The playfulness vanished from her face, replaced by wonder. She understood. I wanted to erase the memory of that first contract, the desperation, the transaction, the smell of sickness and fear. I wanted a happy memory instead.
“A real wedding?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s do it properly.” I leaned in, brushing my lips against the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “I want to stand and watch you walk toward me because youwantto. And then,“ I swiped my tongue over her pulse, feeling her shiver, “I want to carry you out and remind you exactly why you chose me.”
“You’re insatiable,” she breathed, her hands sliding into my hair, gripping tight.
“I found you,” I growled, lifting her until her legs wrapped around my waist. “I’m making sure the entire world knows I’m keeping you.”
I lowered her onto the edge of the mattress, though my hands refused to leave her waist. The moment felt fragile, suspended in the amber light the house was so helpfully providing. I needed to do this right. I had plans. Or, rather, I had a small velvet box burning a hole in my pocket and a desperate need to rewrite history.
“Wait,” I said, stepping back slightly.
Lysa blinked, breathless and dishevelled, looking delectable.
“I have to get something.” I jammed my hand into my pocket. It was stuck. The tailored trousers, excellent for cutting a dashing figure at the Council, were proving disastrous for retrieval. I wrestled with the fabric, hopping slightly on one foot. “It is stuck. Curse the tailor.”
The floorboards vibrated impatiently. The bloody house knew what was in the pocket.
“Are you... checking a pocket watch?” Lysa asked, leaning back on her hands, amusement warring with confusion.
“No. Yes. Just …” I gave a sharp tug. The box flew out of my pocket, skidded across the rug, and vanished under the wardrobe.
Silence.
Lysa stared at the wardrobe. “Did you just throw a weapon at the furniture?”
“No,” I said, dropping to my knees. “It was... a token.” I glared at the heavy oak wardrobe. “Give it back,” I whispered to the floor.
The wardrobe groaned. Grudgingly, it tilted forward just enough to spit the velvet box back out. It slid across the floor and tapped against my knee.
“Thank you,” I muttered to the wood. I snatched up the box and rose, dusting off my knees. So much for the effortless aristocrat. I took a breath, trying to summon the gravity of the Stormgardes, and looked at Lysa.
She was watching me, eyes wide, sensing the shift in the air. The grin dropped from her face.
“Fenrik?”
I stepped between her knees. “The first time I asked you to bind yourself to me, I was dying. I gave you a contract stained with desperation.” I reached out and took her left hand. “That was for the bargain.”
I opened the small box. The silver band inside was modest. It held no diamonds, no rubies, no enchantments of protection or binding. It was hammered silver, bright and clean, etched delicately with the trailing vines of a single Moonflower.
Lysa gasped softly. She knew what the flower meant.Truth found in darkness.
“Will you marry me again, Lysa Emberlin? Not for debt, or duty, or safety. But for love? Will you take me, knowing everything I am? The beast, the madness, the terrible piano compositions?”
The house held its breath. The fire in the grate froze. Even the wind outside seemed to hush against the glass.
Lysa looked from the ring to me. Her eyes were shining, swimming with tears that caught the light like gold.
“Yes,” she whispered. I slid the ring onto her finger. It settled there as if it had grown from her skin, a band of moonlight against the flush of her hand. The ring made her thin scars look part of the flower pattern.
“Yes,” she said again, stronger now, launching herself off the bed and slamming into my chest.
As I caught her, every candle in the chandelier flared bright, the curtains swooshed shut, and from somewhere in the walls, athrumof approval vibrated.
“I think the Manor approves,” Lysa laughed against my neck.
Two weeks later, the bell above the door of The Drifting Teapot announced our arrival with the subtlety of a cathedral gong.
