The three weeks that followed our chapel confrontation passed in a blur of wedding preparations that felt simultaneously surreal and suffocating.
Two weeks into this strange limbo, I'd taken my preliminary vows as planned—a quiet ceremony where I'd knelt before Father Atticus and pledged myself to religious life, becoming Sister Wren in the eyes of the Church.
The irony of a witch swearing vows of obedience to God wasn't lost on me, but it served my purposes perfectly.
Every day brought new requirements, new performances, new opportunities to perfect the delicate dance we'd committed ourselves to.
Public appearances became carefully choreographed theater. We held hands during morning services, our fingers intertwined with appropriate tenderness while I catalogued every micro-reaction from the congregation.
We attended pre-marriage counseling with Father Atticus, answering his probing questions about love and commitment with practiced sincerity while private tension simmered between us like a barely contained storm.
Mikael maintained his boundaries with military precision.
Polite conversation during required interactions. Careful physical distance whenever we weren't actively performing for an audience. And that infuriating wall of professional courtesy that made me want to crack his composure just to prove I still could.
But walls, I'd learned, always had weak points.
You just had to know where to look.
The evening one day before our ceremony, we shared a quiet dinner in my small room—a final discussion of logistics that was expected of any soon-to-be-married couple. Sister Agnes had prepared a simple meal of bread, cheese, and wine, apparently believing that private conversation was essential for a nervous bride and groom.
If only she knew that it was for entirely different reasons than she imagined.
"The flowers will be delivered in the morning," Mikael said, cutting his bread with mechanical precision. "White roses and baby's breath, as requested."
"Thank you for handling those details," I replied, watching him over the rim of my wine glass. "I have to admit, I didn't expect priests to have ordinary weddings like regular people. I thought there would be more... religious ceremony involved."
Something shifted in his expression, a softening that caught me off guard.
"I asked Father Atticus for a traditional ceremony," he said quietly, finally meeting my eyes. "I thought you deserved something beautiful after everything you've been through. After the life you've lived before coming here."
The admission hung between us like a bridge neither of us had expected to build.
More personal than any conversation we'd shared since that night in the chapel, but it was his next words that completely undid me.
"Besides," he added, his voice dropping even lower as he avoided my gaze again, color rising in his cheeks like he was confessing something shameful, "I’m curious to see you in a wedding dress."
The unexpected honesty hit me like a physical blow, sending something fluttering in my chest that I'd never experienced before. Not the calculated satisfaction of successful manipulation, not the strategic pleasure of gaining ground in my campaign against his defenses.
This was something entirely different. Warm and fragile and terrifyingly genuine.
No one had ever wanted something beautiful for me just because they thought I deserved it. No one had ever imagined me in silk and flowers. No one had ever cared about making me feel precious or worthy of celebration.
In my family, kindness always came with strings attached. Gestures of care were currencies to be traded, and vulnerability was weakness to be exploited.
But Mikael had arranged a wedding dress and flowers and a proper ceremony because he'd wanted to give me something lovely. Because he'd wanted to see me happy, to see me beautiful, to give me memories worth keeping.
My throat got tight with realization and emotions I couldn't name and didn't want to examine. I quickly and ruthlessly suppressed the dangerous warmth spreading through my chest.
This was exactly the kind of vulnerability I'd been trying to cultivate in him, I reminded myself firmly.
The crack in his armor that I could exploit to secure my position here. His confession was strategic gold—proof that his feelings were deepening beyond mere physical attraction into something that could be leveraged for long-term protection.
So why did it feel less like victory and more like something dangerously close to tenderness?
Because you're getting soft.
Because you're starting to believe your own performance, starting to think this could be real instead of the survival strategy it supposed to be.
He's a priest who hunts and kills creatures like you. This kindness would evaporate the moment he discovered what you really are.
The rational voice in my head continued cataloging all the reasons I couldn't let myself care.
He was my enemy by nature and training. Our marriage was a calculated deception. His affection was based on lies I could never reveal. Getting attached would only make the inevitable betrayal more devastating when it came. For both of us.
"That's very thoughtful of you," I managed, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"I just want you to have good memories," he said. "Even if the circumstances aren't... traditional."
Before I could respond, the overhead light suddenly began flickering wildly, casting erratic shadows that danced across the walls like demented spirits. The room strobed between brightness and near-darkness with mechanical urgency.
Mikael frowned, pushing back his chair and reaching up to check the fixture.
"Electrical problem," he muttered, tapping the connection with careful fingers until the light steadied back to normal illumination. "These old buildings have temperamental wiring. I'll have to mention it to the maintenance staff."
But I felt something else entirely—a strange restlessness running just beneath my skin, as if electricity was humming in my bones.
The sensation pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat, foreign and unsettling and somehow connected to the emotional flutter his words had caused. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving me wondering if I'd imagined the correlation between my emotions and the light's erratic behavior.
"Are you alright?" Mikael asked, noting my expression. "You look pale."
"Just pre-wedding nerves," I lied smoothly, forcing a smile. "The day after tomorrow feels very real all of a sudden."
"Yes," he agreed, settling back into his chair but maintaining careful distance. "It does."
***
The next morning brought the final dress fitting with Sister Agnes and several of the church women who'd volunteered to help with last-minute preparations. The small room buzzed with feminine energy as they fussed over details.
This was my opportunity, and I intended to use it.
"Oh, just a little higher on the left shoulder," the seamstress murmured, adjusting the delicate lace with practiced fingers. "Father Mikael, could you steady her arm while I pin this?"
He moved to comply, his hand closing around my elbow with careful professionalism. But when the seamstress bent to retrieve more pins, I let my fingers brush against his, a whisper-light contact that looked completely innocent to our audience.
I felt his breath catch, saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.
"There," Sister Agnes said warmly, stepping back to admire the effect. "The neckline might need to be adjusted slightly. What do you think, Father? Does it seem appropriate for the ceremony?"
When Mikael looked up to answer, I caught his eyes in the full-length mirror, holding his gaze with matching intensity. The reflection allowed me to study his reaction while appearing to simply check my appearance.
Color rose in his cheeks as our eyes met in the glass, and I watched him swallow hard before looking away abruptly.
"It's perfect," he managed, his voice rougher than it should have been. "Very appropriate."
"You make a beautiful bride, dear," Sister Agnes said, completely unaware of the undercurrents swirling around her. "Father Mikael is a very lucky man to be marrying someone so lovely."
"I'm the lucky one," I replied, pitching my voice to carry exactly the right note of shy happiness while my eyes found Mikael again in the mirror. "I never expected to find someone who could love me despite everything I've been through."
I watched him process my words, saw the way they hit him like carefully aimed arrows.
His throat worked as he swallowed, his hands clenching briefly at his sides.
"We're both fortunate," he said finally, but his voice carried a strained quality that made the other women smile knowingly.
Young love, they probably thought. How sweet that he was still affected by his bride's beauty even on the morning of the day before their wedding.
If only they knew this was war, not love. A carefully calculated campaign where every touch, every glance, every seemingly innocent comment was designed to chip away at his defenses.
Three weeks hadn't been enough time to break through his walls completely. But tomorrow, we'd be married. We'd share a home, a bed, a life. And I'd have all the time in the world to finish what I'd started.
The light flickered again, just once, as I smiled at my reflection and began planning my next move.