Chapter 9 – The Ceremony of Power

Dominik

Weddings are meant to be celebrations. Mine is a stage play and I’m the director.

The vaulted ceiling of the cathedral soars high above, ribbed arches drawing the eye upward toward saints carved in stone, while stained-glass windows bleed colored light across the aisle.

Every pew is filled, the vast interior overflowing with men and women who know how to smile while planning murder.

Flowers spill from every ledge and column, so abundant the marble seems to bend under their weight. Candles burn in iron sconces, their glow fighting with the sunlight pouring through rose windows, gilding the scene in fractured brilliance.

Even the priest wears the satisfaction of a man well compensated for his sudden flexibility. Voice softened by the sizable donation that made such a last-minute ceremony possible.

The sanctity of the place bends as easily as men do, and the irony makes me want to laugh. No expense has been spared. The message is carved into every detail: Dominik Grimaldi only has the very best.

The music swells as the organist launches into the wedding march, and the doors swing wide.

George Larson appears first, holding out his hand to the daughter he sold into slavery for all intents and purposes.

He’s sweating through his collar, shaking with the effort of walking next to her without making eye contact with anyone. He looks like a fraud exposed, which is exactly what he is.

Eve eclipses him completely.

Actually that doesn’t do her justice. She eclipses the sun today.

The white silk dress molds to her waist before spilling to the floor. The train catches light like water, flowing behind her in liquid ripples. Her bouquet is a beautiful arrangement of orchids and roses. She grips it too tightly, knuckles pale, but her stride never falters.

Her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark curls gleaming. Her mouth is stubbornly unsmiling, lips pressed into a line that says this is duty, not devotion. And her hazel eyes, lit with green fire, stubbornly refuse to seek me out.

She looks straight ahead, avoiding my gaze on purpose. My cock gives a hard throb against my trousers, a visceral reaction to her venom. It amuses me that she doesn’t know she’s only making me want her more.

Her father looks ready to collapse, but she keeps her chin high, fury radiating like heat off asphalt. She’s the one with everything to lose, yet she bears up like a warrior. George is the guilty one, but he’s crumbling.

She’s completely innocent, yet she strides down the wine red carpet like a queen about to take her throne.

The contrast makes my blood thrum.

I catalog every flicker of her as she comes down the aisle. The tremor in her grip on the bouquet. The quick stutter of her breath when her gaze almost collides with mine. The pulse fluttering in her throat, betraying her fear of tonight, of what happens when the doors shut and she’s alone with me.

She fears me, but she still burns righteously for her father’s life, still carries herself like steel. A low, predatory heat coils in my gut. She has no idea her fury is the most effective foreplay.

She walks slowly enough that I can watch each movement of fabric as it shifts across her hips. I know exactly what she’s wearing under the dress. The corset, the garters, the lace.

I picture it as she moves. The way it must bite into her waist when she inhales, the way her breasts are pushed up by boning and silk, how soft her thighs will feel when I roll the stockings down her legs. How soaked that tiny triangle of lace will be when I finally get that far.

By the time she reaches me, I’ve already unwrapped her in my mind a dozen times, slow and merciless, until she’s gasping under my hands.

At the altar, the priest clears his throat and asks the old question: “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

George clears his throat and croaks, “I… I do.” His voice quivers, sweat rolling down his temple.

I almost laugh. My bride stiffens fractionally at his words but keeps her head high.

This trembling thief thinks he’s giving her to me. He hasn’t given me a thing. I took her. The only reason he’s still breathing is because she had the spine to barter herself.

When I take her hand from him, her fingers are warm and dry, but her pulse is hammering brutally.

She still refuses to look at me and it makes me smirk wider. Even here, she’s trying to keep bits of herself from me. She doesn’t understand how much that feeds me.

The priest drones about love, faith, eternal bonds. I hear none of it. I only watch Eve, soaking in the fury radiating from her. She has no smile for me, no softness. And yet she is magnificent.

When prompted, I answer without hesitation. “I will.”

My voice cuts through the cathedral like glass.

The vows continue. The priest intones the lines I insisted on, relics of an older time. To love, honor, and obey. Not cherish. Cherish is for weak men. Obey is for me.

Her lips curl as she repeats it, but she says it. Obey. The venom in her voice only makes it sweeter. I watch her throat work as she forces the word out, and I want to wrap my hand around that slender column and show her exactly what obedience looks like in practice.

When it’s her turn, she spits the words out as though they’re poison she can’t hold in her mouth any longer. “I will.”

The hatred in her tone threads straight into my veins. I hear defiance disguised as surrender. She thinks she’s resisting me with the way she says it, but all she’s doing is feeding the fire that will consume her.

I slide the ring onto her finger. Gold, heavy, deliberately ostentatious. It looks obscene and perfect on her hand. She glares down at it like it’s a brand, and I’m satisfied because that’s exactly what it is.

Finally, the priest speaks the line I’ve been waiting for. “You may kiss the bride.”

I take her chin, tilt her face up, and cover her mouth with mine. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t tender. It’s ownership. My tongue pushes past her lips, staking territory, taking what’s mine in front of every man who thought he might test me.

She resists. And then she bites me.

Her teeth sink into my lower lip, sharp enough to pierce skin. The sting is immediate, hot. Blood floods my mouth, metallic and rich. To anyone else, it looks like passion. To me, it’s perfect. Her defiance is painted across my skin, and it makes my cock throb against the restraint of my trousers.

She wants to hurt me. She wants to fight. All it does is make me want to devour her whole.

When I finally pull back, applause shatters the silence. The cathedral echoes with clapping, cheers, polite exclamations of delight. Guests smile and nod as if they’ve just witnessed a perfect love story sealed with a kiss.

Idiots.

What they’ve really witnessed is a war declared and won in the same heartbeat.

Eve’s glare could ignite the walls. My smirk is slow and deliberate. None of them appear to see the storm brewing between us.

I squeeze her hand as we turn to face the audience, grip iron tight, daring her to try to pull away. To everyone else, it looks like devotion. To us, it’s combat.

And beneath all the theatrics, one thought coils in me, hot and sharp.

Tonight.

Tonight I’ll close the doors and peel that silk from her body, layer by layer. I’ll unwrap her like a present I bought with blood. I’ll drag my palms down her bare thighs and watch fury shatter into gasps.

I’ll bury myself inside her and make her obey where it matters most.

She thinks she can fight me. She thinks her fury will shield her. But I know better. Her body won’t lie.

Mine. The word beats like a pulse behind my teeth. Bound by vows and blood.