The Kiss That Claimed Me.

My father and I step across the threshold, the doors closing behind us with a low, echoing thud that sounds far too final. All around us, rows of seated guests turn to look. The weight of their stares presses in from every angle, but I don’t register a single face. Not really. Their presence is background noise, a blur of expensive silk and forced smiles. Because my eyes, my entire world, are fixed on the man waiting at the altar. Nico. My soon-to-be husband.

He stands like a statue carved from shadow and steel, dressed in a sharp black suit that clings to his form like it was made for him alone. He is flawless, from the crisp lines of his jacket to the polished shoes planted shoulder-width apart. His dark hair is slicked back with ruthless precision, not a single strand daring to fall out of place, just like him. Controlled. Composed. Cold. But then… for a heartbeat, something cracks. His gaze meets mine, and I swear, I swear, his eyes widen, just a fraction. A flicker of something, maybe shock, maybe awe, maybe regret, flashes across his face before he buries it beneath the practiced, impassive mask he wears and then the moment is gone. I blink, and suddenly we’ve reached the altar. My father doesn’t speak, he never does when words aren’t necessary. He simply places my hand into Nico’s with a curt nod, like sealing a business transaction. His footsteps fade as he walks away, the empty space beside me suddenly more noticeable than ever.

Nico’s hand closes around mine. Large. Calloused. Solid. There’s warmth in his grip, unexpected and steady, like an anchor pulling me into this moment. His thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand. A whisper of comfort? A warning? I don’t know. All I know is that we’re here. Standing side by side at the altar. The priest is speaking, his voice echoing softly through the cathedral like a distant bell, low, steady, meaningless. I can see his lips moving, see his hands gesture, but the words don’t land. They don’t matter. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears, thunderous and relentless, like a war drum marking time. The only thing tethering me to the moment is the weight and warmth of Nico’s hand wrapped around mine. His grip hasn’t changed. Neither has his expression. Still composed. Still unreadable. Like this is just another deal being closed. Something cold and metallic slips onto my finger, and I blink.

“…I do.”

The first words I truly register from my husband’s mouth. They land like a stone in my chest. His voice is deep, smooth, definitive, so sure, so final, and yet it echoes in my mind like it was spoken from far away. At the same time, his hand tightens slightly around mine, and I glance down. The ring on my finger glints under the cathedral lights. Massive. Heavy. Extravagant. It catches the sunlight in a blinding sparkle, like a beacon, one that might actually be visible from the moon. A possession disguised as a promise. A light tap on my shoulder startles me from the haze. I turn slowly, pulled from the trance like surfacing from deep water, and find the priest gesturing gently toward Nico’s waiting hand. I hadn’t even noticed the ring I’m supposed to give him. It wasn’t shown to me, never chosen by me. Just another decision made without my voice, like so many others. Nico lifts his hand, steady and sure, and I take it. My fingers tremble slightly as I slide the thick gold band onto his finger. A simple, brutal circle of commitment. One I didn’t ask for, but one I now wear in mirrored form.

“I do,” I manage to say. The words leave my lips barely above a whisper, but they’re enough.

The priest’s voice sharpens with ceremonial authority.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He turns to Nico. “You may now kiss your bride.”

A hush falls over the room, thick and expectant. My breath catches in my throat. This is the moment. The final seal. The point of no return. Nico, my stranger of a husband, steps forward. His hand lifts, brushing against the delicate lace of my veil. Slowly, he lifts it. The fabric glides over my face, the air kissing my skin as it falls back behind my shoulders. I'm exposed now. Unhidden. And under the full weight of his gaze. He looks at me, really looks at me and for the first time, there’s something more than calculation behind those dark eyes. Something raw, buried, and barely restrained. Hunger, maybe. Or power. Or both. His hand, the one not still tethered to mine, rises to gently frame my cheek. His thumb grazes the edge of my jaw, slow and sure, as if memorizing the shape of me.

I don't breathe. I can’t. Then, without warning, he leans in. His mouth captures mine in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s not a question. Not a request. It’s a claim. Possessive. Decisive. Final.

His lips press hard against mine, demanding I surrender and I do because there is no space, no air, no choice in this moment. His body moves closer, heat rolling off him in waves as his fingers tighten slightly against my jaw. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me who I now belong to. The cathedral is silent, but I can feel every single person watching. Still, all I know is him. Nico. My husband. His kiss tastes like dominance, like control, like a vow spoken in a language of power and pride. It lasts longer than it should, long enough to be remembered. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are still on me, unreadable once more. His hand doesn’t leave my face. He leans down, just enough for only me to hear.

“You’re mine now, Ava. Don’t forget that.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I don’t nod. I don’t speak. I just let him take my hand again as we turn to face the crowd, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti. But inside, something sharp curls inside my chest. Not fear. Not yet. But something close enough to make my heart race all over again.