Prince Kieran Ashworth had attended seventeen weddings in the Infernal Courts, and every single one had ended in either spectacular divorce or murder. Sometimes both. As he stood at the obsidian altar in the Grand Cathedral of Torment, adjusting his ceremonial cloak for the dozenth time, he wondered which fate awaited his own union.
"Stop fidgeting," his father's voice rumbled from the shadows beside the altar. King Malphas wore his disappointment like a crown—heavy, obvious, and designed to make everyone around him uncomfortable. "You look like a nervous imp at his first soul-harvest."
Kieran straightened his shoulders, letting his natural arrogance slide back into place like armor. The guests whispered among themselves in the pews carved from blackened bone, their eyes glowing with anticipation for the spectacle to come. Half of them were probably betting on how long this marriage would last. The smart money was likely on 'not past the honeymoon.'
"I'm not nervous," Kieran lied smoothly. "I'm calculating how much this charade is going to cost me in sanity."
The cathedral doors burst open with a sound like thunder, and Princess Seraphina Blackthorne made her entrance. She moved down the aisle like a conquering army, her crimson wedding gown trailing behind her like spilled blood. Everything about her screamed excess—the diamonds dripping from her horns, the golden chains wrapped around her arms, the way she smiled at the crowd as if she were accepting their worship rather than walking to her wedding.
Behind her, almost forgotten in her shadow, walked her entourage. Ladies-in-waiting, servants, and guards formed a small parade of their own. But Kieran's eyes fixed on one figure near the back—a young man with his head bowed, silver chains binding his wrists, moving with a grace that seemed at odds with his obvious captivity.
The prisoner wore simple white robes that should have made him invisible among the pageantry, but somehow Kieran couldn't look away. There was something about the way he carried himself, the proud set of his shoulders despite the chains, that tugged at something unexpected in Kieran's chest.
As Seraphina reached the altar, she turned to survey her new domain with satisfaction. "Darling Kieran," she purred, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "I do hope you're prepared to be properly impressed by your new bride."
"I'm prepared for many things," Kieran replied, offering his arm. His eyes drifted past her to where her servants arranged themselves in the traditional formation. The chained man had lifted his head slightly, and Kieran caught a glimpse of startling blue eyes—the color of summer skies he'd only read about in forbidden books.
The ceremony proceeded with all the pomp and circumstance befitting the union of two of Hell's most prominent families. Kieran spoke his vows with practiced ease, made the required blood offerings, and accepted the binding rings that would tie his power to Seraphina's for the duration of their marriage. Through it all, he found his attention wandering to the silent figure standing perfectly still among the servants.
There was something wrong about the prisoner—or rather, something too right. The way he held himself, the careful control of his breathing, the almost imperceptible twitching of his bound hands as if he were fighting instincts to move or speak. Kieran had been raised in courts where everyone was either predator or prey, and this man registered as neither.
"You may kiss your bride," the High Priest intoned, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of the Seven Circles.
Kieran turned to Seraphina, who presented her cheek with all the enthusiasm of someone submitting to a tax audit. Their lips met briefly—a kiss as cold and perfunctory as a business transaction, which Kieran supposed it was.
As they separated, Seraphina leaned in close enough to whisper, "I do hope you won't bore me, husband. I have such plans for our new household."
The reception that followed was a blur of congratulations, political maneuvering, and enough alcohol to drown a lesser demon. Kieran played his part, accepting well-wishes from nobles who had probably already placed bets on when he'd meet his untimely end, and dancing with Seraphina while she regaled him with detailed plans for redecorating his ancestral home.
"And I simply must show you my favorite acquisition," she was saying as they swayed to the orchestra's haunting melody. "My little angel toy. I caught him during a raid on the Celestial Borderlands. He's been deliciously stubborn about breaking."
Kieran's hand tightened involuntarily on her waist. "Angel?"
"Oh yes, a genuine cherub. Well, former cherub. They stripped his wings when I claimed him, but he still has that adorable holy glow about him. I keep him chained in my chambers—he makes such beautiful sounds when he's angry." She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "I think you'll enjoy watching me train him properly."
Something cold and sharp twisted in Kieran's stomach. He managed to keep his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. A captured angel explained the wrongness he'd sensed—the careful control, the hidden power, the way the man had seemed to vibrate with contained energy.
"How long have you had him?" he asked casually.
"Nearly a year now. He was quite the prize—apparently someone important in their hierarchy. The ransom demands were simply adorable, though of course I ignored them. Why give up such a perfect pet?"
The music ended, and Kieran bowed to his new wife with mechanical precision. Around them, the celebration continued, but he felt suddenly as if he were watching it from a great distance. His eyes sought out the angel again, finding him standing statue-still beside one of the great pillars, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance.
As if sensing the attention, the angel's eyes flickered toward Kieran for just a moment. In that brief connection, Kieran saw something that made his breath catch—not just pain or resignation, but a fierce, unbroken defiance that burned like a star in the darkness.
"Come," Seraphina was saying, already moving toward the exit. "I'm eager to begin our new life together. And I'm sure you're dying to see all my treasures."
Kieran followed his bride from the reception hall, his mind churning with questions he couldn't ask and thoughts he probably shouldn't be having. As they walked through the corridors of his family's estate—now technically theirs—he found himself thinking not about the political alliance he'd just secured or the power he'd gained, but about blue eyes full of defiant fire and the sound of silver chains that should not exist in a world that made any sense.
Behind them, barely audible above the sounds of the continuing celebration, came the soft whisper of bare feet on marble and the gentle chiming of chains that bound a prince who was supposed to be free.