Page 88 of Bride By Coronation

Fiona glances up at me.

Ulrich adds, "It's time The Underworld learns the truth about their king. And it will not be from behind the blur of the glass!"

My gut dives. I knew this moment was coming and should have known Ulrich wouldn't give me any more leeway, especially after I went over his head to ostracize Sean and Zara. I prepared for the glass to partially shield me. I assumed it would mentally allow me to cope with Fiona's disgust since the glass is mirrored inside the room.

Now, the truth of my identity will be revealed. Anyone I've fucked during ceremonies with my mask on will know it was me. My anonymity will be gone.

The gong sounds again, making me cringe.

There's no getting out of this.

Deal with it. Be a fucking man.

I take a deep breath, release Fiona, and move to the center of thestage. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. I slowly shed my tuxedo jacket, unbutton my shirt, and fight to continue to undress.

The moment I remove my shirt, the audience gasps, then a shrill hissing takes over. I toss it on the floor, tug at my belt, unfasten my pants, and shove my underwear and trousers down. The metal buckle clanks on the wood.

I grind my molars, familiar with the hissing. Ever since I was eighteen and my first and only girlfriend left me, every sexual act I've participated in has been during a ritual. My face is always covered by my mask, and my hand with my necklace tattoo shielded by a leather glove. Now, there's no protection and no more questions about my identity.

The war inside me rages. The longer I stand in front of the hissing crowd, staring at the thousands of flickering torches, the more I want to hide. But I can't.

The gong bangs three times, and my desire to hide turns into a wish for someone to shoot me. I do my best to keep my neutral expression intact and don't move.

The gong bangs four times.

I still don't move.

A final warning belts off five loud bangs, and there's no more choice. My desire to live outweighs my wish to die.

Cringing inside, I spin toward a gaping Fiona and reach for my cock, unable to avoid her eyes.

There's no hiding. She knows who she's married to now.

My breathing goes ragged. I don't break protocol, playing with myself, staring at my beautiful bride in her wedding dress, and unable to stop my erection from growing.

Her gaze darts over my body, following the ink of the tattooed saw-scaled viper with several heads. She undoubtedly saw the snake's face on my shoulder, then followed it down my torso and around my legs. Now that I'm turned to face her, she takes all of it in, pausing at the vicious heads on my thighs and shins before pinning her gaze on my thick, ten-inch cock. She swallows hard, her eyes widening with an expression I can't decipher.

The memory of being sliced over and over flashes before me, intensified by the hissing. I breathe through it, grinding my molars so hard I'm afraid they might crack.

She's disgusted,I tell myself.

The gong rings ten times, and some relief hits me. I release my cock.

Fiona tears her greens off me, taking deep breaths.

The women in the crowd moan while the men continue to hiss.

I close the gap between Fiona and me, and she looks up, but it only confuses me further.

I don't see any disgust. I've seen it on women's faces in rituals, but I always wore a mask. Instead of what I'm used to seeing, the flare in her eyes resembles the look she gave me when I held her throat in the snow.

I'm seeing things.

She slides her shaky hands up my chest, slowly tracing the knotted scars under the ink, then steps even closer. Curiosity, maybe pity, and the same flickering flame dance across her expression.

My ache for her intensifies. She traces the head over my chest until I can't take it anymore. I put my hand over hers, my heart furiously pounding against her hand.

She rises on her tiptoes, slides her hand behind my head, and grips my hair.

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