Chapter 23

The night Azriel never in his wildest of dreams believed possible arrived. After everything he’d done, everything he’d endured, everything he’d put her through, she’d chosen him. Chosen him over the memory of her first love, the General of Valenul, and her father’s hopes. Despite the constant battle of will within himself, his fae bond won out, and he’d achieved the one thing he needed to complete himself.

By morning, Ariadne would be his wife.

His wife.

The rational side of him screamed. He still had time to run—to disappear into the mountains and never be seen in Valenul again. It begged him to stop the madness, remember everything she’d suffered, and put her out of the misery before it began. For that was all he had to offer her once they exchanged those vows.

Yet Azriel didn’t listen. He buttoned his black trousers and vest with shaking hands, straightened his deep red cravat, and slid his arms into the matching jacket. Everything would be perfect.

Even after the dhemon attack in Laeton Park, he’d make sure it went as planned.

Nimera, a young Rusan girl serving in his new household, knocked and entered with a quick curtsy. She pulled the collar of his vest into place before forcing him into a chair and combing his hair.

“I’m quite capable of tying my hair back,” he said as she moved it from side to side. “I’ve done it myself for years.”

Nimera snorted without looking at him in the mirror. “And you think that’ll do for your wedding?”

“It’s not that bad.”

She yanked his hair enough to make him wince, then tilted his head to the side. “It’s not enough.”

Her nimble fingers gathered the hair at his temple and began braiding. He watched with curiosity as she pinned the end of the braid down, then tilted his head in the other direction and repeated the endeavor. She then straightened his head and smoothed the top of his hair down to meet the twin braids at the back of his head, where she wove it all together.

“There.” She tied off the braid and gave it a quick tug. “Much better.”

“Thank you, Nimera.” He shoved his feet into tall leather boots and stood again. “Truly. It looks great.”

“You’re very welcome, my Lord,” she said and flounced back to the door. “Your carriage is waiting for you.”

Azriel grunted in affirmation. Carriages didn’t suit him. Riding freely on Jasper was his preference. But bringing his new wife home required the comfort and safety of a coach.

“Don’t ruin your hair by riding.” Nimera gave him a warning look and disappeared, leaving the door open behind her.

Indeed, ruining her work would result in him paying dearly. Over the last few weeks, he’d learned the ins and outs of his staff just as much as they’d taught him the ways of the Society. While he knew who he could taunt or goad, he also knew the trouble he’d be in if he pushed too far—and an unseasoned dinner was as unappetizing as he remembered it being. Swift apologies smoothed over the issue of his loose tongue, but it’d been a learning curve for certain.

So when he departed from the manor not long after, it was in the carriage with Madan riding along outside.

Each minute on their way to the event space made Azriel’s heart beat a little harder, a little faster, and a little more dysregulated. At his destination, he’d enter the ceremony hall, where he’d see the woman of his dreams for the first time since the dhemon attack at Laeton Park.

The very memory made his stomach roil. He leaned his elbows on his knees and pushed his fists against his eyes.

All he’d felt the moment those dhemons arrived was sheer terror. For the first time since Vertium, they’d gotten close enough to kill Ariadne. To finish what had been started in those mountains a year ago.

But it was what the dhemon he’d questioned told him that made his blood run cold: “He knows where you are, what you’re doing, and how to make you suffer for what you’ve done. Your death will never satisfy him.”

Him. The dhemon of his waking terrors. Ehrun. Ehrun, who’d locked him away and tortured him in a way he never thought possible: forcing him to listen to Ariadne’s screams. Her pleas for it all to end. Despite all that, the worst part had been the silence. The not-knowing if Ehrun had finally taken it too far and killed her.

A fae’s bond was meant to be reciprocated by another fae. It connected them, whether they wanted it or not, and because of it, a typical fae bond meant knowing whether their mate lived… and knowing when they died.

Azriel didn’t have the luxury of knowing since Ariadne had no fae blood. She didn’t feel the connection to him as he did to her, and while part of him was grateful she needn’t suffer in such a way, it played games with his mind. Too long without seeing her sent him into a spiral of darkness.

It’d been that spiral which had him slipping a noose about his own neck. If it hadn’t been for Madan, he wouldn’t have made it far enough to see this wedding.

Marriage, however, only tightened the hold his bond had on his mind and actions. Knowing that Ehrun was after him—after her to get to him—only tormented him more. He needed to get Ariadne back to Monsumbra, where he could protect her in the way he knew to be most effective.

He would not watch her die like so many others at the hands of monsters. His mother. His father. Even the guard, Gracen, took his final breaths in Azriel’s arms. Another death because of his failures—her death—would ruin him.