11 The I Do Part
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Mara
We drove to the registry in silence.
My hands were cold, but my expression didn’t betray a thing.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry-not today, not in front of anyone.
I had made peace with this, or at least I’d convinced myself I had.
Lucian was already waiting when I arrived.
He looked devastating in his black suit-sharp lines, smooth control, completely unreadable. His face was carved from stone, and I imagined mine looked much the same.
I sat beside him. We said nothing. No greetings, no smiles, just the mechanical wait for our names to be called.
We signed the marriage certificate.
And just like that, it was done.
I was a Nighthorn.
But nothing about it felt real. Or maybe it felt too real-so heavy I had no choice but to numb myself against it.
Lucian and I rode to my house for the reception.
It was warm and bright, and my parents had outdone themselves. I could feel their effort in every detail. There was food, music, smiling faces.
People had come to celebrate, to wish me well. They didn’t know what I’d lost, only what I’d gained. I tried to wear a brave
face for them.
I danced with my father. His hands were steady, but I felt the tension in him. The sadness.
He reached for me through the link.
“I know you’re tough, princess. Don’t let them break you. Lucian… he’s complicated. But you can always come home, okay?
We’re here.”
I linked him back, barely holding back tears. “I’ll be okay, Daddy. I promise.”
When the dance ended, I returned to my seat next to Lucian, still silent, still strangers in front of a crowd.
And then he surprised me.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
I blinked, caught off guard. For a second, I wondered if I heard him right.
I nodded. He stood, offering his hand. I took it.
We moved to the center of the floor, and I was stiff at first-unsure, distant, braced for the tension that always lived in the space between us.
Then he leaned in, breath soft against my ear.
“Relax, Mara,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t sharp or cold. It was gentle.
I let my shoulders drop. I let the fear slip just enough to breathe. Then, without thinking, I rested my head lightly against
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11 The 1Do Part
his chest.
He smelled like cinnamon and something darker-like fresh cedar and clean rain. It was disarming.
His touch was light. Careful.
How was this the same man who had once told me I was nothing but a political pawn?
For a moment, I forgot we were pretending.
But the music changed-upbeat, loud, a signal that the performance was over.
We returned to our seats, and again, he said nothing. Not until it was time to leave.
The guests followed us out to the car, cheering, throwing petals, clapping like this was the start of a fairytale.
It wasn’t.
But Lucian kept up appearances.
When we arrived at the Nighthorn mansion, people were waiting outside. He didn’t hesitate. He stepped around the car, scooped me into his arms, and carried me bridal-style to the door.
It was for show, I told myself. Every step was for his father. Maybe even to keep up appearances for the pack. But that didn’t stop the strange ache in my chest.
We didn’t go to the right-wing-the golden side of the mansion where Darian lived, where Martha ruled.
We went left.
As we moved deeper, the decor faded. The grand finishes gave way to plain walls, quiet corners, and bare silence. He hadn’t lied. His part of the house wasn’t just less luxurious-it was emptied of warmth entirely.
Still holding me, he approached a large mahogany door. With surprising ease, he opened it with one hand and carried me
inside.
Then, gently, he set me down.
I stepped inside the room, nervous and unsure.
My hand hovered at my side, fingers twitching. I could still feel the echo of being carried-not held, carried, like a performance. And now that the doors had closed behind us, the curtain had dropped.
Lucian didn’t say a word. He walked past me, quiet and calm.
“Where do I sleep?” I asked, forcing the words out.
There was no audience now. No need for charades. I braced myself for whatever cold response he’d throw my way.
“You sleep in the master bed,” he said softly, “I’ll take the other room.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone.
“No need to be nervous,” he added. “I won’t touch you. I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on people. You’re safe here,
Mara.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He went on before I could respond. “I bought you clothes. They’re in the walk-in closet. Undergarments and jewelry are in the dresser. If you need anything else, just let me know.”
He paused, then added, “I’ll need you to make a list of your beauty products. I’ll pick them up on my way back.”
I turned to face him, heart thudding just slightly. “You’re… going out?”
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He looked at me then-really looked. There was hesitation behind his eyes. Like he was calculating what truth might cost.
But I already knew what the answer meant.
“Never mind,” I said quickly, voice sharp with the sting I was trying to swallow. “You don’t have to answer. Forget I asked. I
won’t ask again.”
And I didn’t wait for him to respond. I slipped into the closet, the air thick behind me.
The closet was immaculate. It had clearly been arranged with care. Dresses in soft silks and bold cuts. Lingerie that looked more like art than clothing. Everything expensive. Everything beautiful.
Everything not me.
I wasn’t angry-but something ached in my chest anyway. Something that whispered, This isn’t your life. It’s just a costume you’ve been asked to wear.
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