Page 10 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

T his was it.

The day I willingly walked into Thomas' trap.

A relentless hammering filled my ribcage, a primal cadence demanding of me to run. To run and to never look back. But the last six months had been so wonderful. I owed it to Thomas to give him a chance, didn't I? He had been so attentive, affectionate even. Last night, he told me that he loved me. Loved me! How could he love me and still plan on having me delivered to St. George's Fields? No, there was no way he would do that now. He must have changed his mind. I must have changed his mind. I had done my best to be the bride he was looking for. Thanks to Prudence's endless lessons, I hadn't made a mistake in etiquette in months. Wherever Thomas took me, I entered with my head held high. I entered like I had a right to. Like I belonged.

And I would.

In a few hours, I would be a countess.

This would work. It had to.

And if it didn't, I had a backup plan. Most of my expensive jewelry was hidden at Abbie's place, where it would stay until I was sure Thomas wouldn't put me away.

"Just get pregnant as soon as possible. Once you have a bairn in your arms, Thomas won't even think about putting you away. He's just scared is all," Abbie had assured me.

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But she hadn't been there when I overheard him and Henry talk. She hadn't seen the expression on his face, hadn't heard the way his words came out of his mouth. I still shuddered at the memory of it. When I closed my eyes and relived that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that nothing would stop Thomas from discarding me that way. Only when I was with him did I dare to hope that it wasn't so.

"Are you ready?" Prudence asked.

I resented her being here. It should have been Abbie. She was my best friend; she was supposed to be at my side. Unfortunately, both my father and Thomas had strictly forbidden it. Abbie wasn't even allowed in the church—a church filled with Thomas' friends and relatives. The only people I knew were my father and Prudence.

"I am," I inclined my head just the way Prudence had taught me. Nervous giggles from the other women in the room grated on my nerves. I had met them before of course, they were the daughters and younger sisters of England's nobility, here to bring back juicy gossip to their older sisters and mothers. Not to be my friend. No, they were only here to spy on me, to see me fail.

I spent many hours at tea parties with them and their ilk. Each one of them thought they were better than me, thought that they had actual blue blood running through their veins instead of red like mine. This was the world I had been thrust into, a world I wanted to make my own. I didn't know why I so desperately tried. They didn't mean anything to me, but there was an inexplicable drive inside me that wanted them to like me. Or at the very least, respect me.

The organ commenced playing the wedding march as soon as the usher by the door signaled my arrival. I heard the rustling of clothing as people rose.

"You make me proud today, darling," my father said. It wasn't an encouragement; it was an order, a warning.

"Yes, Father," I placed my hand on the crook of his elbow, and he led me down the rows and rows of pews filled with every noble England had to offer. Nobody wanted to miss a party or the opportunity to watch an Earl getting married.

Thomas stood proudly, flanked by Henry and his other best friend, Edward Hawthorne, the Earl of Wintermere. He looked so handsome in his dark suit, raising my pulse.

His blond hair was slicked back, and his thick lips curled in a wide smile as I walked toward him. From the moment Thomas took my hand, blood rushed through my ears, making it hard to hear anything as the priest began with the ceremony.

Abbie and I had dreamed of our weddings for so long, I knew all the words by heart, and I thanked God for that because my brain automatically knew when to nod and what words to repeat, even while my ears refused to hear.

So far, I had been successful in hardening my heart against any feelings I might develop for my groom, but ever since he told me he loved me last night, my walls had been crumbling. I wasn't in love with him, but I was beginning to love the idea of us.

Suddenly the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and everything around me became crystal clear. My nose picked up the scent of candle wax and perfumes, I saw every speck of green in my groom's eyes, my heartbeat slowed, and any trembles left me. The priest's words, "If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter forever hold his peace," were loud and clear to my ears.

I stood at the altar, perfectly composed, my hands steady, my voice even. I had made my choice.

Silence.

Relief washed over me.

No one spoke. My father stood rigid beside me, his pride evident in the slight upward tilt of his chin. The Earl was already half-smirking, as if he'd known all along that no one would dare object.

The priest turned to me.

"Do you, Roweena Wellington, take this man?—"

The church doors exploded open with a thunderous crash.

A gale of wind and rain roared into the sacred space, snuffing out candles, sending a ripple of gasps through the pews. The doors, heavy oak and iron, shuddered against the force, swinging wildly as a dark figure strode forward, framed by the storm behind him.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was massive, towering over the nearest men like a god of war stepping out of a forgotten age. His clothes—if they could be called that—were soaked through, clinging to broad shoulders and powerful limbs. His arms, bare save for leather wrappings, were corded with muscle; his face sharp as a blade.

But it was his eyes that stole the air from my lungs.

Fierce. Unyielding. Familiar in a way I could not explain.

His gaze locked onto mine, and something inside me shuddered.

He moved forward, unapologetic, unstoppable, his every step measured, precise—like a predator closing in.

Thomas stiffened beside me, and his fingers twitched at his sides. "Who in the blazes?—"

The stranger's voice was low, thunderous, absolute.

"Take your hands off her, or I will cut them off."

Gasps erupted from the pews. A murmur of scandal. My father stepped forward in outrage.

The priest, eyes wide, found his voice. "Sir, you cannot simply?—"

"Vaelora." The sound of his voice, the word, struck something inside me, something deep, something that did not make sense.

I had never seen this man before in my life. Had I?

I should have demanded to know who he was, should have clung to my composure. I was a woman of logic, a woman with a plan, a future, a purpose.

And yet.

I hesitated.

The air between us thickened and charged. My pulse hammered wildly against my ribs.

"Sir, you need to leave," Henry stepped forward, his hand reaching for his side where he always wore his smallsword. His fingers gripped the handle, but Thomas' hand stilled him.

"It is just some poor besotted soul. Come on friend, let's—" He reached his hand up as if to place it on the stranger's naked shoulder, but the man grabbed Thomas' hand in an iron grip, turning it and not giving Thomas a chance other than to contort his body with it or have his wrist broken.

"That's enough," Henry yelled, pulling out his sword, and I jumped back with a helpless cry.

The massive stranger, without letting go of Thomas' hand, kicked out, and Henry flew backward, straight into the altar, taking it down with him.

Roaring, Edward and two other men who had been seated on the pews rushed forward. With his free left hand, the man punched Edward in the nose. Blood spurted, drops landed on my dress, and I screamed again. The other two men had reached the intruder, but they didn't stand a chance. The first took an elbow into his stomach, bringing him to his knees, the second a kick that propelled him straight into the priest.

The man had to be completely insane, which was proven by his deep, maniacal laughter as he roared, "Is that all you have, you weakling peacocks?"

He turned in a circle, forcing Thomas to turn with him, while he hissed like an animal at the people who’d come to witness my wedding. As inconspicuously as possible, I tried to take more steps backward, away from the clearly deranged man, but my feet got caught in the train of my dress and I stumbled.

Instantly, the man let go of Thomas, kneed him quickly in the groin, then spun around to catch me before I fell.

“Let go, let go of me,” I wailed.

“Vaelora,” he repeated his earlier word, a name? Did he think I was someone else?

His fingers were like iron clasps around my lower arm. I tried to wiggle free, but there was no give. Deep, black eyes bored into mine with an intensity that weakened my knees and raised my pulse.

"Let go of her," Thomas moaned from the ground, his hand reaching up for me.

"Weakling," the man spat with so much venom and disdain that it sent shivers down my spine. "You don't deserve to lick her feet."

"Come," he demanded of me. Instead, I pulled on my arm, trying to free it.

Chaos.

The church had turned into a battlefield.

Men groaned on the ground, some clutching broken limbs, all with bruised egos and shattered pride. My father cowered behind the tipped altar as the priest and one other man struggled to rise, their expressions a mix of rage and disbelief.

The doors stood wide open, and rain whipped in through the threshold. The Watch was coming. I could hear their shouts, their boots pounding against the cobblestone, the sharp clatter of steel as they drew weapons meant for criminals—not for wedding crashers.

I should have run toward them.

Instead, I stood frozen, my chest heaving, my mind a maelstrom of terror and confusion. Then the stranger turned to me. For a moment, time stretched and bent, like candle wax softening under a flame.

His eyes burned through my undisturbed veil, pinning me in place. I had never seen this man before, yet something inside me clenched in recognition.

It was a mistake. It had to be. I took a step back, my throat dry. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer but moved forward. Faster than thought. Faster than instinct. I cried out when his arm locked around my waist and the floor disappeared beneath me. The world tilted, everything upended in a rush of silk, lace, and storm-chilled air.

I barely had time to suck in a breath before I was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Unhand me!" I yelled, kicking wildly, my fists hammering uselessly against his back. He might as well have been carved from solid stone.

"Stop!" The priest's voice rang out behind us. "The Watch is here!"

The Watch. The police. I twisted, craning my neck just as uniformed men stormed through the doors, their truncheons ready.

"There!" one of them bellowed, pointing at us. Before they had a chance to surround my abductor and me, he was already moving. Fast. So fast. Too fast. He rushed by the men as if they were straw puppets, toppling them like skittle pins. Then we were out in the open. The street blurred past us in a rush of lamplight and rain, and the cold bit through my ruined wedding gown. He wasn't running like a man fleeing capture—he was running like a beast who knew no cage could hold him.

"This is madness!" I gasped, squirming, twisting. "You—you barbarian! You absolute?—!"

A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within his chest. Not quite a word. More like a growl. Was he even human? He was the epitome of everything I had ever feared in a man. Tall, wide, muscular. Like a warrior come back to life from a time long past.

"You're mine." He grunted.

The words struck something deep and primal, a note of finality that made my breath hitch. His words weren't a mark of ownership. They were something older. Darker. Fear tied my throat, which was a good thing, because beneath the pounding of the rain, beneath the thunder and the furious shouts still ringing from the church, a whisper of something stirred inside me.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Something far more dangerous.

Something that should not have been given voice.

Yours .