18. Amber

Damienand I barely speak during the dinner that follows the ceremony.

It's somehow even more awkward than the feast my first night here when he announced, much to my surprise, that I was to be his bride.

The applause dims as the final toast concludes, and the human servants begin to serve dessert. Wedding cake, of course. Red velvet.

I can't say if it tastes good or not. I haven't been able to taste much of anything for the entire meal. I might as well be eating cardboard. I barely heard the toasts, either.

As we're finishing up, the line forms. One by one, members of the clan approach, their expressions varying from earnest respect to calculated politeness. Each handshake, each nod, each murmured word of "Congratulations, Your Majesty," echoes hollowly in my ears.

At the same time, it's a lifeline. It's the only indication that they believe in me. Not just for being star touched, but also as their queen.

Damien might not want me, but as least his people do.

Sunneva is noticeably absent. Although, thinking about it, I've only ever seen her in the daytime.

Maybe I'll hear from her tomorrow before we leave.

For now, I focus on the reception line, amused that when Cassandra reaches the front, she dips into a curtsy that really doesn't suit her.

"Your Majesty," she says, and while her eyes are hollow with grief from Yannick's death, there's unmistakable respect in her tone. "You make a fierce queen."

"Thank you," I say, and then she's gone, giving the next vampire in line a turn to pay his respects.

I see Morgan, Abigail, and Abigail's husband, Xavier, as well. They're encouraging, although they don't say anything overly personal, given that we have an audience.

The last of the clan members offer their respects, and the crowd begins to thin out. Eventually, only Morgan, Abigail, Xavier, and Cassandra remain.

"Where's Blaze?" I ask Morgan.

"He was tired. He already went back."

She has that guarded look in her eyes—the same one from our chat on the roof.

I guess they haven't worked out their issues yet.

In the meantime, Blaze isn't alone in being tired. Because I'm exhausted. Completely and utterly spent.

"We have an early start tomorrow morning," Damien says, standing up. "Shall we?"

He motions towards the grand double doors leading out of the ballroom, and I say a final goodnight to my friends before following him out. Each step is heavy, and it's not just because of the huge dress or the uncomfortable heels.

It's because each step feels like a march toward an uncertain future—one that I never would have dreamed would be my own.

We enter the elevator, and I reach forward to press the button for my floor. After all, this marriage is an alliance, and nothing else. Damien and I won't be sharing a bed tonight. Not with the way things are between us.

But right before my fingertip hits the button, he catches my wrist, his touch tentative but firm. "No need to go there," he says. "You'll be living in my apartment now."

I'm standing there, frozen as he keeps his hold on me, his words sinking in.

He thinks I'm going to move in with him.

It's insane. We didn't talk about this. Admittedly, we didn't have much time between my acceptance of his proposal and the wedding, but it's the sort of thing that deserves to have been discussed.

"All of my stuff's in my room," I finally say.

"It was moved for you," he says. "During the wedding."

I pull my wrist out of his grip and step back, not realizing that my skin had heated up until I see the burns on his fingers healing. "Then move it back," I say, narrowing my eyes at him, anger flaring through my veins.

"Absolutely not." He flexes his fingers, dropping his arm back down to his side. "The people expect their king and queen to share quarters. They expect to see us together, strong, steady, and united. If you remain in your room, they're going to talk. They're going to doubt the stability of our marriage."

I release a low chuckle, since they absolutely should be doubting the stability of our marriage.

He presses the button for his floor, holding it a second longer than normal so it can scan his fingerprint, since the elevator opens straight into his apartment.

"Will I at least have my own room?" I ask.

"About that." He clears his throat. "Since the Fairmont has ample rooms for guests, none of the other rooms in my apartment are equipped for sleeping."

"Then what are they ‘equipped for?'" I ask.

"Working. Reading. Entertainment. To put it plainly, the only bed in the apartment is the one in the primary bedroom. However," he continues before I can protest. "You can sleep in the bed. I'll take a sofa."

"Okay," I say, even though picturing him sleeping on a sofa in his own apartment makes me a bit sad. "And then we'll turn one of the other rooms into a bedroom for me?"

I can't believe I'm agreeing to move in with him.

Then again, I didn't expect to live in the guest hall forever.

Married couples live together. I knew that going into this.

I guess I just expected to move my own things when I felt ready for it.

Although, what I did tonight by marrying someone before feeling ready for it is a lot more permanent than moving in with them.

"If I can figure out how to redecorate one of the other rooms into a bedroom without causing talk amongst the clan, then yes, we can do that," he says. "But the primary bedroom will still be yours."

"And if you can't figure out how to redecorate without them noticing?" I ask.

"We'll deal with that problem if it comes to it."

A problem.

That's what our marriage is going to be after I get the Solar Scepter and defeat the shadow souls.

After I kill Astrophel.

His token, I realize after thinking his name.

It was in my stuff.

The stuff that a stranger just moved for me.

"I need to get this thing off me," I say after we step out of the elevator, motioning to the huge wedding dress I'm wearing. "Where's the bedroom?"

"That way." He points down one of the halls, and I hurry down it as quickly as my ridiculous stilettos can carry me.

Closing the door behind me, I find the walk-in closet and flick on the light.

The closet is so big that it might as well be a room unto itself. There are rows of Damien's suits, and a few of my own outfits now hanging beside them. There are also a bunch of delicate, expensive dresses that definitely aren't my own, but that all conveniently seem to be around my size.

None of my jeans are hanging.

But there are a few columns of drawers. So, I search them, starting from the bottom up. My heart hammers as I dig through.

Please still be here, I think, stopping when I find the drawer with my jeans.

Just like in my original room, my least favorite pair of jeans are at the bottom of the drawer. I pull them out, reach into the pocket, and…

The token is right where I left it.

Before realizing what I'm doing, I hold it to my heart. Because it's safe.

My secret is safe.

Taking a few breaths to calm myself, I tuck it back into its hiding space and shove the jeans back into the drawer.

Just as I'm finishing, someone knocks on the door.

Damien. It has to be.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I stand up, panicked.

"Yes?" I say, not opening the door.

"Do you need help with the dress?" he asks, surprisingly gentle, and almost hesitant.

Reluctance washes over me, followed by a jolt of anxiety.

Was he lying when he said he didn't expect us to share a bed tonight? Does he have certain… expectations of what's supposed to happen now that we're married?

We never discussed it. I just assumed we were on the same page—especially after that hollow kiss.

"Amber?" he asks, and I want to tell him I don't need help.

But I can't manage the maze of buttons and laces on my own. And I certainly don't intend on sleeping in this thing. Even if I do sleep in it, I'll need to take it off tomorrow morning, before we leave for the Himalayas.

"Sure," I reply, somehow composing myself as I open the door.

He steps in, leaving it open, and looks me over. There's a professionalism in his eyes that makes this feel far less intimate than it should.

I don't know if I'm grateful or sad about it.

"Turn around," he instructs.

I do, my heart pounding, the dress feeling more constricting than ever.

After what feels like several long seconds, his fingers are at the nape of my neck, unhooking the first clasp. His touch is cool, his movements methodical, and every brush of his fingertips makes me unsteady on my feet.

From the way his breathing slows, I suspect he feels the same.

As he continues, it's clear that he's experienced in this. Maybe because he grew up in a century where outfits like this were common. Maybe because he's undressed his fair share of women in his long life.

Maybe both.

"Thank you for doing this," I break the silence, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pauses, his fingers stilling on my back. "It would have been impossible for you to get this dress off on your own," he says simply, returning to his work. "It was designed with the assumption that you'd have assistance removing it."

With the assumption that my husband and I would be intimate on our wedding night, his words imply.

It's a fair point.

One I regret I'll never experience, since couples are supposed to love each other when they marry, which the two of us clearly don't.

"I meant you could have waited for me to struggle with it and forced me to come out and ask for help," I say, trying to wipe all thoughts of intimacy with Damien out of my mind, despite my skin warming anyway. "But you didn't. So, again—thank you."

Finally, the last clasp is undone, and the dress begins to slip from my shoulders.

I reach up to catch it, and he steps back, his hands dropping to his sides.

From the way his eyes wander down my body, drinking me in, I know that whatever just happened here affected him as much as me. It makes my heart race, and my breaths come faster.

"You can manage from here?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, still holding the dress, unable to move.

He watches me for a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him with a resolved click.

I should feel relieved to have some time to myself.

Instead, I'm more confused than ever. Because tonight was supposed to be about alliances and doing what's necessary to save the city. About accepting the fact that this marriage is a "business arrangement," and nothing more.

Now, all I can think about is how despite everything he claims to want, Damien's touch lingered far longer on my skin than what was obviously needed for him to unlace that dress.