Page 27 of Bought by the Broken Beast
BELLA
O ne month. It has been one month since Votoi knelt before me in the garden, since I said yes to a future I never dared to dream of. Today, that future begins.
I stand in a chamber of the royal palace, a stranger in my own skin.
Royal servants, their movements a blur of silent efficiency, are encasing me in the ceremonial attire of a Vakkak bride.
The dress is a masterpiece of impossible artistry, made of a fabric that shimmers like captured moonlight, embroidered with the Saru family crest—a stylized wave crashing against a cliff—in thread of pure silver.
It is heavy. Everything about this new life is heavy.
I look at my reflection in the tall, silver-framed mirror.
The woman staring back is a stranger. Her hair is intricately braided with pearls and silver chains, her skin is scrubbed clean and scented with expensive oils, her eyes are wide and haunted.
This is not Bella the scribe. This is not Bella the survivor.
This is Bella, the human consort of a Vakkak Lord, a symbol, a spectacle, a political statement.
My hands tremble. I clench them into fists, my short, clean nails digging into my palms. I am a fraud.
A girl from the dusty plains of Tlouz, playing dress-up in a queen’s clothes.
The entire kingdom will be watching today.
They will see a human, small and breakable, presuming to stand as an equal beside one of their greatest heroes.
The weight of their stares, of their judgment, is a crushing physical presence, even here, in the safety of this room.
The door to the chamber opens, and a Minotaur female enters.
She is older, her dark fur streaked with elegant threads of silver, her movements a study in quiet, aristocratic grace.
But it is her eyes that hold me captive.
They are the same warm, intelligent amber as Votoi’s, and they are filled with a kindness that makes my throat ache. This is Lady Saru. His mother.
The servants bow low and retreat, leaving us alone.
She glides toward me, her gaze taking in every detail of my appearance. I feel like a ledger being audited, my flaws and discrepancies laid bare for her inspection. I brace myself for the cold, polite dismissal of a Vakkak matriarch whose ancient bloodline is about to be diluted by a human nobody.
Instead, she reaches out, her hand, surprisingly delicate for a Minotaur, resting on my arm. Her touch is warm, steady.
“They told me you were beautiful,” she says in a low, melodic rumble.
“They did not do you justice.” She smiles, a small, sad, beautiful thing.
“My son has not known true peace since the day his father died. I see it in his eyes now, when he looks at you. You have not just saved his life, child. You have saved his soul.”
A sob, hot and unexpected, catches in my throat. “My lady…”
“You will call me Elara,” she says, her thumb stroking the back of my hand.
“And I will call you daughter.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Do not let the grandeur of this day frighten you. This is all for them.” She gestures vaguely toward the window, toward the city, the kingdom.
“The ceremony, the spectacle… it is a statement. But the vows, the bond… that is for you. For the two of you. Remember that.”
Her words are a balm, a shield against the crushing weight of my own insecurities. She sees me. Not as a symbol, not as a human, but as the woman who loves her son.
The time comes. Two guards in the golden armor of the King’s Guard appear at the door. My heart begins a frantic, hammering rhythm against my ribs. It is time to face the world.
The walk to the Grand Plaza is a blur of marble corridors and bowing servants.
But as we step out into the sunlight, the din of the crowd hits me like a physical blow.
The plaza, the very ground Malacc intended to soak with the blood of the innocent, is a sea of faces.
Tens of thousands of them. Vakkak, Zotkak, Fiepakak, all crammed together, their eyes fixed on me.
I can feel their stares, a thousand pinpricks against my skin. I see the awe. I see the curiosity. And I see the lingering prejudice, the cold, hard glint of resentment on the faces of the more traditionalist Vakkak lords. This is not just a mating ceremony. It is a trial of a different kind.
Kor and the surviving hunters and gladiators form our honor guard.
They are magnificent, their scarred, battered forms clad in new leather armor bearing the Saru crest. They walk with a pride I have never seen in them, their heads held high.
They are no longer the forgotten dregs of the city.
They are the heroes of the rebellion, the loyal brothers of Lord Saru.
Kor gives me a slow, reassuring wink from his one good eye, a silent promise that he is here, that I am not alone.
At the far end of the plaza, on a raised dais, two figures are waiting. The Zusvak, his form still gaunt but his presence radiating a renewed strength, stands beside a formidable Fiepakak priestess. And beside them… Votoi.
My breath catches. He is a god. He is clad in the formal, black-and-gold armor of his house, his father’s ceremonial axe strapped to his back.
The sun glints off his polished, unbroken horn, and his splintered one is no longer a mark of shame, but a symbol of his sacrifice, of his victory.
His amber eyes find mine across the sea of faces, and the world, with all its noise and all its judgment, fades away. There is only him.
I walk toward him, my steps steady, my head held high. Lady Saru was right. This is for them. He is for me.
I reach the dais and take my place at his side. He takes my hand, his massive, calloused fingers lacing through my own, his grip a warm, possessive anchor in the storm of my nerves.
The ceremony begins. It is a blend of two worlds, a tapestry woven from threads of ancient tradition and new beginnings.
The Fiepakak priestess lights the sacred brazier, the smoke of the burnt offering—a blend of rare woods and sacred herbs—rising to the heavens, a prayer to the Lady of Light.
She speaks in the old Minotaur tongue, her voice a deep, resonant chant that speaks of honor, of loyalty, of the sacred bond between lifemates.
Then, it is my turn. The human custom. The exchange of vows. This was my request, my one condition. A symbol that I am not just a passive recipient in this ceremony, but an active participant.
Votoi turns to me, his amber eyes soft, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
“I, Votoi of the House of Saru,” he begins, his voice a deep, booming thing that needs no magical amplification to reach the farthest corners of the plaza, “take you, Bella, as my lifemate. I swear to you my strength as your shield, my name as your honor, and my heart as your home. Before the gods and my people, I am yours.”
My own voice, when I speak, is a trembling, reedy thing, but it is clear, and it is true. “I, Bella, formerly of nowhere, take you, Votoi, as my lifemate. I swear to you my mind as your counsel, my loyalty as your anchor, and my heart as your home. Before the gods and your people, I am yours.”
A low murmur ripples through the crowd. A human, speaking of being a Minotaur’s anchor, his counsel. It is a radical, world-altering idea. I can feel the weight of their judgment, the sting of their prejudice. My courage falters. I am a fraud. I am a child playing at being a queen.
Votoi must feel the tremor in my hand, must see the flicker of doubt in my eyes. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble that is meant for me, but is heard by all.
“You are my home.”
The words are a shield. They are a promise. They are a declaration that silences the last of the murmurs, that silences the last of the doubts in my own heart. In front of the entire kingdom, he has not just made me his mate. He has made me his world.
The priestess raises her hands. “The bond is sealed! The union is blessed!”
The roar that erupts from the crowd is a single, unified, deafening wave of pure, unadulterated joy. It is the sound of a kingdom, reborn.