"Do you, Malcolm Santos, take Isabella Rivera as your lawfully wedded wife?"
The priest's words hung in the air, I squeezed my eyes shut, my breaths labored—it felt like I was inhaling glass instead of air. The silence stretched in the hall, so quiet you could hear feet shuffle.
Calm down, calm down.
But no matter how much I chanted those words in my head, the panic still clawed itself up my throat. the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Taking a breath, I tightened my grip on my dress, the fabric crumpling under my fingers.
And then I heard it.
"I do."
It was like everything—everyone—stilled. His voice was low, a deep, controlled rumble. I froze, my eyes flicking upward while my head remained bowed, the sheer fabric of my veil touching my cheeks, my first glance landed on his chest—his suit stretched taut over muscle. I tilted my head further and further, the fabric touching my nose lightly. Muscles in my neck tightened as I raised my head, a faint ache lingered where my neck had been bent, then my gaze landed on his neck, a tattoo ran across it. One tattoo, in particular, caught my attention, a dragon with its wings spread, disappearing beneath his suit, then my gaze moved to his face, and my breath hitched.
His eyes were already locked on mine, freezing me in place, so gray it felt like he was looking through me, unflinching. The light above us made his stare more intense than it already was. His thick, well-defined eyebrows slightly lowered, his black hair pulled into a man bun, a few strands brushing his high cheekbones, a scar running along his square jaw. Something about the way he looked was feral.
He was different.
I grew up around men who forced submission. Men who let their money and alliances speak, never pulling a trigger themselves. Those were the men I had grown to see in the Rivera mansion—cowards.
How I would get my tongue cut out if people could read minds.
But Malcolm Santos.
Was nothing I expected—nothing at all.
This man carried an air of dominance. Everything about him made you look, yet take a step back at the same time. He carried rumors, ruthless, sadistic, rumors that made your body go cold.
He was a man even a whisper of brought fear.
And now he would be amongst the men, who would hold my life in a grasp.
New owners.
A new leash.
"Lower your eyes," he said, voice sharp as a blade, his expression blank. I flinched as if I was struck, my head dropping so hard my neck burned, gaze snapping back to my feet. Heat flooded my cheeks.
The hall went silent again.
I bit my lip, my thoughts racing. What was wrong with me? He was definitely going to skin me alive now. I took a heavy breath in, my gaze darting to his sleek black shoes, but I could still feel his gaze burning through the top of my head, my palms moistened.
I'm okay. Everything is okay. He wouldn't murder me in front of everyone, right? Too many witnesses...
And he thought I was Isabella, so he wouldn't possibly kill the daughter of Francisco. It would mean war. But no matter how much I tried to bullshit myself, from what I'd heard about these men, they were unpredictable beasts.
And I had poked one of those beasts.
The priest's chuckle echoed across the hall, erasing the painful tension and snapping me out of thought. My gaze darted to him, but I didn't lift my head up—I wouldn't, not after that. Then I felt it: a flat hand pressed on the top of my head. The hairs on my neck rose. I swallowed hard.
My gaze flicked in his direction this time, careful not to repeat the same mistake, eyes locked on the black collar.
The priest...
He was going to remove my head from my body. I just knew it. He was their priest—who knew, maybe one of their men.
"Child," he said softly. I exhaled through my parted lips, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. My shoulders dropped. My gaze moved to his face, his expression soft as he took me in—but I could also see the pity in his eyes, something I'd learned to recognize.
That's all people could give me: pitiful stares. Never helping, never doing anything. Just that expression that haunted me, that made my blood boil. Why show me pity while handing me over to beasts?
Why?
Whether it was on the maids' faces as Isabella did messed-up shit to me, or the Rivera women when Isabella would say no to any man who asked for my hand. I hated her, and I hated that I was taking her fate—a fate that would have been karma.
It would have served as punishment for everything she did to me. But here was the universe, putting me in her fate, making me suffer more as if I hadn't suffered enough. Maybe this was just my life.
A life of suffering.
My eyes turned glassy as I tried my best not to cry. I took a sharp exhale through my nose, my eyes darting back to my feet—something I'd done a thousand times today.
He removed his hand from my head, offering a weak smile as he continued, "Do you take Malcolm Santos to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I paused, my breath caught in my throat. Rubbing my moist palm on the side of my dress, I had to say something—anything—or I was going to die by their hands or Francisco's hands.
Say something, Amelia.
But I couldn't. It felt like my throat had closed up. My eyes darted to the priest, then to my feet, but I could feel it—his gaze—and now the other two gazes. I could feel it burning through my skin. It was like my body had frozen, my feet barely moving, my neck in the same bent position as my eyes darted everywhere. I sank my nails into my palm as if to snap myself out of it. Say something.
Then a hand—rough, calloused fingers—clamped under my chin, wrenching my head so hard my teeth sank into my tongue. I whimpered, a sharp metallic taste flooding my mouth. My gaze snapped upward, and suddenly there was a man so close his warm breath fanned my face, his fingertips digging into my cheeks. His brown eyes moved to my lips, running a thumb over my lower lip. My eyes closed on instinct.
"Open them." His voice was gravelly and thick, a voice that sounded like it had been scraped raw from whiskey.
But I couldn't. I kept them closed, letting the silence stretch between us, his thumb still pressed on my lip. It felt like every sense was heightened—the warmth of his thumb on my lower lip, the pressure on my jaw from his tight grip—the tension in the air.
"I don't like repeating myself," he said, his voice stern. My lip quivered. Obeying, I opened my eyes, careful not to look him in the eye—knowing how Malcolm acted.
I wasn't going to take the risk.
Bad move.
He didn't seem to like it. He jerked my chin toward him, forcing me to look at him. Yet no matter how much he tilted my neck, I struggled to meet his gaze properly.
He was tall, towering over me, my head barely reaching the middle of his chest. His blonde hair was slicked back, tattoos coiled up his neck toward the sharp edge of his jaw. A nose ring pierced his sharp, crooked nose—like he'd just been in a fight not too long ago.
He looked like a crime lord.
"Kaden."Malcolm's voice cut through the tension, laced with a hint of warning.
Kaden's gaze shifted from me to Malcolm, his eyes narrowing yet his lips stretched into a smile. It was uncanny, sending a shiver crawling up my spine.
"Just admiring our wife," he said with a mocking tone.
For some reason, the air felt heavier. His grip on my chin tightened, causing a sharp pain. My hand moved toward his wrist—slow, hesitant. The moment my fingers brushed his skin, his eyes flickered to my hand, then my face, his gaze softening.
No. That can't be possible.
Great. I was already experiencing Stockholm syndrome.
He loosened his hold, the muscles in my jaw relaxing as I breathed out a sigh of relief.
"You're holding up the ceremony," Malcolm said in a flat tone. Kaden's gaze moved to him again, his smirk widening. The rough pad of his fingertip traced the ache he had left behind.
It felt gentle—a gentleness I had not felt before.
I hated how good it felt.
I couldn't suppress the soft sigh that left my lips. His fingertip moved in a circular motion, his touch melting the pain away. I found myself leaning into his hand—then he pulled away, the ghost of his touch still lingering on my jaw.
Definitely Stockholm syndrome.
I took a step back, embarrassed, my fingers fidgeting.
"Since when do you care about ceremonies, brother?" Kaden said calmly. Something about the way he said it was too careful, like he was performing, holding something back.
My gaze flickered to Malcolm. He stared sharply at his brother, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense. I quickly looked away.
The dynamic between the brothers was… odd.
"Always making a spectacle of yourself, brother," Malcolm spoke in a slow, bored tone.
Kaden laughed. Startled by the sound, my gaze snapped to him. The rich noise filled the halls—my gaze darted to the guests. The Rivera women sat rigid in the right row, the men on the other. They all carried the same blank stare, like they weren't betraying the most dangerous men in the city.
Weren't making fools of them by giving a servant their name.
Then I saw him—Francisco Rivera. He sat so still it looked like he wasn't breathing, his gaze fixed on the brothers, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the ground, his hand clenching Miss Rivera's hand so tightly her red-stained lips were pressed together, as if she were trying to suppress a wince.
But that was all she did—suppress. Even when he'd leave her bloody and bruised—she would endure.
I wondered if my new husbands would treat me the same...
If my fate would be similar to hers, covering my face with makeup every other morning to hide the scars as she did.
The only difference is I wouldn't endure.
My gaze darted one by one to all their faces, actually looking at them. Every twitch, every tense shoulder, every fidgeting hand didn't escape my eyes. Maybe I was no better than the men before me, because why did I enjoy every fear in their movements?
The slow burst of joy filling my chest—that they were as terrified as I was, that for once I could see the tension around his eyes. Their lives were on the same thin thread as mine.
The servant girl whom they would make scrub the floor, sharing the same fate as the Riveras. For some reason, my lips widened in a soft, subtle smile, the tension in my body leaving. I took a slow, soft breath.
Maybe life wasn't so unfair.
"Wouldn't want to ruin the occasion," Kaden drawled, his gaze never leaving his brother. It felt like they were on a battlefield of a war no one was aware of.
My gaze drifted slowly to Malcolm again, careful not to get caught staring. His jaw clenched slightly, his mask fading for a second before his face returned to its usual expression—devoid of emotion, just empty. Not an ounce of emotion.
"We wouldn't," Malcolm said, his tone flat, as if sensing my stare. His gaze moved in my direction. I looked away quickly, swallowing hard, expecting him to reprimand me like before. But nothing came.
"Then by all means," Kaden said smugly, spreading his hands. "Let's proceed." His gaze shifted back to me, his brown eyes scanning my face—lingering on my lips, the bridge of my nose, the flutter of my lashes—before locking onto my hazel eyes. Unblinking. Holding my gaze.
He liked doing that. Staring.
Every second his eyes stayed on me, goosebumps crawled up my arms, as if his gaze left heat on my skin, making my dress feel too tight.
"Little dove, we're waiting." His voice was low.
Oh, right. I had to say 'I do.'
Great. Can they get back to fighting and kill eachother? So I can escape? A girl could only dream.
My lips parted and closed like a fish's, a flush creeping up my neck from embarrassment. My gaze darted to Francesco—his eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly, jaw clenched tight as if he wanted to get up and strangle me himself.
If I didn't say anything soon, I doubted that would remain just a thought.
I looked back at Kaden. His gaze fixed on me, analyzing every tiny movement.
"I d-do," I stammered.
Kaden's lips stretched into a wide smile, but his eyes were empty.
"Look at Malcolm, little dove."
I froze, my grip on my dress tigenting.
"Don't be scared. This is the only time you get to look him in the eye. Not many get the opportunity." His words dripped with softness but i could hear the malice in his tone.
"B-but,"I stammered, swallowing hard. "He said not to—"
"For the vows, little dove. He'll have to deal with it." Kaden's tone flattened. "Don't waste time. You don't want to make me angry." His gaze still weighed heavy on mine. "Do you?"
"No," I murmured, my gaze shifting to Malcolm, who watched with bored indifference. He didn't talk much, and that made him even more terrifying—because who knew what he was thinking?
Our eyes locked. I took in his face again as he looked down at me, waiting.
"I do," I whispered.