Chapter 2

The hall had gone silent. No music, no laughter, only the hush of gossip stifled in throats. The marble floor gleamed under the chandeliers, but the brightness could not reach the shadow of what was happening.

Damian led Nathan by the wrist to the altar, the guests parting like a sea before him. Every step echoed, deliberate, as if to carve this moment into history. The priest hesitated only a heartbeat before arranging his scriptures. His eyes flicked to Damian, then Nathan, as though he knew better than to question fate when it walked armed into a room.

“Do you, Damian Vitale,” the priest intoned, his voice steady though his hands shook, “take—”

Nathan cut him off. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “Say it properly.”

A ripple stirred through the crowd. Damian’s lips curved, slow, dangerous. He dipped his head slightly, giving permission.

Ezekiel swallowed, corrected himself. “Do you, Damian Vitale, take Nathaniel Cross… as your lawfully bound?”

“I do.” The words rang like a verdict. Damian’s eyes never left Nathan’s face.

Ezekiel turned, hesitant. “And do you, Nathaniel Cross—”

“I do,” Nathan said, before the priest could finish. His voice trembled, but not from fear—only from the weight of what he was giving up. His gaze darted once, just once, toward Ivy and then his father. He held himself straight, but his knuckles whitened where Damian still clasped him.

The priest’s blessing was swift, rushed, as though to finish before something broke. Damian did not wait for applause, nor the scattering of petals that tradition demanded. He bent, pressed his lips once to Nathan’s knuckles—mocking chivalry, branding possession—then turned him, guiding him down the aisle without pause.

At the end of the aisle, Nathan twisted, pulling against the grip just enough to halt. Damian’s head tilted, one brow arched in silent warning. Nathan’s voice carried anyway.

“I need to say goodbye.”

For a moment, Damian considered denying him. The entire hall watched, breathless, on whether he would allow even this. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he loosened his hold—not release, never that, but permission.

Nathan crossed the distance to his family. Ivy threw her arms around him first, clutching him as though she could anchor him to a life already lost. Maria’s tears streaked down her powdered cheeks, words broken and useless. Victor stood stiff, jaw clenched, as if to weep would be to admit defeat.

Nathan whispered to his sister, brushing her hair back. “Be braver than me, Ivy. Don’t let them break you.”

To his mother, he pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring, “It’s not your fault.”

And to his father, he said nothing at all. Only looked at him, long enough that the silence itself was an accusation sharper than any words.

When Nathan finally turned back, Damian was waiting—impatient, unreadable, a storm in human form. He extended his hand, not as an offer but as an order. Nathan took it.

The doors closed behind them with a finality that felt like stone dropping into a grave.

The king had his bride. The family had lost their son.

And war had found its first vow.

The great doors closed with a thunderous echo, leaving the Cross family exposed beneath a thousand watchful eyes.

The silence broke like glass.

“She’s disgraced them all.”

“Arabella Cross, what a cowardly girl.”

“Imagine leaving Vitale at the altar—what kind of fool tempts death like that?”

“The family deserves ruin.”

The whispers spread like wildfire, no one bothering to lower their voices anymore. Lace-gloved hands fluttered to lips, jeweled heads bent close to trade scandal, and the name Arabella curdled into a curse.

Victor Cross stood rigid, his hand trembling faintly on the back of his chair. Maria wept silently into a crumpled handkerchief, face blotched with shame. Ivy clung to her mother, pale as porcelain, her eyes fixed on the aisle where her brother had just vanished into darkness.

But Nathan’s words still lingered like smoke—an accusation, a farewell, and a wound all at once.

And above it all, one fact hardened in the minds of the gathered elite:

Arabella Cross had fled, but it was Nathaniel who now bore the price.

The carriage was lined in black leather, gold filigree curling along its edges like a predator’s smile. Outside, hooves struck the cobblestones in rhythmic thunder, carrying them away from the church, away from family, away from the life Nathan had known.

Inside, silence reigned.

Damian lounged across from Nathan, one leg crossed over the other, his hand resting lazily against his jaw. The perfect image of composure—except for the flicker in his eyes, sharp and searing, watching every twitch of Nathan’s posture.

Nathan sat stiff-backed, fists curled tight in his lap. The ring that now bound him to the Vitale empire felt like a shackle burning into his skin.

At last, Damian spoke. His voice was low, velvet over steel.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. Not many omegas would dare look me in the eye after I commanded them to be silent.”

Nathan’s jaw clenched. He did not look away. “You don’t frighten me.”

A chuckle. Smooth, dangerous. Damian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Liar. You reek of fear. But…” His gaze dragged down Nathan’s throat, lingering on the pulse that betrayed him. “…you also reek of defiance. That intrigues me more.”

Nathan’s lips parted, a thousand retorts clawing at his tongue, but he swallowed them down. He would not give Damian the satisfaction.

“You think this is a game,” Nathan whispered, his voice tight. “But you’ve destroyed my life.”

“Destroyed?” Damian tilted his head, amused. “No, Nathaniel. Destroyed is what I do to my enemies. You… you are something else entirely.”

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—until it brushed against Nathan’s cheek, not gentle but possessive, claiming. Nathan flinched, but did not recoil. Their eyes locked, two storms clashing in a space too small to contain them.

“Learn this,” Damian murmured. “The moment your sister ran, she ceased to exist for me. You are my mate now. My bride. My curse, perhaps… but also my salvation.”

Nathan’s breath caught. He hated him—hated the arrogance, the cruelty, the way Damian spoke as if the world itself bowed before him. And yet, beneath the hatred, there was the thrum of something darker, something more dangerous than fear.

The carriage jolted over a stone, snapping the moment. Damian leaned back again, as though nothing had passed between them.

Outside, the gates of the Vitale estate loomed, black iron twisted like thorns, opening wide to swallow them whole.