Page 133 of Onyx Cage: Volume II

I put a hand on his shoulder in return. “Perhaps we both could, devote our time to making a strong showing. Besides, we should be celebrating.”

My father nodded thoughtfully, and I tried not to show how badly I needed him to agree. To forget about the things he was trying to enact this morning.

“True. My son will be the one to finally put Lochlann in its place.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

Well, it had been too much to ask that he might celebrate my actual marriage, but at least he wouldn’t be killing anyone today.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

My heart thumped in my chest when the music started.

While my father had waxed poetic about all the ways we could use my marriage against my wife’s family as we had our traditional pre-wedding vodka, Kirill had shown up with my freshly polished ceremonial baldric. It was the signal we had worked out to let me know that Rowan had arrived, but I still hadn’t seen her to verify it with my own eyes. Which only contributed to the unease prickling along my spine.

I didn’t know whether she was safe and happy or injured.

Only that she was here.

Mila’s features were carved into Socairan neutrality as she entered through an inconspicuous side door, but she gave me the barest hint of a nod. It still wasn’t enough. I needed to see my wife.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the gilded entryway doors opened, emitting a tiny figure covered entirely in black. I had no doubt that it was Rowan, though.

Just as when I had picked her out of a crowded ballroom in Lochlann, I was intimately familiar with the way she moved—decidedly more so now than I had been then.

She looked even smaller than usual, standing at the end of a never-ending aisle surrounded by so many people who despised her.

Maybe that was only because she was so vivid in my memories, taking up so much more space in my mind than her small form required in reality.

Even underneath the long black veil, though, I could see that she walked with her shoulders squared. There was no sign of injury or cowering. She was a woman walking onto a battlefield.

I let loose a subtle breath, but I wouldn’t know true reassurance until I saw her face.

She walked down the aisle with perfectly timed steps, either by instinct or by coaching, gliding until she was beside me. I took her hand with none of the urgency that coursed through my veins, keeping myself aloof for the sake of our audience, in spite of the lightning that zapped almost hungrily from her skin to mine.

We hadn’t had time to discuss our Socairan wedding before I left.

Did she understand the pretense that was necessary? That tonight would look nothing at all like the intimate ceremony we had in Lochlann?

I swept my thumb over her wrist, the only reassurance I could offer her until we were alone. She squeezed my hand in return, a subtle acknowledgement that eased a bit of the pressure in my chest.

Gently, I turned her toward the magistrate, who had already launched into the traditional wedding discourse. I took a slow, deliberate breath when the man instructed my stepmother to remove Rowan’s veil.

Each step she took toward my wife was a dagger slicing along my skin. My fingers itched to wrap around the hilts ofmy swords, to end Ava’s life before she could put her conniving hands anywhere near my lemmikki.

I waited for Rowan to tense up as well, but her hand didn’t so much as twitch in mine. She stood calmly, like a woman who wanted her dead wasn’t approaching her unguarded back.

Ava pulled the veil from Rowan’s shorter form, finally revealing the face I had missed more than I wanted to acknowledge, more than I could adequately describe. Jade eyes connected with mine for a single heartbeat before she turned her head to look over her shoulder, eyes boring into my stepmother’s instead.

“Admiring your artwork?”

I was so focused on the unobstructed view of her perfect face that it took me longer than it should have to register her words and the collective shock of the entire Great Hall.

Rowan’s lips were painted dark and tipped up at the corners in a cold smirk that faltered the slightest bit when she met my eyes with a question. I heard the echo of the question she had asked so many weeks ago in a tone that matched her furious semblance of a smile.

Any black dress?

Slowly, I raked my gaze down the lacy shoulders of her gown, forcing my features to remain even as I took in the back of her dress. Or, where the back of her dress should have been, since she had apparently decided to forego that part of her ensemble entirely.

Every one of her flogging scars was on display, evident to anyone who had ever witnessed the punishment before—namely, everyone in this room—and her pointed question had left no doubt as to who was responsible.