Page 28 of Severe Husband Warning

Liquid silver spills to the floor in soft folds that shimmer with every movement. The fitted bodice gives way to layers of sheer fabric so delicate they seem spun from moonlight, while tiny crystals scattered among metallic embroidery catch the light until the entire dress appears dusted with stars.

One attendant gathers sections of my hair away from my face while another threads slender silver chains through the braids. When they finally step aside, the woman staring back from the mirror scarcely resembles me.

She looks every inch a demon lord’s wife.

A knock sounds at the chamber door pulls me from my thoughts, and the attendants retreat just as Rothgar steps inside.

He has exchanged his usual black court coat for one worked with silver embroidery that follows the broad line of his shoulders before disappearing beneath a dark mantle fastened across one side of his chest. Storm-metal catches the light at his cuffs and collar, though nothing about him suggests vanity.

His gaze settles on me without a word, and I can’t help but wonder whether the silence means approval or disappointment.

“You are ready,” he says at last.

It’s such an ordinary observation that my unexpected disappointment makes me want to laugh.

“I believe so,” I reply, smoothing an imaginary crease from my sleeve.

“My lady.” He steps forward to offer me his arm.

The title still feels borrowed.

I slip my hand through his arm, and we descend through the spire in companionable silence.

Outside, a black carriage waits beneath an arch of carved obsidian, faint ribbons of lightning winding soundlessly around its wheels.

The journey to the palace is mercifully brief, though my hands remain clasped tightly in my lap, careful not to wrinkle the shimmering folds of my gown. Rothgar offers no conversation, and I’m quietly grateful for it. By the time the carriage slows beneath the palace steps, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m ready.

The towering doors open before we reach them, and attendants lead us into a hall awash in warm light and music unlike anything I’ve ever heard. The ballroom stretches farther than any room I’ve ever entered. Dark crystal columns disappear into drifting storm clouds suspended impossibly overhead, while enormous chandeliers cradle living lightning that casts silver-blue light across polished marble.

For one foolish moment, I wonder whether I’ve stepped into one of the stories my father used to tell me as a child.

Musicians perform upon elegant instruments fashioned from obsidian, silver, and enchanted crystal. Some resemble slender harps whose luminous strings sing beneath practiced hands, while shallow crystal bowls glow with every note coaxed from them by delicate metal mallets. The music seeps beneath my ribs until I feel it as much as I hear it.

It is beautiful enough to make me forget, however briefly, that I do not belong here.

But the reminder is immediate.

Everywhere I look, demon nobility fills the hall.

Metallic threads ripple through their gowns like liquid mercury. Jewels rest effortlessly between polished horns, and richly dressed lords drift through the gathering with the ease of those who have never questioned whether they belong.

Whatever wonder I felt vanishes under the weight of hundreds of unfamiliar eyes.

Conversation never truly stops, but it changes as we enter.

Faces turn briefly in our direction before returning to their companions, and I feel the weight of those lingering glances all the same. A noblewoman with elegant antelope horns lets her gaze travel from my borrowed jewels to the hem of my gown before voicing something that earns a knowing smile from the woman beside her. Farther into the ballroom, two young lords study me openly before sharing a quiet remark that draws an amused smile.

Whatever tale has spread through court about Rothgar’s human bride, I suspect I’ve already disappointed it.

Rothgar’s hand comes to rest against the small of my back as he guides me deeper into the crowd. The gesture is no more intimate than etiquette requires, yet it anchors me all the same.

Nobles greet Rothgar as we pass, though I cannot always tell whether their smiles are born of admiration or caution.

“Rothgar.”

Lord Malakor approaches with the effortless confidence of a man who expects every room to accommodate him. Indigo silk catches the shifting stormlight, silver embroidery glinting at his cuffs. His smile is flawlessly courteous.

“Lord Malakor,” Rothgar replies, his tone bored.