Page 108 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“I give unto thee…”

The High Priestess released her hand, switching the steady grip to her wrist. “My body, soul, and heart…”

“My body, soul, and heart…”

“Until my dying night and beyond.”

Ariadne looked up at Azriel through the veil. “Until my dying night and beyond.”

“Your hand.” The High Priestess looked to Azriel now, and he extended his arm before she could grab him. And before he could consider what came next, the blade slid across his skin.

Sharp pain rippled up his arm, and when she demanded he, too, repeat the vows as his blood mingled with Ariadne’s in the bowl, he did so without complaint. The words were easy enough to say. Living up to them would be just as simple. Not knowing if she understood to what depths he meant it all was the most difficult part.

“Intertwine your fingers.” From another satchel, the High Priestess presented a long, thin white cloth. They did so, and she wound the cloth about their palms and continued, “These wounds, created and healed together, bind your body as one in the eyes of the gods and all those who bear witness this night. The blood you spilled now mingles together in harmony.”

The High Priestess produced a thimble-sized crystal chalice, taken from yet another of her satchels, and dipped it into the shallow pool. She lifted it high for all to see, blood dripping from its rim and trickling down her hand.

Azriel stilled as Ariadne used her free hand to lift the veil obscuring her face. She draped it back over the circlet and looked up at him with those perfect, shining eyes of ocean blue. Her dark lashes were curled, and liner swept across their line, emphasizing the curve of her eyes. Rouge swept up her fair cheeks, and a deep red stain tinted her lips. At her throat lay the black velvet necklace, its ruby glinting brightly in the candlelight.

Her beauty was, as always, unmatched.

“This first taste of your life together,” the High Priestess continued, though her voice now sounded distant, “shall bind your soul as one…”

She spoke, and Azriel stopped listening. The tiny chalice passed to Ariadne first. Her gaze never left him as she drank. When it came to him, he lifted it to his lips, and the rush of their combined blood across his tongue nearly sent him to his knees. Though none made it up the hollows of his fangs, it coated his mouth with its metallic tang.

“At last, we arrive at the end of our ceremony,” the High Priestess said.

Finally. Azriel could skip the reception to follow. All he wanted was to bring Ariadne home and worship her however she pleased. The shot of her blood sent his mind into a frenzy of possibilities.

“We close with the witnessing of the first feed.” The High Priestess pulled the cloth from their hands.

Ariadne pulled her hand away, the cut closed with naught but an angry red line remaining. Azriel’s had hardly scabbed. Just another reminder of the inferiority of his birth.

Unperturbed, Ariadne unfastened the buttons at her wrist. He did the same.

“As you partake in one another for this first time,” the High Priestess said, “remember this: you are now but one being, and to each vein, you shall be faithful.”

All around them, the Caersan vampires repeated the final words as though to drive home the message of the ceremony: “And to each vein, you shall be faithful.”

With that, Azriel brought Ariadne’s wrist to his mouth. She did the same with his. He shut everyone out. Instead, he watched his new wife as she bared her fangs and sank them deep into his arm. The jolt of their entry rippled through him, and he followed suit.

The shock of his fangs, something he knew she’d never experienced before, brought her eyes flashing to him. Their gazes connected, and her alarm dimmed to a heady acceptance.

As her blood rushed along his tongue, undiluted by his own, Azriel understood why Caersan men kept their women’s veins untouched until marriage. Even without his fae bond roaring triumphantly in his ears, the taste of her made his body shake. By the look on her face, she felt it, too. If they were alone, he’d have torn that gown right off her and gone about claiming every single inch of her body.

The High Priestess spoke again, a faint burble beyond the crashing happening in his mind to keep himself under control. He took the cue to release Ariadne as his wife—fuck him, his wife—retracted her fangs. Together they turned back to the woman leading the ceremony, still unhearing, as the High Priestess cut the long, white cloth in half with her knife and tied each portion around their wrists. The sting that accompanied it made Azriel jerk his arm back.

Ariadne laid a hand on his forearm and whispered, “Salt.”

Of course. To ensure the puncture wounds healed with a scar. He hadn’t noticed the mineral’s presence when the cloth wrapped around the outside of his hand.

“Presenting,” the High Priestess said as vocalized music echoed through the hall, driving away the maddening roar in his head, “Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell and his wife, the Lady Ariadne Caldwell.”

Chapter 24

Ariadne left the ceremony breathless. She had envisioned how it would go many times with several Caersan men. Darien, Loren, and even Alek Nightingale when she was younger. She had not had the time to imagine how the proceedings would move with Azriel beside her on that dais. The weeks leading up to the night had been busy with more wonderings than not.

The top of that list included the dhemon attack at Laeton Park. Why had they come back? And if they had not been there for her…who had they been there for?

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