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That collar. Red leather at her throat, trembling as she breathes, waiting for my hand. She’s offering herself–body and blood. And I can see it in the way her hands twitch at her sides, how her pulse hammers just beneath the surface. She wants the fairytale–wants the very thing I can’t give her.

Still, I lean in, my voice pitched for her alone, though the whole chapel hears it.

“I do.”

Her breath hitches, just once, causing her breasts to rise and fall.

And with that, she is mine.

Not just in name. Not just by blood.

But in every broken, burning way that matters.

The guests remain seated, their breath caught in their throats, when Graves raises one hand. “The King and his Bride will now enter the Rite of Flesh and Flame.”

The Shadows move as one.

Hooded figures line the edge of the chapel, arms raised, forming a dark perimeter that ripples with quiet, pulsing magic. A barrier of shadow rises–soft and undulating like smoke, butthick enough to obscure the altar from the prying eyes of the crowd. Hunter and DK step forward, silent and solemn. They lift Arianette in her black gown–one at her back, one beneath her knees–and place her upon the cold, candlelit altar in offering.

She watches me with wide, glassy eyes.

I step to the edge of the altar. Remove my gloves. The oil waits in its dish, thick and fragrant with dahlia and myrrh. I begin the rite by pushing the satin up her thighs. Slow. Reverent. Then removing the lace between her legs. I dip my fingers into the oil, gliding my fingers across her skin, leaving oil-slick markings in my wake, symbols only the oldest Barons would recognize. Her body is a map. And I’m rewriting the borders.

She’s trembling, but she does not speak, not even when Graves appears beside me, bearing an ancient reliquary–dark wood and bone, carved with a pentagram. Within it, nestled on white satin, is a ceremonial piece: delicate, wicked, pointed at the end. It’s older than the crypts.

It’s meant for one purpose.

“Blood on the altar,”Graves intones. “Blood to bind. Blood to break. Let the sanctity of innocence give way to submission.”

I kneel between her thighs, the world narrowing until it is only this, this soft, holy violence. I part her gently, reverently, softer than I did last night when giving proof to her uncle. Because of that I know how tight she is. How punishing the walls of her pussy can be. I move with swift assurance, pressing the tip of the object forward, breaking her seal.

She gasps and DK’s hand comes down over her mouth, snuffing out any sound. Her hips flinch, but she doesn’t close her legs. Not to me.

The barrier shivers with energy as the moment passes. A thin line of blood wells, red on white satin. A sacrifice given freely. I lower my mouth.Not lust. Not hunger.

A rite.

I press my tongue against her, tasting her–the salt and iron of new blood, sweetened by submission. I lap her once, then again, the heat of her soft lips sending a jolt through my body. She lets out a sound, breathy and broken, and her hand moves to touch my hair before she catches herself.

Icatch myself.

This isn’t about pleasure.

This is about ownership.

About claiming something untouched, untainted, and stamping it with the seal of something dark and eternal.

“It is done,”I whisper against her skin.

I rise, nodding at Graves, then at DK and Hunter, suddenly aware of the loyalty they’ve shown to me over the past few weeks. The girl is a temptation, one that requires insurmountable strength.

I chose them well.

Arianette’s body stays sprawled upon the altar, her gown rucked up, the hoop on the collar gleaming, a single tear gliding down her cheek. But her eyes? Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and full of something too complicated to name.

Not love.

But something sacred, and for the briefest moment I see something else: a future.