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She flinches, and satisfaction curls through me. Yes, this is what Iwanted—to break that perfect composure, to see true emotion on that beautiful face. Even if it's hatred and fear rather than desire. For now.

"You're a monster," she whispers, her voice raw.

I press a hand to my chest and beam at her like she's just presented me with a thoughtful gift. "Why, thank you for noticing! I've been working on my monster reputation for centuries. The executions, the torture chambers, the dramatic shadow displays—it's exhausting, really. All that effort, and finally someone appreciates it." I lean in, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between us, the 'Most Monstrous Shadow Lord' trophy is quite heavy. I had to reinforce my mantelpiece."

Her horrified expression only widens my smile as my shadows wrap around us both, ready to transport us back to the palace.

"And now you're going to be a monster's bride," I continue cheerfully. "We can coordinate our villainous outfits. I'm thinking matching blood-spatter patterns? Very fashionable this season."

As the darkness engulfs us, taking us away from the clearing and the bloody remains of her lover, I allow myself a moment of pure, vicious triumph. She thought she could escape me. She thought she could give to another what was promised to me.

She was wrong.

And after tonight, after I've bound her to me with blood and ancient magic, after I've claimed her body as thoroughly as I've claimed her future, she'll never make that mistake again.

Mine. She is mine.

And I destroy what I cannot possess.

Chapter Six

The Binding

Nesilhan

THE HANDMAIDENS' HANDS feel like insects crawling across my skin. They wash, perfume, and prepare me with mechanical detachment, their faces carefully blank. I stare at the ceiling, my body present but my mind elsewhere—replaying the moment Kaan's shadows enveloped Aslan, the terrible sound that tore from his throat, the way his body contorted as the darkness tore him apart.

The silence in the chamber is oppressive. None of the handmaidens speak, though they exchange meaningful glances when they think I'm not looking. They know their place too well to risk commenting on their lord's future wife. I almost wish they would say something, give me an excuse to lash out, to break something, to scream.

A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up my throat. If only theyknew. This isn't the blank shock of a nervous bride. This is the hollow emptiness that comes after watching the man you love die in front of you, his blood spattering your face, your screams doing nothing to stop it.

I still feel the phantom sensation of Kaan's tongue against my cheek as he licked away Aslan's blood, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now you're truly mine," he had said. "No more distractions."

"Stand," one of the handmaidens commands, pulling me from the memory.

I rise mechanically, catching sight of myself in the tall mirror across the room. I look for some visible mark of what happened, some evidence of the trauma etched into my features. But there's nothing. Just a young woman with golden eyes that seem too large for her face, her skin unnaturally pale.

I had expected to see the maid my father had promised would come in the morning to offer tea. A way for me to get a message to him. I wanted to inform him of Aslan’s death. My father had said to ask for honey, but this morning, no maid had offered me tea. My focus returns to the mirror.

The reflection is a lie. It doesn't show the rage burning inside me, the grief that threatens to swallow me whole, the hatred that now has a single, razor-sharp focus: Kaan.

"It's time for the ceremonial gown," announces Mistress Varin, gesturing toward the black wedding dress hanging in the corner of the room—the same one I had tried on yesterday. Was it only yesterday? It feels like a lifetime ago.

They move to dress me, but something in me snaps. I step back, arms crossed over my chest.

"No."

Mistress Varin's eyebrows rise. "This is not optional, Lady Nesilhan."

"I will not wear it." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears—flat, dead. "That is a funeral shroud, not a wedding gown."

Understanding flickers in the old woman's eyes. "Your lover is dead. His death changes nothing about today's ceremony."

I lunge for her, faster than anyone expects. My fingers close around her throat before the guards can react. "Say his name," I snarl. "Say it."

Guards pull me off her, their grips bruising. Mistress Varin straightens her collar, her composure barely ruffled.

"You will wear the dress," Mistress Varin says, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Willingly or not."