Valka
The coronation goes by quickly.
Or rather, I am zoned out for most of it, itching to rip the crown off my head and the ring off my finger. How many tis could I be blindsided by a man before I learned that they were all cut from the sa piece of scum?
Did he ever even need ? Was this all still part of punishing for what I’d done? What was true? Was there ever any truth? The talks of war and peace--were they nothing but bait to drag to the altar, to brand as his, body and soul?
And it’s worse than anything I’ve ever known. I feel him more now, in my head, my body, my heart, my very fucking soul, like a black tide surging, waiting to devour . And I pour every drop of rage I have into the bond, hoping he feels it. Hoping he feels how much I want him dead.
The subjects each co forward, kissing my ring, leaving with gifts and more blessings. I stew in my seat beside Lucien, the crown he’d placed on my brow after stealing ’choice’ from nearly as heavy as the weight of the butter knife I’d snatched off the servant’s tray an hour ago.
I will kill him.
"I must congratulate you, Your Majesty," a soft voice purrs with all the innocence of an angel and the devilry that belongs in hell and I lift my gaze to Lilith’s green ones as she kisses the ring on my finger. She is resplendent as ever in her black gown fashioned in a way that could rival the glamour of mine, if it wasn’t so obvious that black was a rather odd color to wear to a wedding. "A wedding like yours has yet to be seen in ages. Gods bless your union with... longevity."
I smile with acid sweetness. "You are too kind, Lady Blackspire."
She bristles for a mont before lowering a gift carefully to my feet and disappearing through the crowd.
After what feels like an age of paying obeisance, learning more nas than I ever have in my entire life, the violins strike a high cord, announcing the next event.
Lucien and I are to dance. This is the most complicated part of tonight. During the dance, the first to fourth layer of my wedding dress will be stripped, leaving in the final layer, after which we will take to the boudoir, decorated for the night’s pleasures.
When he turns to , holding out his hand, I almost do not take it.
But the cruel mischief behind his eyes tells he expects that. He expects to defy him. To curse him before his court. To claw and snarl. Because for Lucien, it’s always been about the spectacle, and my rage has always been his favorite performance.
So I do not give him the satisfaction of it.
I place my hand in his and let him lead to the center of the hall. Lanterns float above us, casting a golden glow across the marble floor as we co to a halt before one another. Anger tightens my throat as he sets my hand on his shoulder, his palm sliding to the small of my back while our free hands entwine.
I step onto his boots with more force than necessary. His brows arch in silent amusent just as a slow lody begins.
The first movent is ant to be a graceful sweeping turn, but in my anger, I forget the steps. My body collides with his harder than etiquette allows, a shoulder brushing his chest with the weight of a shove. He barely flinches. If anything, his hand on my back tightens, pulling closer than is proper, until the world shrinks to the space between us.
"Is it so bad?" he murmurs, voice low. "Being mine?"
My lips pull back from my teeth in a snarl. "You had no right."
Lucien’s fingers dig into my spine. "I am King. I have rights to everything."
Hatred churns in my gut. "Not . You do not own ."
I shove my weight into his, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to feel every ounce of my fury. But Lucien adapts instantly. Of course he does.
Each step becos a battle. I lunge, he pivots. I spin away, he reels back in. My fingers bite into his shoulder as his palm brands the curve of my spine. There is no softness here, no practiced harmony. We are all jagged edges and snarled breaths, circling each other like predators forced into a waltz.
The crowd shifts around us as the first attendants approach, and cold fingers tug at the outermost layer of my gown. Silk tears away and is carried off, leaving still fully covered, but lighter.
Another turn. Another layer gone, stripped from by careful, reverent hands.
My breath quickens, my pulse matching the steady rise of the strings.
The third layer vanishes. Then the fourth. And through it all, Lucien guides through each brutal step with the sa precision he might use to wield a blade. It’s a duel without a winner, but Lucien’s eyes gleam with delight the angrier I get, and when I am seconds away from snapping, from taking the knife from inside my sleeve and stabbing him, we are pulled apart.
Hands, dozens of them, reach for us. Gentle but unyielding. The priestesses move in practiced synchrony, their faces carved into masks of reverence as the music dies and the hall falls into breathless silence. "It is ti," the High Priestess says.
I am turned away from Lucien, fingers brushing over the last layer of silk clinging to my body. I swat one hand aside, then another, but there are too many. Their touch is neither cruel nor tender -- it is ritualistic, impersonal, as though I am no longer a woman but an offering.
My breaths co quicker, harder, as a narrow path forms through the throng, lined with torchlight and flower petals, and the hush that descends upon the crowd is unlike any I’ve ever felt. It sends goosebumps travelling over my skin and fear into my heart.
What was to say our arrangent stood and Lucien wouldn’t touch tonight? I am ushered towards the doors of the boudoir, and I know I’d rather eat dust than ever let him touch again.
When Lucien rejoins on the path, his jacket is gone.
The High Priestess places my hand in his and it is all I can do not to tear it away. She smiles at . At us. "May blessed Thandric give the crown an heir tonight." To Lucien, she adds, "The doors will remain shut at your order."
Lucien nods and his hand wraps tightly against my wrist, tugging forward in a pace I can barely keep up, until we are well past the doors and they are slamd shut.
I barely take stock of our surroundings or the bed covered in more petals, the blindfold casually resting on the pillows or the bindings on the bed. I yank my hand from Lucien’s grip, and with lightning speed, I retrieve the knife from where I’d tucked it in the garter.
"You lied to ," I snarl, holding it out in front of . "Has there ever been any truth to your words? Is this what you wanted? To take advantage of and ruin completely?"
Lucien stares at the knife, silver brow arching. "And is the kitchen knife supposed to scare , Valka? Will you stab with it? Cut to pieces for setting you free from a bond you didn’t want?"
"You claid , without my consent! You made your Erasthai!"
"Yes. An honor many would kill for."
"You forced it on ! You said I would be free from you if I did as you bid! And now I can never be free from you because the bond between Lycans can never break!" Furious tears well up in my eyes.
The King rely cocks his head. "Have I ever told you how truly breathtaking you are when ruled by your anger?"
I lunge for him, aiming blindly in my anger, and the force of the blade cuts across his cheek, drawing blood. I hesitate, watching his eyes widen, hand rising to feel the cut on his cheek. He stares at his blood sared on his fingers, and then at and says, "Did you ever cut Rafael like this? With such... passion?"
He’s baiting , toying with , but I cannot help the destructive anger I feel. And I do not know when I crash into him, slamming my fist into his perfect face jaw.
It lands, but it is my own fingers that snap. I cry out, more enraged than hurt, and swing again with my ard hand, but this ti he catches my wrist. In a quick blink, he slams against the doors hard enough to nearly rip it off its hinges and it rattles violently.
Soone exclaims excitedly outside. "Oh my! They’ve begun!"
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