3. The First Blood Vow: The Wedding Night Confrontation

CHAPTER THREE

Dante POV

"He looks as if he’s walking to his own execution, Dante. Are you sure this is a merger and not a funeral?"

My younger brother, Enzo, leaned against the stone pillar of the private chapel, a jagged smirk playing on his scarred lips. He was fiddling with a silver lighter, the clack-clack of the metal lid echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

"He’s a Vane," I replied, adjusting the cufflinks of my tuxedo. My hands were steady, but inside, a strange, dark electricity was humming. "They’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. It doesn't matter how he looks. It only matters that he signs the book."

"The council is restless," Enzo lowered his voice, the playfulness vanishing. "They think you're getting soft. They think a bullet to the Prince’s head would have sent a clearer message than a ring on his finger. If he tries anything tonight, I won’t wait for your order to end him."

"You’ll touch him when I tell you to, and not a second before," I snapped, my voice dropping into the low growl that usually sent men running. "Go. Take your place."

Enzo straightened, his eyes lingering on mine for a second too long before he turned and walked into the pews.

I turned back to the altar. The chapel was filled with the smell of old incense and the cold, metallic scent of the men who worked for me. These weren't wedding guests; they were witnesses to a conquest.

Then, the doors at the back opened.

Julian stepped into the light. He was dressed in ivory silk, a color that should have looked ridiculous on a man in this house, but on him, it looked like a challenge. He was pale, his jaw set so tight I could see the muscles leaping in his throat, but his eyes... his eyes were two shards of blue fire.

He didn't look like a victim. He looked like a fallen god walking among the ruins of his temple.

As he reached the altar, I caught the faint scent of him not the blood and grime from the basement, but something clean, like ozone before a storm. My fingers twitched with the sudden, violent urge to reach out and see if his skin was as cold as his gaze.

"You’re late," I whispered as he stepped onto the dais beside me.

"I had to wash the smell of your basement off me," Julian replied, his voice a razor-thin blade. "Though I doubt this house will ever be truly clean."

The priest, a man who had been on the Moretti payroll for twenty years, didn't bother with the traditional homily about love. He knew the stakes. He hurried through the Latin, his voice trembling as he reached the final vows.

"Dante Moretti, do you take this man to be your husband, to bind your houses in blood and law?"

"I do," I said, my voice booming through the silent chapel. I didn't look at the priest. I looked at Julian. I wanted him to see that I wasn't just taking his name; I was claiming every breath he took.

"And you, Julian Vane? Do you take this man?"

The silence stretched. I heard the collective rustle of my men reaching for their holsters. Enzo moved his hand toward his jacket. One word, one "no", and this chapel would become a slaughterhouse.

Julian’s gaze didn't waver. He looked at the heavy gold band in my hand, then back to me. A slow, mocking smile curved his lips.

"I take my jailer," he said, loud enough for the council to hear. "And may the Moon have mercy on whatever is left of his soul."

I grabbed his hand, his fingers were ice, and shoved the ring onto his finger. It was a brand, a mark of ownership.

The moment the priest pronounced us wed, the "celebration" was little more than a few stiff nods from the men in the pews. I led Julian out of the chapel and straight to the master wing. We didn't head downstairs to the party. My men needed to see me claim my prize, and I needed to get Julian behind a locked door before I lost my mind.

The moment we entered the bedroom; I slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

Julian didn't wait. He spun around, and before I could move, he snatched a heavy crystal carafe from the side table and smashed it against the edge of the bed frame. He stood there, gasping for breath, holding a jagged shard of glass aimed at my throat.

"Don't come near me," he hissed, his chest heaving beneath the ivory silk. "You have your signature. You have your legitimacy. If you think you’re getting anything else tonight, you’ll have to kill me first."

I stayed where I was, watching the way the moonlight caught the glass in his hand. My heart should have been cold. I should have been annoyed by the defiance.

Instead, a dark, twisted sense of admiration flared in my gut. He was terrified, alone, and outgunned, yet he was still fighting.

"You’re holding that wrong," I said, my voice eerily calm as I began to unbutton my waistcoat. "If you lunge at me like that, the glass will shatter in your hand before it even touches my skin. You'll bleed out before I do."

"I don't care," Julian spat, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path through the bruise on his cheek. "I'd rather bleed out than let you touch me."

I took a step forward. He didn't flinch.

"I didn't marry you for your body, Julian," I lied, the words tasting like ash. I wanted to see him broken, yes, but I also wanted to see him burn. "I married you for the war. But if you want to play with glass, remember one thing..."

I moved faster than he could react, my hand lashing out to catch his wrist, squeezing until the glass dropped onto the carpet. I spun him around, pinning his back against the cold stone of the fireplace, my body a wall of solid muscle against his.

"You’re a Moretti now," I whispered into his ear, feeling his heart racing like a panicked bird against my chest. "And in this house, we don't use glass. We use steel."

I pulled a small, obsidian-handled dagger from my belt and pressed the flat of the blade against his throat.

"Sleep on the sofa. Sleep on the floor. I don't care," I growled, releasing him and stepping back toward the door. "But if I see you with a piece of glass again, I’ll show you exactly why they call me the Butcher."

I walked out, locking the door from the outside.

I leaned my head against the wood, closing my eyes. My hands were shaking, not from fear but from the sheer, suffocating weight of an obsession I hadn't realized was this deep.

I hadn't just bought a Prince. I had bought a wildfire. And I was starting to think I was the one who was going to get burned.