Midnight.
The wedding hall doors groan open like a mouth preparing to swallow, and I stand at the threshold, the crimson wedding gown heavy as a burial shroud.
The hall stretches before me—ancient stone blackened with centuries of smoke, stained glass windows depicting scenes of beautiful carnage.
Saints with their throats torn open. Angels falling into lakes of blood.
At the altar, candles burn with flames that shouldn't exist—tall and still, casting shadows that move independent of their source.
The vampires turn as one when I enter, hundreds of eyes reflecting candlelight like predators in the dark. The only sound is my heartbeat, obscenely loud in the silence.
Mira stands beside me, trembling but resolute. She's been permitted this much—to walk me to my doom. Her fingers find mine, squeezing once before letting go.
Dorian waits at the altar. He hasn't changed from the ball—still dressed in black that seems to absorb light. Beside him stands an ancient vampire whose eyes have gone milky with age.
"The bride approaches," the ancient one intones.
I force myself forward. Each step echoes in the vast space.
I see the Ashfords couple watching me from the front pew. Corin's lips curved in anticipation, whilst Callum's eyes bright with morbid fascination.
Lydia stands as maid of honour, though the position seems more like a guard's post. Her hands clench and unclench as if she's restraining herself from violence.
When I finally reach the altar, Dorian doesn't take my hand. Merely watches me with those depthless eyes.
"We gather," the ancient vampire begins, "to bind the living to the dead. To forge chains that transcend mortality itself." His milky eyes fix on me. "Do you come willingly, child?"
The lie burns my throat. "I do."
"And do you understand the nature of this union? That these vows, once spoken, cannot be undone by any power save death?"
"I do."
Lydia makes a sound—soft and pained. Dorian's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Your Grace, Prince Dorian North," the ancient one continues, "do you take this mortal as wife, knowing her fragility, knowing her impermanence?"
"I do." His voice carries no emotion.
"Then speak your vows."
Dorian turns to face me fully only then. His perfect pale face don’t changes in its expression as his gaze met mine. Not when I’m trying to see any flecks of light in his black eyes, not when his eye dropped on my body for a second.
"I take you as mine," he began, voice deadly calm. "Your blood, your breath, your brief mortality—all mine to preserve or destroy as I will. I promise you nothing save this: you will know exactly what you've married before the end."
The vampires murmur approval. These are proper vows to them—ownership, possession, the promise of eventual consumption.
"Lady Rosalind," the ancient one says, "speak your vows."
I meet Dorian's gaze directly, lifting my chin.
"I take you as mine," I said loud enough the entire room to hear. "Your eternal hunger, your frozen heart, your monstrous nature—all mine to witness and endure. I promise you this: whatever you are, I will not break. And when you tire of testing that promise, I'll still be standing."
Silence. Even the candle flames seem to pause.
Callum leans forward, enthralled. Corin's eyes glitter with delight. Lydia looks as if she's been slapped.
Dorian's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the air between us. "Bold words for prey."
"Honest words for a bride."
The ancient vampire raises one skeletal hand. "The rings."
A young vampire boy—couldn't have been more than twelve when turned—approaches with a velvet cushion. Two rings rest upon it.
Mine is delicate gold set with rubies dark as dried blood. His is iron, black and unadorned.
Dorian takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger with deliberate slowness, and I feel it like a shackle locking into place. The metal is cold, so cold it burns.
I take his ring, his hand. For a moment, I hesitate. My father's kingdom hangs in the balance. There is no choice, has never been a choice.
I slide the ring onto his finger.
"By the old laws," the ancient vampire intones, "by blood and binding, you are wed. You may seal your union."
Dorian steps closer and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
If it were the usual human wedding, that’ll be the moment for my husband to kiss me, to seal or vowes before God, to finish the ceremony.
But there’s no human, there’s no God in this place.
I know how vampire weddings proceed. They never kiss their human brides. Kisses imply affection, equality, something shared between beings of comparable worth.
Vampires take blood instead.
Mark their property. Demonstrate ownership through consumption.
Dorian’s hand comes to rest at my throat—not quite a threat, not quite a caress. His thumb presses against her pulse point, feeling the race of her terrified heartbeat.
This is it. He'll bite me now, here, in front of everyone.
Jesus Christ, I didn’t even thought how terrifying this will be. I can already feel my body going numb as if soul leaving my body ahead of life.
I wasn’t prepared for this.
He might not stop until drink me dry, drank all of my blood, drank up a life from my body. Maybe it’s really what he’s planning to do after all this tonight.
After my defiance, my refusal to speak traditional vows, he'll drain me as punishment, as example, as—
"Remember, little wife," Dorian says, so quietly only I can hear, "you asked for this."
Then the next moment his mouth is on mine.
The shock of it roots me more firmly than any violence could.
He's kissing me with tongue and heat and the unmistakable taste of pomegranate wine. His hand at my throat doesn't tighten to position for feeding but to angle my face, to deepen what shouldn't be happening.
What vampires never do with their human wives.
The hall falls silent. Complete, absolute silence, as if every vampire has forgotten to pretend breathing.
This is wrong. This breaks every protocol, every tradition, every carefully maintained boundary between master and vessel.
Yet my vampire husband kissing me like I'm something more than warm blood in a wedding dress. My knees buckle and Dorian catches me, pulling against his chest, and I feel the entire room recoil.
Lydia makes a sound like glass cracking. The Ashfords stop their eternal synchronised movement. Even the ancient officiant seems to calcify further with shock.
When he pulls away, my lips burn with cold and the impossible fact of what just happened. The taste of pomegranate lingers—not blood, never blood, and that realisation tilts the world sideways.
What kind of vampire drinks that wine at his own wedding?
"My lady wife," Dorian says, loud enough for all to hear.
"My lord husband," I manage, though my voice shakes.
The ancient vampire clears his throat. "The... the tradition requires—"
"I know what tradition requires." Dorian's voice cuts through the stammering. He produces the crystal goblet himself, the ceremonial blade. Takes my hand with shocking gentleness, turns it palm up. "This is what you expected, isn't it?"
The blade bites. Blood wells, drips into crystal with soft sounds like rain on stone. He raises the goblet, maintains eye contact as he drinks.
When he lowers the goblet, his lips are stained crimson, but I know the kiss tasted of wine, not blood.
"Now," he says, "you truly belong to Wintergrave."
He turns and walks from the hall.
Mira rushes forward with a handkerchief for the wound. "My lady, what was—"
"I don't know." I stare at my blood on the altar, at the goblet that held it, at the impossible truth written in pomegranate wine and a kiss that shouldn't exist. "But I'm going to find out."