Page 2 of His Bride

“I’m supposed to stand here,” the priest says, “and preach how there is peace in death. But there is no peace here. This family has been wronged. We’re burying someone today, someone weall cared for deeply, because of the ripple current of a war waged against this family. We can’t let that go unpunished. God says turn the other cheek—well, I say an eye for an eye.”

He looks at each face, including mine. These aren’t the words one would come to expect from a priest, but this is a family-only funeral, and everyone here knows the secrets and undercurrents of our world.

Here, family transcends blood, evident by the presence of Gabriel King and his wife. Davian Stark and his woman. Elijah, and Charlotte, who sits behind her cello, listening to every word. The Dark Sovereign is united even in their pain, even at their most vulnerable. I’ve never seen such raw and profound unity before. It paints them as invincible in a world that’s seemingly falling apart around them.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall.

It’s all my fault. All of it. Alexius should be here and not?—

I choke on a sob and place my palm over my mouth. This tragedy had ripped apart the fabric of the Del Rossa family, cracked to its core. Shit, for a while, Mira was at risk of losing the baby because of the emotional turmoil wreaking havoc on her body. But she didn’t, thank God. She’s as fine as she can be under the circumstances.

But Leandra?

She’s scared, the uncertainty eating her alive. The poor woman is holding on to her very last thread. How could she not after what she’s been through the last two weeks? She’s only keeping it together for her children while her insides are broken into pieces.

Once, right after…at the hospital—very private, very much theirs—I tried to offer her my support, but Caelian stepped in front of me and uttered one word. “No.”

One word. Spoken softly. Coldly. One word that hit me like the bullet that hit his brother.

Alexius.

It’s not fair, none of it. All those times I hissed words at Caelian, threw his touches back at him, I’d give almost everything for his arm around me now. Even his shoulder to mine. Or his little finger pressing into mine to let me know he’s there, still with me.

Me. There isn’t a more selfish word than that. This family is burying a loved one, and I’m sitting here longing for a man I spent months fighting because I was too naïve, too blinded by my festering need for freedom to realize that maybe—just…maybehe’d end up being the love of my life.

I close my eyes, rubbing a finger along my forehead. The selfish thoughts don’t stop. No wonder Caelian puts a constant effort into avoiding me, barely even looking my way. He blames me; I’m sure of it. I blame me, too. I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have run from a fate that I only delayed in doing so.

This all started with my father.

I glance over my shoulder at the trees behind us. He should be here, but I’m not surprised he’s not. He’s changed so much that I hardly recognize him anymore. One would think the vulnerability that had him coming to the Dark Sovereign for help would humble him and let him feel indebted to this family. But clearly, that’s not the case, as he hasn’t shown his face to pay his respects.

“In Leviticus, the Lord says do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people. Aurelio Le Fontiis notour people!” Father Kent’s angered voice cuts through the air before he lets out a breath and turns to face Nicoli. “Forgive me. I’ve allowed my emotions to interfere with my duty. I forget myself and the reason we’re here today. To bury a loved one and to mourn without question or judgment.”

Nicoli nods in understanding. Everyone looks at him now, to fill the void of Alexius’ absence. Other than Leandra, this has impacted him the most. He doesn’t want the burden of leading this family, or to reign over this empire. But now, he has no choice.

The quiet in the air is palpable, thick with sorrow, each breath pulling it deeper into our lungs. The echo of Father Kent's apology still lingers as we stand for a prayer. Or a psalm. Or something. I’m a shit Catholic. I barely went to Sunday school and paid zero attention in church.

One by one, Nicoli, Isaia, Maximo, and Rome walk toward the casket, beams of sunlight reflecting off the polished mahogany. I met Rome for the first time when he arrived on the estate three days ago. He looks like them—dark hair, tanned skin, raw power.

Together, they lift the casket with the bouquet of white flowers and, as pallbearers, carry it inside the mausoleum. I don’t follow. I don’t feel like I have the right to. Instead, I stay outside, frozen in my place like a statue, watching as they disappear into the grand stone structure.

The cold wind whips my hair across my face, stinging my skin. Everyone else has moved inside, the heavy, aged doors of the mausoleum now closed behind them. I don’t feel my legs moveor hear my own voice break the silence. I’m just here, rooted to this spot, void of thought. Empty. Unsure.

Uncertainty is more crippling than fear. Fear is a response to something known, something we can confront or flee from. But uncertainty? It’s the absence of clarity, and it leaves us paralyzed by the endless possibilities of what could be. It lingers in the shadows, slowly eroding our sense of control.

There’s no telling how long I stand there when my skin starts to prickle, and awareness fills me.

Caelian.

I turn to face him, and in that moment, he takes my breath away, his silhouette a dark figure against the backdrop of the mausoleum. Even in mourning he remains beautiful. A creature that sings to my blood even through the silence that plagues us.

The winds wrestle with the edges of his black coat, his face set into hard lines of melancholy. But behind those amber-brown eyes lurks an anger, a rage threatening to consume his entire being. And it scares me.

He pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket and lights it with deft, elegant movements, inhaling deeply before blowing out a smoky sigh while not taking his gaze off me once.

I’m about to turn as the silence becomes almost as unbearable as the funeral I caused when he speaks. “Come with me.”

A spark of hope flares, but his eyes are cold and implacable.

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