Page 121 of Bonds of Pain
“No,” I reply, studying her reaction. “He’s observing the tradition of not seeing the bride before the ceremony.”
Something flickers across her face—relief, perhaps?—before her professional mask slips back into place.
“Of course. Very traditional.” She glances at her watch. “We should wrap this up. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your own bonding ceremony.”
As Belinda moves to leave, I can’t contain my curiosity any longer.
“I’m surprised,” I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “I would have thought you’d have more... interesting questions for me today.”
Her face goes perfectly still, fear flashing briefly in her eyes before she masters it. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness.”
She backs away with another bow, more desperate to escape my presence than to secure her exclusive.
The door closes behind her, and I turn back to the mirror, a chill running down my spine.
The video never reached her. Somehow, Logan intercepted it before it could cause any damage.
Does that mean he knows exactly what I did?
And yet here I am, being prepared for a bonding ceremony as if nothing has happened. As if I hadn’t drugged him, violated him, and attempted to destroy him publicly.
“Your Highness?” One of the betas approaches with the ceremonial veil, a gossamer creation studded with tiny diamonds. “It’s almost time.”
I close my eyes as they lower the veil over my face, the weight nothing compared to the dread settling in my stomach.
I make the long walk toward the grand ballroom, flanked by a procession of high-ranking Omegas and harem betas. Their excited whispers create a backdrop of white noise that barely penetrates the fog of dread enveloping me.
The corridor stretches endlessly before me, each step bringing me closer to whatever fate awaits at its end. My hands tremble slightly beneath my bouquet of white roses and purple orchids, the blooms arranged to match my hair. The symbolism isn’t lost on me—white for purity I no longer possess, purple for royalty I never wanted.
As we approach the massive doors leading to the ballroom, the sound of hundreds of guests filters through. The entire court has gathered to witness this spectacle, this public validation of a bond that was forced upon me in secret. My heart poundsagainst my ribs as the palace guards bow deeply before opening the doors.
The crowd rises as one, turning to stare as I appear in the doorway. The ballroom is transformed into a sea of wealth and privilege. Aristocrats in their finest attire, jewels glittering in the light of a thousand candles. The king sits on an elevated platform at the far end, his expression imperious and satisfied.
And there, waiting at the end of the aisle, stands Logan.
His white dress uniform makes him look like something carved from marble, golden eyes fixed on me as I begin my procession toward him. Cillian stands just behind him, his face carefully blank despite the storm I can feel building through our bond. Poe and Ares flank them, their expressions equally unreadable.
My steps falter slightly. If Logan received the video, if he knows what I did, why am I walking toward what could very well be my execution rather than my wedding? Perhaps this elaborate ceremony is his form of revenge, letting me believe everything is fine before publicly humiliating me, or worse.
The thought makes me lightheaded, but I force myself to continue forward. The guests’ eyes follow my every move, their whispers rising like the tide as I pass. I wonder what they see—the radiant future queen, or a woman walking to her doom?
Halfway down the aisle, I catch a glimpse of Belinda Farrow among the journalists cordoned off in one corner. Her face is pale, her eyes downcast as she scribbles notes without looking at me. Next to her stands Thane, his clinical gaze dissecting me as I pass. The sight of him sends a chill down my spine.
I’m close enough now to see Logan’s face clearly. His expression reveals nothing. No rage, no betrayal, not even the smug satisfaction I’ve come to expect. Just a neutral smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he extends his hand toward me.
My heart hammers wildly as I place my trembling fingers in his. His grip is gentle but firm as he draws me to his side, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in what any observer would interpret as an affectionate gesture.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice carrying just far enough for those nearest to hear. The perfect prince complimenting his bride. “I hope you’re ready for this.”
I search his face for any sign that he knows, any hint of the storm that must be raging beneath that carefully controlled exterior. But I find nothing except polished performance.
The king rises, his voice booming across the ballroom as he officiates the ceremony. I barely hear the words, my attention focused entirely on Logan and the inexplicable calm he exudes. If this is the calm before the storm, it’s masterfully executed.
As we face each other, Logan takes both my hands in his. The touch sends an unwanted flare of awareness through my body, the bond responding despite my determination to remain detached. His golden eyes lock with mine as the king speaks of duty and honor, of bonds that transcend time itself.
“I, Logan Corellian, take this Omega as my bonded mate,” he recites, voice clear and unwavering. “Before these witnesses, I pledge my protection and fidelity.”
The words are hollow, a mockery of the truth. Yet as he speaks them, I feel an undeniable pulse through our bond—not affection or love, but something more complex. Determination, perhaps. Or resolve.
