What a fine day for a wedding.

  The sky had darkened to a forlorn gray as the once pristine gardens outside the manor drowned beneath sheets of frigid rain. Its grand archway stood half-hidden beneath a curtain of it.

  The lilies were in full bloom. Drenched. Bowing. Undone.

  Sullivan was stuck in between a smile and a grimace at the sight. He strummed his gloved fingers on the armrest of his chair as he observed the waterlogged decor of his own wedding venue. A proud estate turned to sodden ruins—and just in time for the ceremony. He might’ve laughed, but was too awestruck by his misfortune.

  Like clockwork, it undermined him at every turn.

  The visual of their soaked petals and soft collapse brought about a strange taste in his mouth, something bittersweet mixed with the air’s petrichor. He wondered if his bride-to-be was as miserable about this union as he was.

  Most likely.

  He’d be miserable too—if he had to marry himself.

  Long ago when modernity delivered abundant convenience, rain was seen as a sign of good luck on a wedding day. But Sullivan never cared for superstitions. They came and went every century or so, and the notion that weather could dictate the success of matrimony was laughable to him.

  Likewise, the shifting tides of human beliefs in general had long lost their hold on him, blurring into one long, unchanging horizon.

  A knock on the door cut Sullivan’s brooding short. His unruly cousin, Oliver, barged in without waiting for a response, sweeping into the room like a court jester with a death wish. All smiles without the bells.

  He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair—an anomaly among their ink-haired bloodline—before homing in on his dreary beloved cousin.

  "Aw! Would you just look at this dapper young gentleman? Refined! Distinguished! Positively regal even!" Oliver’s mischievous grin. Boyish. Sharp. Unmistakably Cheshire—spread wide across his face as he knowingly poked the proverbial bear.

  Sullivan rose, closing the space between them in just a few steps. He loomed over his next of kin, his presence so heavy it seemed to cast shadows of its own—swallowing the room.

  "I don’t need your brand of compliments, Oliver," he said flatly, glancing at the time on his watch—a gift from a friend long dead.

  Night was settling early. The sun had long vanished behind storm clouds, never touching the horizon.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  He adjusted his gloves with measured breath, his body heavy—weary—with the burdens ahead. Shadows pooled deeper in his ancient gaze, his reluctance to leave all too obvious to the younger vampire before him.

  "Did you move everything to the Great Hall for the reception?" When Sullivan couldn’t control the world, he found solace in controlling his environment—however small.

  "Yup. The extra decor’s already set up, we dried off what we didn’t have extras of, and Evie got the chandelier working again," Oliver rattled off, bouncing lightly on his heels.

  Sullivan nodded, though it was mostly to himself. His jaw ticked to the side, a heavy, beleaguered breath escaped him.

  He did not want to have to go through with this.

  It was demeaning.

  Posturing for mortals disgusted him, but he needed this marriage. Even if the cost was steep. Being bound to the Crystal Forest was one thing. But to the girl as well? That was an inconvenience he wished he could refuse. As always, he had to swallow duty over comfort.

  Oliver, sensing his cousin’s grief, moved in like a fussing mother hen, preening the ancient Vampire Lord. His casual impudence grated—familiarly, unavoidably.

  With a pinch to Sullivan’s cheek, he said brightly, "Buck up, buttercup! It’ll be over before you know it." He adjusted Sullivan’s tie, smoothed a stray hair into place, and tugged the fabric of his suit flat. "I hear she’s a catch, ya know! Total babe."

  "And who knows! Maybe the two of you will hit it off like you and... uh..." The words faltered, dying on his tongue. For a breath too long, the air thickened between them. Congealed and unresolved.

  "Heh. Anyway..." Oliver chuckled awkwardly, quick to sidestep that landmine. He licked his thumb, reaching to smooth Sullivan’s brow with the clumsy affection of someone desperate to lighten the mood.

  Sullivan caught his hand midair, gripping it painfully tight.

  The ancient Vampire Lord tolerated his kin’s antics with the sort of weary reluctance that came from long exposure. Resistance only encouraged Oliver’s escalation. That escalation was not only worse, but often far more humiliating. And here, true to form, Oliver stepped just a toe over the line.

  Sullivan’s eyes went wide—the ‘how very well dare you’ wasn't just on his face, it was his face. He leered at his cousin, disgust curling his lip at the spit-coated thumb hanging between them—daring him to continue.

  Oliver’s eyes flicked from his wrist to Sullivan’s deepening scowl. And his grin of mischief widened in delight, showing off the tips of his fangs. Even as Sullivan released him, Oliver’s smile never faltered. He hissed through his teeth, shaking out the sting.

  “Shit, Sully—like a gorilla on steroids.” A little spit on the brow meant nothing to Oliver, just another way to sprinkle on the love. To Sullivan, however, it was a crime against dignity itself.

  "Ya know, it’s supposed to be a happy day!" Oliver wriggled his eyebrows, undeterred. "You could at least try to smile?"

  "No."

  Sullivan tugged at the hem of his glove with slow, deliberate precision. The sting still pulsed beneath the silk—not a single moment of reprieve. Just heat, pressure, and the unshakable knowledge that this night would only get worse.

  And worse.

  And worse.

  The acrid taste in his mouth slowly faded—subsumed by something sweeter. Cloying. Gentle. Mana thickened the air, defying the downpour as it clung to the soaked stone like spilled perfume.

  She was somewhere nearby.

  He could taste it clearly. His tongue skimmed a fang without thinking.

  Hunger pangs.

  Always present.

  Always ravenous.

  A fickle hound on a tight but fraying leash.

  It had been three days since he had seen her, and still she haunted him.

  Princess Aleiya of the Crystal Forest.

  What a flowery title for a political hostage.