17. Amber

I'm not ready,I think as the ballroom doors open, as if by their own command.

Holding a bouquet of dried, black flowers—representing how vampires are preserved in time—I gaze around, seeing the space in a different, distorted light.

The crystal chandeliers are weapons hanging from the ceiling. The rose petals decorating the aisle are bloody arrows pointing toward the future I never wanted. And the gold moldings on the walls are cage bars, threatening to entrap me until the day I die.

Chairs have been placed in rows on the floor, and everyone's staring at me, serious and expectant. There are a few friendly faces—Abigail, Morgan, Cassandra, and some others I know from training and time spent around the Fairmont—but for the most part, they're strangers.

My breath catches from my gown's constricting bodice, and everything blurs around me. It's like a hand is wrapped around my chest, squeezing and squeezing so I have no air at all. All I feel is the pressure of having all eyes on me, along with the knowledge that the responsibilities I'm taking on will be far more than I can possibly understand right now.

Starting with the responsibility of getting the Solar Scepter and killing Astrophel.

No.

Starting with the responsibility of going through with this ceremony without having a full-blown panic attack. I've never had a panic attack, but if there was ever time to experience my first one, it's now.

A traditional wedding march sounds through the air, played by a string quartet tucked discreetly to one side.

The music feels too formal. Too cold.

Somehow, this moment is far scarier than the Minotaur's Labyrinth or an army of shadow souls could ever be.

But just like I did with those, I have to face it head on.

So, I take a deep breath and start my walk down the long, rose-covered aisle.

Damien stands at the altar. He's wearing a perfectly tailored suit, as per usual. His expression is unreadable, his posture rigid, as if carved from the same marble as the statues lining the room.

He looks like he's attending a funeral—not a wedding.

Eventually, I'm there. At the altar, facing him.

His eyes meet mine, icy and distant, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the draft in the room.

He says nothing to me, and I say nothing to him.

The night warden—their version of a priest—clears his throat to get our attention. He's wearing a long, black robe with a pointed hood down his back that's giving a medieval cult vibe. A narrow table stands in front of him, waist-height, with an intricately designed silver dagger laying on top of it.

In his hands, he holds the rings. They're simple bands, made from meteoric iron, which gives them a rougher texture than traditional metal. One is thicker—Damien's—and the other is thinner and daintier.

Mine.

Soon, that ring will be on my finger.

I swallow down a ball of anxiety at the thought.

"King Damien Fairmont and Ms. Amber Benson," the warden says, presenting a ring in each hand. "Please prepare the covenant."

I'm glad I was told what to expect, otherwise I'd have no idea what he meant.

As it is, I'm prepared.

Damien reaches for the dagger first, and he draws the blade across his palm, drawing blood. He doesn't flinch, his hard expression unchanging as he makes a fist and drips his blood onto the thicker ring, and then the thinner one, coating their surfaces entirely.

Wordlessly, he holds the dagger out to me.

I could run. I could lift this ridiculously huge dress, kick off my uncomfortable stilettos, flee down the aisle, and leave the Fairmont.

But where would I go? I can't leave Manhattan. And if I don't see this through, the city might not even be here a few months—or weeks—from now.

So, I take the dagger.

Damien's fingertips brush mine as I do. He watches me, waiting, as if he knows exactly what just went through my mind.

He nods for me to continue.

Taking a shaky breath, I draw the dagger across my palm. The sharp pain is a jolt of reality, and I let my blood fall onto my ring, and then his, the droplets of our futures joining together in a dark promise.

The warden looks at me to stop, and I place the dagger back onto the table, immediately feeling the cut on my palm knit back together, healing itself. Then, he closes his fists around the rings and closes his eyes, wind blowing around him as he calls on his magic.

The temperature drops, and the crystals in the chandeliers clang against each other like a strange, eerie music.

Eventually, the air stills, and the warden opens his hands.

The rings now bear a faint red hue. They're altered not just in color, but in composition, bound by my and Damien's blood, and by the warden's magic.

"With these bands, you accept the bond of blood and air," the warden says. "Exchange them as a symbol of your commitment, under the watchful eyes of the gods of night."

His voice is muffled, as if I'm seeing the world through a hazy wall.

Damien takes the ring meant for me, looks me in the eyes, and says, "I, Damien Fairmont, take you, Amber Benson, to be my wife and queen for all eternity."

For all the emotion he puts into it, he might as well be reading a grocery list.

His fingers are steady as he slides the band onto my finger. It's a perfect fit. Cool and slightly heavy, an ever-present reminder of the pact I'm sealing. And, once it's on, it tightens, as if searing its promise into my skin.

The warden holds Damien's ring out to me.

Breathing through my anxiety, I take it, my hand trembling and my heart pounding.

I'm really, truly going through with this.

It doesn't feel real.

But first…

Needing to try one last time, I open the door to the duskberry bond. Damien will feel my apprehension and fear, but right now, I don't care. I just want to feel the connection to him before it breaks.

The connection I never wanted, but somehow grew to trust.

His eyes are locked on mine, as cold and hard as they've been throughout the entire ceremony.

And then, he opens his side of the bond.

It's like a floodgate. The darkness, the pain, the grief he's been holding back… it all crashes over me at once, deeper and more agonizing than I ever imagined.

I gasp, the intensity of his emotions a physical thing, so strong they nearly knock me off my feet.

He reaches out, his hand gripping my elbow to steady me. His eyes are storms of emotion, seas of torment, gazing down at me in challenge.

Is that what you wanted?

He doesn't say it. But, while I can't read his mind, I swear that's what he's thinking.

I swallow, steadying myself, forcing myself to pull away.

What he's feeling right now… I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. Not even my greatest enemy.

Thankfully, he closes the bond again, although I'm pretty sure the intensity of his pain will be ingrained into my soul for all eternity. Perhaps even more than the pain I felt when Blaze removed the potion from my body.

"Amber?" the warden says. "Your vows?"

I meet Damien's eyes again, finding a warning that slices through the air between us, telling me to get myself together and get on with the ceremony.

The last thing the people want to see in their queen is doubt. Especially during a moment as important as this one.

I gather myself, somehow managing to speak without my voice wavering.

"I, Amber Benson, take you, Damien Fairmont, to be my husband and king for all eternity," I say, and then I slide the ring onto his finger, the blood-infused metal pulsing with life as I do.

The air crackles with the finality of the words we've exchanged.

"And now," the warden says. "You may kiss the bride."

I hesitate, time slowing around me.

Damien and I have kissed a few times. Each of those kisses has been filled with passion, with promises, with hope that the connection between us is growing into something real.

But as our lips meet in a kiss that should seal our marriage with warmth, I'm struck by the hollowness of it. There are no fireworks, no butterflies. Just a sharp coldness as the duskberry bond is carved out of my heart and soul.

In seconds, the magic that tied us together gone.

It is, without a doubt, the emptiest kiss I've ever had in my life.

The room bursts into polite applause, but it sounds distant. As if I'm hearing it from the other end of a long tunnel. As if this is happening to someone else, and not to me.

Marriage is supposed to be a union.

And it's ironic—almost cruel—that the ceremony meant to bind us together is what ultimately severed our connection apart.