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 times could I be blindsided by a man before I learned that they were all cut from the same piece of scum?
Did he ever even need me? Was this all still part of punishing me 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 me to the altar, to brand me 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 me. 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.
