by R. Scarlett
The flutes were beautiful and soft, but she barely heard them. Not over her own heart filling her eardrums.
Don’t be afraid, don’t be a damn coward, Molly.
With a slow breath, she raised her head, her eyes traveling up from the marble floors to the lines of men and women on either side of her, watching her every breath, her every movement. The golden armor of the soldiers on either side of the aisle glimmered under the crystal chandeliers lining the high cathedral ceilings.
In a court of snakes, she felt the venom in her own veins. They tried to poison her, they tried to destroy her, but she absorbed it and now wielded their power against them.
Let them watch, let them pick at every detail.
She was the daemon—all venom and claws.
She actively searched for one brave soul to catch her gaze, to stare long enough for their bones to turn to stone until they became a statue of fear.
Medusa and I wouldn't share the same fate. I'd slay them before they had the chance to behead me.
The wall length windows of stained glass decorated the floors in piercing whiteness, glowing over the guests and herself as she walked slowly toward the altar.
The altar itself was a canopy of sheer crowned with lilies of the valley cascading down its frame.
With each step, her stomach grew with tangling knots of fear and nerves—she was marrying a man, a demon, a beast—so complex, so vivid, kind and sweet, vicious and brutal.
And carefully, as she neared the altar, her eyes raised, following up his dark pant leg, past his defined thigh muscles, up his bulging torso and finally, gazed upon his rigid, angelic features.
The face of a god and a monster—sharp features that could harm anyone who dared to touch him, bruised and bleeding, but his lips were too soft for a beast.
She watched a muscle in his cheek feather as she approached, his hands fisted on either side of his powerful body. Dressed in black, head to toe, a contrast to her bridal white of purity he had devoured. A dark angel. His vicious, dark eyes devoured her again as if she were beneath him, arching and aching for his touch.
A beast only knew her cravings.
She could almost imagine his wet mouth, watering at the image of her under him, her claws digging into his flesh of steel.
Fallen sat on his throne, Lilith next to him, as he stroked his smiling bottom lip.
As Molly stood across from him, she knew they couldn’t touch until the vow. Lilith had made that clear. But all she wanted to do was touch him, grip his fingers, and feel calm.
He was right—she saw an aloof, vicious man in front of her. No tenderness, no smiles, but features drawn into an expression of steel.
Her heart raced, her chest warred against the tight corset, her breasts popping out of her dress, and she stared at the deadly edge of his jaw, clenching and unclenching.
Fallen stood, marching over to the canopied altar, standing in the middle.
“Gathered in my hallowed kingdom of our kind, a wedding of my own subject to a rare, dangerous creature,” Fallen announced. He stared at the seated crowd of guests dressed in lavish gowns of rich colors—purples and blues and greens—while the men wore plated dark leathers reminding her of worn scales of serpentine monsters, a symbol of their alliance to the male groom. A unity of the members of the court.
“Present the thorns,” Fallen called to a servant.
A bundle of thorns lay across the servant’s palms, and they bowed, lifting them up to their king.
Fallen carefully took them and placed the dark thorns into Tensley’s hands.
Tensley, without a flinch, fisted his hand, and red blood flowed down his skin, dripping from his wrist and onto her white gown of lace.
He then turned to face her, his hand opening slightly to welcome hers. His palm was torn, punctured by the sharp thorns, but he only stared back at her, waiting patiently.
Molly lifted her palm, interlinking their hands. The prick of thorns made her tense, but Tensley tightened his grip, and the thorns broke skin, her blood spilling.
She bit the inside of her mouth, holding back a gasp of pain.
She peeked up at her groom—his dark eyes examining her own expression with boldness.
Flexing her hands, she clasped his so the thorns dug deeper.
She wasn’t afraid of blood; she wasn’t afraid of pain.
She was afraid of losing the man before her.
Fallen tied a lace of ribbon around their wrists, tying their hands together.
“Mr. Knight, the dark lord,” Fallen addressed, gesturing to their hands. “Your vows.”
Molly eyed Tensley’s mouth as his tongue licked low at his bottom lip. He studied her, the darkness of his eyes consuming her every thought, every breath.
Until his husky, low voice spoke.
A rumbling of thunder and fire, cooled by icy power sent a riot of goose bumps across her fevered flesh.
“With this thorn of pain and power, I say the sacred oath of court—you are the blood of my blood,” Tensley spoke, his bloody thumb stroking hers—so gently, no one would notice but Molly. The words were curses and blessings, praises to the court and crown above all. Molly grew breathless, her heart pounding as she peered up at him, his voice strong and clear, vicious and slow. A primal dominance seeped out into each sounding word that calmed every inch of her to him. “The bone of my bone.” His demanding voice was threaded in steel and velvet, and she wanted to peel it back until she saw where they connected.
“With this thorn between our palms,
Beneath the night of the gods,
Upon the eyes of the holy court of Fallen,
Plagues of my body,
Sin of my blood,
Strength of my bones,
I vow to shield you from all corruption but my own,
Kiss your wounds as a duty of your master,
And I vow with my hallowed heart of thorns, bone of steel, and blood of venom,
To wed thee
Unto the moment of our undying grace.”
AN IMAGE of a goddess—cloaked in white, veiled by lace, protected from his hungry eyes. When she stepped into the hall, her head bowed, his chest flared—his broken shards of a heart ached, and he wanted to claim her.
Her golden locks of sunlight shimmered beneath the veil, her red lips peeking through here and there, as she had moved with grace, with confidence, and beauty.
Now that the vows of the court were out of his mouth, he waited for hers. Her bottom lip had been sucked into her mouth, chewing, nipping, eyeing him from underneath her lacy veil of purity, and keeping him from devouring her completely.
Lilith would have told her the vows as Fallen had done for him. In the end, it was more an oath to the court and the crown than to their marriage.
“Ms. Darling,” Fallen said, turning his attention to her. Molly glanced at him, and then back at Tensley, blinking rapidly. “The vows…”
Molly’s hand squeezed his. “A vow of thorns,” she whispered.
Tensley frowned, feeling the trembling in her hand.
Her gentle voice shaky, edging through the vows with caution.
Her chest heaved, her breasts threatening to spill from her corset, and she spoke softly but with a sharp edge to her voice. A rose with thorns.
“With this thorn between our palms,
Beneath the night of the gods,
Upon the eyes of the holy court of Fallen,
Plagues of my body,
Sin of my blood,
Strength of my bones,
I vow to honor my lord,
My night to my dawn,
The sun to my moon,
And to kiss each bruise, each wound as a duty to my master.
I am ready to bare my body to him
—his precious temple,
his soothing warmth of night,
and bitter bite of ice.
Obedience and patience will be my oath
—carrying the inferno of his power in my womb,
/> And I vow
To wed thee
Unto the moment of our undying grace.”
His beauty’s eyes glowed beneath the veil, a glimmer of her power, but she blinked it back. Her voice was a sermon, a call to the danger lurking in his chest. A voice capable of destroying kingdoms and making courts bow.
“With a kiss of power,” Fallen said, cutting Tensley from his rushing thoughts. “And the lifting of the veil, she is yours.”
Tensley flexed his fingers out, breathing through his nose as he reached out, tracing the lace edge of the veil. Molly’s breaths came out soft and ragged, and as he lifted the veil, he glimpsed the full beauty of his bride.
Rosy cheeks, glowing skin, a swollen, pouty mouth he ached to taste, and her eyes, full of fear and excitement.
His chest, along with his cock, throbbed at the mere sight of her unveiled.
Freeing his shared palm, the blood dripped freely exposed, and he raised his bloody thumb, smearing it along her thick, trembling bottom lip of sin.
She fluttered her lashes wildly, and although she was silent, he could hear the racing beat of her heart. Because of him.
“A kiss of my blood, of my sin, of my essence, and my strength, and unto me, you are mine,” he uttered, his thumb lifting her chin. He dipped, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss of destruction and power, of affection and corruption.
The taste of her berry lips and his bitter blood warmed his tongue and his gums, sucking in the mix of sweetness and iron. He sucked the nectar into his dark, powerful body—hoping, craving to fill his bones and blood with it.
For a moment, it was just the two of them—his beauty, his dolcezza, his curse, and his blessing.
For a moment, he was a man longing for the woman’s precious heart of strength and courage.
And with that sacred kiss of blood and sweetness, he claimed his daemon as his own.
A marriage of sinners and saints—of an angel and a demon.
He’d sin for her—over and over again.
Molly battled the kiss with gentle tugs at his bottom lip, little licks at his swelling flesh, and her fingers pierced his biceps.
When he released her mouth, she panted wildly, the redness smeared, but fully claimed.
“May I present Tensley Knight and his wife, Molly Knight,” Fallen announced to the crowd.
The crowd erupted, and Tensley went back to steel and iron, calming his breathing and his raging chest.
He’d have her tonight—all of her in their final act of becoming wife and husband. Until then, he’d show the court his aloof beast.
Because a demon didn’t crave the beauty’s heart.
But he did.
THE HALL was filled with drunken laughter, entertainment of dancers in sheer gowns, leaving nothing to the imagination and aerobics stretching their bodies to the point that would bring Molly severe pain.
Molly and Tensley sat beside each other, next to Fallen and Lilith. The mountain lion that Tensley had caught the day before was presented to them, the brown short fur still in place. Molly swallowed down the acid in her throat and nodded politely as they took the mountain lion back to prepare.
Gifts of gold cuffs and ivory spears, of teacups and money, were presented to them by each guest.
A servant approached the high table, bowing to the king and Lilith. Lilith wore her tiara of gold and diamonds teetering on a gold ringlet, one diamond in the middle of her forehead, at the peak of her red flaming hair.
With Molly’s veil removed, she could see everything clearly, but still, she wore her valley of the lily crown.
“The cup, my lady,” the servant said, lifting a goblet to her.
Lilith nodded, taking the goblet and then stood, holding it out for Molly.
Molly glanced at Lilith, and then at Tensley. “What is it?”
“It’s ale, but with the blood of the mountain lion that your husband hunted,” Lilith explained, thrusting the gold cup into Molly’s hands.
The gold was cool to her palms, her skin still bloody from the thorns. They were supposed to stay that way as a symbol of their union and their vows, spilled on fresh, unharmed blood.
“Just like he hunted you,” Lilith whispered, her fingers toying with Molly’s curls. “Now drink. It’s a symbol of fertility, and you wouldn’t want to be barren. We may see a separation fit if there are no children between you.”
Molly twisted her lips, staring at the dark watery ale. She didn’t need to worry about her fertility—Tensley had proven that.
“Thank you, my queen,” Molly muttered and took a sip of the ale. Not too much. She wasn’t sure if it would be best for the baby.
Tensley, as he promised, was aloof. She knew with so many eyes watching them, he needed to be the demon, the distant, uncaring man to the court.
He showed her the truth with his soft touches—his finger brushing her thigh or his eyes scanning her face for a brief second.
When he kissed her with his blood on her mouth, she tasted his rage, his viciousness, his strength all at once. And her kiss tamed the beast.
Now, in front of a court of snakes, she played along. The obedient, passive bride. Silent, but deadly.
Soon, the food arrived, the mountain lion cooked rare, the red, fresh blood pooling around the meat, fruits, and vegetables.
Fallen stood and lifted his hands. “This mountain lion is a symbol of us—of the predator in our blood and how we are the powerful masters of this world. Our groom presents this mountain lion as a token of his skills of providing for her. Let us eat his hunt.”
Fallen cut the meat into thick slices, first placing food on his own plate and then to Lilith.
Once Tensley had his own meat, he cut it in half and passed it onto Molly’s ivory plate.
She toyed with her fork, but Tensley touched her hand. “Don’t. It’s tradition for the groom to feed the bride. To test her food. To protect her.”
Molly swallowed at his husky voice, the way his fingers smoothed along the bones of her slender fingers.
“Cut it,” he ordered.
She picked up her knife and fork and sliced off a tiny piece.
“Use your hand,” he said lowly, and she glanced to see everyone was waiting for them. “They can’t eat until we do.”
Molly picked up the bloody piece of meat and laid it on her palm. Tensley gripped her wrist, bringing the meat to his mouth and he caught it, his mouth pressing to her palm, smearing it across her skin only to lick. A lick that became a throb between her thighs.
She watched his dark, thirsty eyes drink her in as he chewed at the tender meat.
“Now you,” he said once he had swallowed, cutting a piece of his own meat, and presenting it to her in his large palm.
She hesitated, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. She exchanged looks at his impassive features and his palm, bowing as she took the meat into her mouth and chewed. So raw, so tender, and she swallowed, pressing a few fingers to her lips.
“Let us eat!” Fallen cheered, and laughter ensued, dishes clinking and forks scraping plates.
The two of them fed each other fruit and vegetables on their palms, the air thick with hunger and need.
She wanted him to devour her, to strip her bare, and to claim her as his wife.
She wanted his teeth deep, his hands anchoring her hips as he drove brutally into her depth.
A prolonged foreplay on their wedding dinner, each testing the other’s weaknesses and strengths.
She bowed again but let her teeth drag along the side of his palm, the sensitive flesh sending his pulse wild.
His eyes darkened.
She smiled wickedly back at him and licked her lips slowly, allowing him to watch carefully.
Her free hand found his thick thigh, and she dug her nails into the muscles. “You look tense, husband.”
His nostrils flared, and he leaned forward, his own hand clenching her thigh, but moving to the inside of it, dangerously close to skimming her throbbing core.
She gasped when he licked her bloody lips.
“It’s an insult not to consume every drop of blood from the mountain lion I hunted for you,” he whispered, explaining his lick. “I enjoy the chase, the hunt, but I much more enjoy the moment the prey realizes it’s claimed and it exposes its neck.” His finger ghosted over her collar, delightful chills rolling down her spine to her core. “And it bows.”
“I don’t bow, though,” she argued, squeezing his thigh. “I conquer.”
He smirked, for the first time in hours, his dark demeanor breaking through for a wicked look of a trickster god. “No, you love me conquering you.”
She flushed, the tip of her nose reddening, and she tilted her head down, only for Tensley’s wide hand to stroke her cheek in an iron grip, lifting her chin to meet his gaze.
“Never hide from me, I’ll hunt you,” he murmured. “And I’ll cherish you and bow—only for you.”
Piercing heat built behind her eyes, and she reined in her shaking emotions with a calming breath of power. “Will you bow tonight?”
His lips quirked. “I will bow, and I will kiss, lick, and devour. Fuck you, so you feel the burn for days. A roar, so the gods hear my pleasure from you.”
“Tensley,” she gasped.
“I am the dark lord, who corrupted the angel,” he hissed. “They will hear me roar. I will shatter the stars, and they will cower.”
“My lord,” Fallen called, his arm rested on the back of his throne. “Care to share that intimate conversation with the rest of us?”
Tensley’s features transformed back into a cool, detached expression, and he sat back, poised and controlled. “No, my king.”
Fallen hummed, taking a large gulp of his ale and slammed the cup down onto the oak table.
“A dance, my lady,” Fallen said and extended his arm past Tensley to Molly.
Molly glanced at his thin, pale hand—no scars, no blemishes.
Tensley’s jaw clenched, the sound of his teeth gritting, but he didn’t say a word.
Molly placed her hand in Fallen’s, and he guided her to the middle of the hall, into the golden circle.
His hand lowered to the small of her back, and a woman sang—in a different language, but the song was slow and soft.