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Despite everything I know–her fragility, her madness, the violence threaded through her blood–I’m struck by how she carries herself, those flaws and deviances tucked away.

The difference between a Black Wedding and my first, conventional one, is that this is a binding between two parties where something is gained and lost by both sides. It can be legal, financial, or proprietary: Land. Money. People.

Or in some cases, secrets.

This arrangement is a little of all three, and I feel a wicked heat lick my spine as I drag my eyes down Arianette’s body, stilling them over the gentle sway of her hips. One thing that is always required: a virgin sacrifice. A trembling creature made to be claimed, to be torn apart by a man with unlimited power.

By night’s end, she’ll hate me, and I’ll hate myself more.

Pulling my gaze from her, I look to the pews, where my eyes find Remington’s cool, bored glare. His bottom lip twitches and just next to his half-brother’s ear, I see his middle finger flip in the air.

Fuck you.

For all the regret I have over losing him to the Dukes, I see the sharp clarity in his eyes. He’s healthy in a way I never could give him. Stable, without losing his personality to a medicinal haze. Remington loathes me. All the Royals do. I represent everything they detest. I’m old and unfeeling, traditional. I’m theenemy and none of them will rest until I’m deep in the ground like the kings they have already toppled.

I should be standing here with him, a proud father and best man. Instead, I’m waiting for the young woman–the innocent pawn–walking toward me.

The music slows as she reaches the altar and I snap back to the moment. I owe her that.

The veil trembles slightly over her lips. I wonder if it’s from nerves or fear–or both.

With gloved fingers, I reach forward and gather the delicate edge of her veil. The mesh is fine, soft as breath, and for a brief moment I hesitate, aware that this act, this unveiling, is more than ceremonial. It’s a claiming. A stripping away of what’s left of her girlhood.

The mesh lifts, I draw it back, and then I see her.

Excitement.

That is what the trembling is from. I see it now as she fights to still herself, head slightly bowed, but I feel the heat of her gaze before I meet it. She is a vision, made for this altar. Skin rich and flawless, glowing against the black satin of her gown. Her lips, painted plum-dark, quiver just enough to betray her nerves. And those eyes, deep brown, wide and unblinking, search mine with something between fear and devotion, as if trying to read the shape of her fate in the man about to bind her.

She’s beautiful in a way that unnerves me. Too soft for this life. Too fragile for what’s ahead. And yet, strong enough to endure this madness.

My fingers twitch. I want to remove the gloves. I want to feel her skin, the curve of her cheekbone, the tremble in her jaw. I want to see if she flinches.

I don’t.

Instead, I let my eyes drop to the collar wrapped around her throat. Crimson leather. Ornamental to most, but not to me, orthe witnesses surrounding the altar. We’re all aware that it’s less of a gift and more of a warning. A reminder of who she belongs to–first to her uncle, and now, to me.

It gleams beneath her veil like blood at the base of a blade, an opening to the swath of smooth skin that gleams in the hollow of her collarbone and her shoulder blades, a temptation that leads to the swell of her breasts, buoyed by youth, marked by temptation. The top arch of the carving is present–her first mark by the House of Night. A reminder that she’s worthy of standing next to me. Strong enough.

Graves stands before the altar, dressed in ceremonial black, the bronze medallion of the Barons glinting at his throat. He’s the officiant. The witness. The keeper of our old rites.

“Brothers and Sisters,” his voice carries through the chapel, smooth and commanding. “We are gathered here, in this place of sanctuary, to bear witness to a union forged on the steps of Samhain, a holiest of days, when our world opens to the next. A wedding of souls spanning between life and death. Not of softness, but of strength.”

The crowd shifts, a hush broken by the rustle of breath and fabric. Some lean in, fascinated. Others look away. The discomfort is palpable. Good. It should be.

Graves’ voice cuts through it all. Measured. Unforgiving. “Arianette Hexley. You stand here in the presence of the King of Barons, having offered your body and your blood to bind yourself to this house. Do you give yourself to this union?”

She lifts her chin. There’s a tremble in her breath, but her voice is steady, like a girl who’s already seen hell and decided she’d rather walk straight into the fire than go back.

“I give myself to the King and promise to follow him down the path. A daughter of darkness. A wife of wickedness.”

My gaze never leaves her. Not her painted mouth, parted slightly. Not the way her lashes lower as she avoids my eyes,like the sight of me might be too much–too real, too dangerous. She’s trembling, but not with fear alone. There’s something else beneath it. Anticipation. Submission. Hunger she hasn’t even learned how to name.

Graves turns to me. “And you, the Keeper of Death, the King and ruler of this territory and the caverns and crypts beneath, do you accept this woman as your bride? To own and to protect. To command and to punish. To keep until death claims you both.”

I step closer.

The scent of her hits me–flowers and incense, something faintly medicinal from the bathhouse and beneath it all, the electric trace of her fear. Her desire. It clings to her skin like perfume.