Page 22 of Crown of Light and Ashes
THE WEDDING CEREMONY is a blur in my memory—a tedious formality I endured only because tradition demanded it. I remember the way her golden eyes, still red-rimmed from tears she'd tried to hide, refused to meet mine as our blood mingled on the ancient obsidian altar. I remember the delicious sight of those silver chains wrapped around her body—restraints I'd ordered specially for her, designed to suppress her light magic and mark her as mine.
Now, as I push open the door to our chambers, I feel the heady rush of victory. The magical blood bond thrums between us, a newly forged connection that allows me to sense the storm of emotions beneath her carefully composed exterior: revulsion, grief, fear, and a burning hatred that makes my shadows pulse with hunger. Absolutely delicious.
"Welcome to your new home,hatun," I announce, gesturing grandly at the room.
The chamber is a study in shadow and luxury—black silk drapes, obsidian furnishings, and hundreds of crystal orbs containing writhing shadows that cast the room in an ever-shifting twilight. At its center stands a massive bed with an ornate white frame that gleams like polished bone in the shifting light, draped in black silk.
Nesilhan stands just inside the doorway, still wearing my grandmother's black wedding gown, her posture rigid with tension. The memory of those silver chains I'd removed before entering our chambers lingers in my mind—the way they encircled her throat, bound her wrists, emphasized the curves of her body above that black silk. The way they outlined the shape of her breasts sends heat through me, and I keep imagining myself teasing her nipples with my shadows. There's something about her power contained but not broken that makes my blood run hot. Her hopelessness, her defeated posture, awakens something primal in me—the desire to prolong this, to savor every moment of her subjugation.
"Those chains suited you," I observe, circling her like a predator. "Perhaps I'll have new ones made. Gold, I think, to complement your eyes."
She hasn't spoken a word to me since the ceremony, maintaining a wall of icy silence that I find both amusing and infuriating. Even now, when we're finally alone, she refuses to give me the satisfaction of her voice.
"The blood bond is nearly complete," I say, moving closer, breathing in the scent of her—like sunlight on fresh snow, but tainted now with fear and fury. The combination is intoxicating. "Can you feel it? The way our magic seeks to merge?"
"I feel nothing but contempt," she replies, finally breaking her silence.
"A start," I concede with a smile. "Though the bond will reveal much more than that, I promise you."
I move to a nearby table and pour two glasses of wine, offering one to her. "A wedding tradition. Or would you prefer to skip the formalities?" I gesture toward the bed with my glass.
She knocks the glass from my hand, wine splattering across the obsidian floor like spilled blood.
"Damn your traditions," she hisses, golden eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it takes my breath away. "This is a farce."
"Ah, that's better," I laugh, delighted by her outburst. "There's the fire I was looking for. Let's be very clear about what this is, you're mine now. Not just a political arrangement. Mine to break, to possess, to consume."
"I am not a possession," she hisses, her voice like the whisper of wind, beautiful yet dangerous.
"Ah, it's far more than that," I counter, setting down both glasses. "Remove your gown."
Her eyes widen slightly at the abrupt command. "What?"
"Your gown," I repeat, leaning against a bedpost with calculated casualness. "Remove it. Piece by piece. I want to see what I've acquired."
The fury that flashes across her face is magnificent. "I am not a possession."
"The blood bond and ancient law disagree," I reply. "Now, shall we continue with this tiresome resistance, or shall you accept the inevitable?"
She holds my gaze for a long moment, calculation clear in her eyes. Finally, with deliberate slowness, she reaches for the first ornate pin in her hair.
"You mean these?" she asks, her voice deceptively sweet as she withdraws a pin from her dark locks.
A flicker of something, not quite light, but a pale echo of her former power, sparks around her fingertips. The pin glows faintly as she hurls it across the room, the suppressed magic giving it just enough force to embed itself in my shoulder with surprising sharpness. The blood binding may suppress most of her Light magic, but strong emotion seems to be breaking through the restraints in small, desperate bursts.
Pain sears through me, sharp, immediate, and utterly unexpected. I hiss, more in surprise than actual discomfort, as I pluck the glowing pin from my flesh. It dims between my fingers, leaving a smoking wound that my shadows immediately begin to heal.
"Interesting," I say, genuinely amused and aroused by her defiance. She has no idea how much her resistance affects me, how it makes my blood sing with anticipation. "Most Light Court nobles can barely conjure an illumination spell, yet you've fashioned a weapon from a hairpin. I wonder what else they taught you at that precious academy of yours."
She removes another pin, a dangerous smile playing at her lips. "I'm full of surprises."
Another weakly glowing projectile flies toward me, this one aimed at my heart. My shadows deflect it easily now that I'm prepared, but her aggression sends a thrill of excitement through me. My body responds immediately to her violence. This is no cowering bride, but a warrior worthy of conquest. The perfect blend of defiance and vulnerability, something to break slowly, methodically, over time. I'm going to enjoy breaking her very slowly.
"Continue," I encourage her, shadows swirling more densely around me. "I'm curious how many more surprises you've hidden in that ensemble."
She removes her jewelry next, each earring, each bracelet becoming a faintly glowing projectile that she hurls at me withincreasing precision. I dodge or deflect most, allowing a few to graze me just for the thrill of her small victories.
Through our newly forged bond, I sense her emotions unraveling with each landed blow—rage and grief swirling together in a chaotic symphony. It's intoxicating to feel her carefully maintained control shatter, raw power surging through her strikes as she abandons restraint. Far more exciting than the passive submission I've experienced from others, her fierce resistance reveals the tempest she typically keeps locked away. Nesilhan's resistance flows through me like liquid fire.
