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"Do you accept this bond?" he asks formally.

"I accept," I reply, voice steady despite the sting. "Blood to blood. Queen to king…"

The witnesses murmur their approval of my response, the traditional words coming naturally though I've never been taught them. As if my body, my soul recognizes this ritual on some primal level.

Dante reaches for my pendant, collecting my blood in the tiny silver vial before securing it back around my neck. The weight increases slightly, my essence now contained against my skin.

Then it's my turn.

I take the dagger from him, its handle warm from his grip. This moment represents my symbolic equality. I am not merely receiving his mark, but returning it in kind.

"With this blood," I recite, repeating his words but infusing them with my own meaning. "I bind you to my loyalty, to my strength, to my ambition."

I take his right hand, pressing the blade to his palm. The fresh scar tissue from our private oath resists briefly before yielding to the sharp edge. His blood flows dark and steady, his eyes never leaving mine as I collect it in the second vial.

"Do you accept this bond?" I ask, completing the exchange.

"I accept," he responds, voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Blood to blood. King to queen."

I secure the vial around his neck, completing the physical symbol of our union.

Marco brings forward a crystal goblet, ancient and heavy in his hands. Dante and I place our bleeding palms above it, allowing our blood to mingle within.

"What is shared cannot be divided," Marco intones. "What is bound cannot be broken."

Wine is poured into the goblet, mixing with our blood in the traditional symbol of transformation. Life into death… into new life.

Dante takes the goblet first, drinking deeply before passing it to me. The liquid is rich and metallic on my tongue, life and power intermingled.

"It is done," Marco announces as I return the goblet to the altar. "Before these witnesses, Francesca Castellano is now Francesca Ravelli in blood and bond."

Dante rises, drawing me up beside him. His hand, still bleeding slightly, clasps mine. Our blood continues to mingle, continues to bind us together in ways that transcend mere ceremony.

"My queen," he says, loud enough for all to hear.

"My king," I respond, matching his volume and conviction.

The circle of witnesses breaks into murmurs of approval, the atmosphere shifting from ceremonial solemnity to congratulatory celebration. Wine flows freely now, though most avoid the ceremonial goblet that bears our blood.

But through the social niceties that follow, Dante's hand never leaves mine. Both of us acutely aware of the blood drying between our palms.

A physical manifestation of the oath we've sworn.

A covenant sealed for the world to see.

A throne to be claimed together.

***

Hours later, after the witnesses have departed and the penthouse has returned to stillness, Dante leads me to our bedroom. The blood on our hands has dried completely, creating a bond as tangible as it is symbolic.

His fingers work the fastenings of my ceremonial gown, the silk sliding from my body to pool at my feet. Beneath, I wear nothing but the silver chains woven through my hair and the vial of his blood warm against my skin.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, circling me slowly, eyes drinking in every inch of exposed flesh. "My beautiful, dangerous queen."

I remain still under his assessment, enjoying the heat of his gaze upon my skin. The ceremony has changed something between us, strengthened a connection that has been building since that first night when he marked me as his property.

"Ravelli by blood," I remind him, voice soft in the dim room. "Ravelli by oath."