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“Actually,” Regina says, reaching into a nearby box, “there’s a card I’m supposed to give you.” The envelope is black and one of the women hands me a nail file to loosen the wax seal. Inside is a small card, I flip it open and read the smooth penmanship.

Arianette–

You’ll walk into the chapel a girl.

You’ll walk out a queen.

Do not disappoint me.

–Your King

A chill runs down my spine, and I hold the letter close to my chest, not letting the others see. “The King gave this to me.”

Regina lifts the dress and holds it out. “It looks exactly like what I’d expect him to pick.”

I quell my shaking as she and the others help lace me into it, pulling the strings until my ribs feel like they might crack. I gasp and lean forward, trying to suck in enough air to stay conscious.

“Don’t faint,” the woman that painted my toes says, patting my cheek. “At least not until after the vows.”

When the dress is fully on, I hardly recognize myself. The bodice is sculpted to my body, the corset pressing my breasts high and full–seductive. The skirt sweeps back into a long train trimmed in velvet and subtle embroidery. My arms are bare from the elbows down, pale and trembling.

This is the woman he expects to see walking down the aisle, apart from one thing.

The collar.

Our eyes meet as she carries it to me, like she’s well aware of what this is–what itmeans. Slim red leather, buttery soft, with an interior that looks worn. I think of how he said my grandmother wore it. My mother too? I never knew her, but I suppose she did, maybe until she died, pushing me into the world. It fastens at the back of my neck with a delicate silver clasp, but the ring at the front is what catches my eye. Ornamental, yes–but also practical. Like something could be hooked into it.

I remember the box my uncle brought it in. Lined in black velvet. I remember how his hands looked holding it, offering it as a reminder that as long as I wear it around my neck, I still belong to him.

Regina buckles it around my throat. Her fingers linger a moment too long.

I swallow. It tightens.

They stand back and admire their work. I look like a little ghost bride, trussed and ribboned, the scent of roses and sugar clinging to my skin. My reflection blinks at me like she’s about to cry. Or scream.

Regina steps beside me and pulls the veil down over my face. “You’re ready.”

Ready.

For the ceremony.

For the King.

For the final claiming.

After tonight, I won’t belong to my uncle anymore, or the secrets in the Manor. I won’t belong to anyone but him.

32

Damon

What thefuckhave I gotten into?

That’s all I can think as I take in the hundreds of candles burning from every crevice. There are sconces and candelabras and tall stands flanking the altar. Bowls of firelight flickering at the end of each pew. Shadows dance across stone and gold, licking up toward the arched ceiling like something sentient. It’s dark, on purpose. The kind of dark that swallows sound, expectation, and doubt.

I’ve never felt so out of place.

There’s no color here, not in the vases of flowers around the room. The petals, like everything else in the room, are ash white, drained of color entirely, or dyed black. Whoever put this together, and I assume it’s goblins that live underground, did their work quietly, turning a dusty old sanctuary into all this.