POV Avery
My wedding dress is a monument to everything I hate about my life. White silk that costs more than most people’s cars, beadwork that probably took some poor seamstress months to complete, and a train long enough to trip over while walking to my own execution.
The thing weighs about thirty pounds and restricts my movement like I’m wrapped in expensive quicksand. Every time I try to take a full breath, the corset reminds me that breathing is apparently optional for brides. The veil alone could house a small family, cascading down my back in layers of imported lace that probably has its own insurance policy.
“You look beautiful,” Joanna says, but her voice sounds like she’s trying not to cry.
“I look like a sacrifice.”
Which is exactly what I am. A virgin sacrifice wrapped in designer fabric and political ambition. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m dressed in white when this whole thing is about as far from pure as you can get.
“You don’t have to do this.”
We’ve been having this conversation for three days straight. She’s tried everything—logic, emotion, bribery, threats. She even suggested we fake my death and flee to Canada, which honestly wasn’t the worst plan she’s pitched. Nothing works, because she doesn’t understand that this isn’t about choice anymore. This is about the only person who ever made me feel like I was worth something.
“Yes, I do.”
“Avery—”
“No.” I turn to face her, and the look in my eyes must be intense enough to shut her up. “I do have to do this. Because if I don’t, she dies. And I can’t live with that.”
“You don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
The words hit like a slap. Because she’s right. For all I know, Natalie’s already dead. Björn could be playing me, using my feelings against me while she’s already buried somewhere in his territory. The thought makes my stomach clench so hard I almost double over.
But I can’t think like that. Can’t let myself go down that path, because if I do, I’ll fall apart completely. And falling apart in this dress would be a logistical nightmare.
“She’s alive,” I say, because I have to believe it. “And after today, she’ll be free.”
Joanna stares at me for a long moment, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Then she nods, straightening her shoulders like she’s preparing for battle. “Okay. But I’m going to be right there. Front row. And if he tries anything—”
“He won’t.” Not during the ceremony, anyway. Too many witnesses, too much political theater. He’ll wait until after, when the contracts are signed and I’m legally his property. When there’s no audience to witness whatever creative ways he finds to break me.
The music starts. Wedding march played on instruments that probably cost more than my entire education. The string quartet looks like they stepped out of a classical music catalog, all pristine uniforms and practiced smiles. Time to go.
The walk down the aisle feels like walking through quicksand. Every step is an effort, every breath a struggle. The pack’s watching, all of them dressed in their finest, celebrating what they think is a political victory. The great hall has been transformed into something out of a fairy tale—flowers everywhere, candles flickering like tiny stars, the whole nine yards of romantic bullshit.
If they only knew.
I can feel their eyes on me, cataloging every detail. Some look genuinely happy, others seem confused about why I’m suddenly so compliant. A few look suspicious, like they can smell the desperation rolling off me in waves.
Björn’s standing at the altar in a suit that probably costs more than most people’s houses. Designer everything, from his Italian leather shoes to his platinum cufflinks. He looks pleased with himself, like he’s won some kind of prize. Which, I guess, he has.
The bastard actually has the audacity to smile at me. Not a genuine smile—nothing about Björn is genuine—but that predatory smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s getting and exactly what he plans to do with it.
Father’s in the front row, looking like he’s just brokered the deal of the century. Which, politically speaking, he has. The Bloodfang alliance will make our pack virtually untouchable. Too bad it’s going to cost me my life.
The officiant starts talking. Words about love and honor and fidelity that taste like ashes in my mouth. I nod in the right places, say the right things, play the part of the happy bride. The whole performance is so surreal I feel like I’m watching it happen to someone else.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” the officiant drones, “a union of two souls becoming one.”
Right. My soul’s about to become Björn’s property, along with everything else.
“Do you, Avery Shadowmere, take Björn Bloodfang to be your husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?”
Death. That’s probably going to be sooner rather than later.
“I—”
“STOP THIS WEDDING!”
The voice cuts through the ceremony like a blade through silk. Every head turns toward the back of the hall, and my heart stops completely.
Natalie.