She wanted nothing more than to leave in silence. To let this farce of a wedding dissolve into the quiet horror it was, with no more spectacle. She had always loved drama, it was true, but only when she was the one orchestrating it from the shadows, perfectly in control. Here, she was the central figure in a play she hadn't written, her strings pulled by a king and a creature. A shiver, entirely separate from the cold he emanated, traced a path down her spine as she stood beside him.
With a quiet sigh, she prepared to move toward the waiting vehicle that would carry her from her world to his—his empire, his hell, the name didn't matter. It was her cage now.
She took a single step.
And then a noble, puffed up with wine and false courage, spoke. "A relief," the man slurred, just loud enough to be heard, "to finally be rid of the cursed blight on our kingdom."
The words hung in the air, poison-tipped. A familiar, hot anger flared within her. Her power surged, a reflexive, vicious thought forming—to clench the air in his lungs, to make him choke on his own vile breath.
But she never got the chance.
A sharp, wet crack split the silence, like a stone breaking under immense pressure. Then another. The noble gasped, his eyes bulging in disbelief as the fine brocade of his sleeves darkened, then split. His arms fell to his sides, limp and useless, arteries severed not by a blade, but by some invisible, crushing force.
A beat of perfect, petrified silence.
Her wary eyes snapped to her 'husband.' His expression was a void, a masterpiece of non-reaction. Yet everyone in the garden knew, with primal certainty, the source of the violence. A dark, primal thrill shot through her—a feeling she immediately distrusted. How was she to behave with another being who wielded power so… casually? Was it magic? Something elemental? It was effortless, and utterly without passion.
As if sensing her turmoil, his bottomless gaze found hers. He closed the small distance between them and placed his hand on the small of her back.
It was surprisingly warm.
She didn't know what she had expected—ice, perhaps, or the chill of the grave. But this warmth was somehow more disconcerting. It felt disquietingly human on a being so clearly other. His touch was a brand, a claim. He applied a slight, inexorable pressure, guiding her firmly away from the scene, toward the end of the gardens where a dark, sleek vehicle awaited.
She took a step, then another, her body moving in sync with his unspoken command. Then he leaned in, his breath ghosting the shell of her ear, and her entire body tingled with a traitorous mixture of fear and something else she refused to name.
"Or," he whispered, his voice devoid of any inflection, "would you rather teleport?"
She ignored him, focusing on the path ahead. She ignored him not out of petulance, but out of profound wariness. It had sounded like a tease, a flicker of dark humor, yet his tone had been as blank and emotionless as his eyes. She had no idea what answer he intended, or what consequence it might carry. In this new, terrifying chapter of her life, silence felt like her only safe option.
The vehicle was a cavern of polished obsidian and cool, plush leather. With a stiff, deliberate motion, she settled into the seat, the door sighing shut behind her with a sound of absolute finality. He took his place beside her, the space suddenly feeling impossibly small. He didn't so much sit as occupy the space, his head leaning back against the rest, eyes closed as if the entire affair had been a tedious errand. A silent, dark glass divider sealed them in, cutting them off from the driver, from the world, from any hope of outside intervention.
She looked around, the opulent cage doing little to calm the frantic beat of her heart. She knew it might not be the wisest decision to break the silence so soon, to show her hand. But what was she to do? Walk blindly into her gilded cage without a single attempt to understand the terms of her imprisonment? Without even a plea for a semblance of autonomy?
Gathering the tattered remnants of her courage, she straightened her spine, the black silk of her gown rustling in the heavy quiet. She found her voice, a low, grounded sound that belied the turmoil within.
"Why me?"
The words hung in the air, stark and vulnerable. She was acutely aware it sounded like the final, desperate call of a damsel in distress, a trope she despised. But it was more than that. It was a strategic probe. To find her footing in this tangled mess, she needed to know her role. What was the original design? Her useless uncle had only ever responded with threats and calculated silence. This creature, this husband, was the only one who might possess the answer.
The man didn't move a muscle. He gave no indication he had even heard her, remaining as still as a statue, as if her voice were nothing more than an insignificant breeze rustling outside the window.
A hot spike of frustration, sharp and immediate, warred with her fear. The sheer, dismissive indifference was a new kind of torment. Was she so beneath his notice? She wasn't sure whether to be offended or to scream, to pull out her hair in sheer, helpless fury.