forearm, and kisses the knuckle right above the bleeding ring. I can see the flicker of the tracker beneath the ruby, a faint, rhythmic red pulse that syncs with my own frantic heartbeat.
“It’s a masterpiece, isn’t it?” he whispers, his lips stained with my blood as he pulls back to look at me. “It’s synced to your pulse. If you try to take it off, the pins flare. If you run, I find you. If your heart stops… I’ll know the exact second I’ve lost everything.”
He turns to the Council, his face hardening into a mask of pure power, his hand still gripping my bleeding, shackled fingers.
“Behold your Queen,” he roars, the organ music exploding into a final, deafening chord. “The only woman in Chicago who belongs to the King of the Dead.”
I look down at my hand, the blood dripping onto the marble, the red light of the tracker blinking mockingly at me. I am his. Physically, biologically, and legally. The man I thought I saw a flash of light in has just buried a machine in my flesh.
Peter
Ilead her into the ballroom, and the air in the room literally dies.
It’s the most beautiful slaughterhouse I’ve ever designed. I spent three weeks on the lighting alone—thousands of floating candles suspended by invisible wires, casting a flickering, amber glow that makes the gold-leafed mouldings look like they’re dripping with liquid sun. The scent of the lilies is even heavier here, mingled with the expensive perfume of the Council’s wives and the metallic, sharp tang of the champagne.
My hand is a permanent fixture on the small of her back, my fingers splayed over the obsidian-on-white lace of her gown. I can feel her trembling—not with fear anymore, but with a pure, concentrated fury that makes my blood sing.
She’s pouting.
It’s a magnificent, childish, and utterly lethal expression. Her lower lip is thrust out just a fraction, stained purple from the wine and swollen from where I claimedher mouth in the chapel. She’s staring straight ahead, her chin tilted up, refusing to look at the sea of vultures in black ties who are currently bowing their heads to us.
