The wedding without Vows

The chamber door shut with a hollow thud, leaving Elara alone in the cavernous room.

The veil lay discarded across the bed like shed skin, the silk gleaming ghostly in the candlelight. She pulled the pins from her hair with trembling fingers until the coils fell loose around her shoulders. The weight of the gown pressed down on her, suffocating, so she tugged at the laces until it pooled at her feet.

She stood before the mirror, clad only in her slip, staring at a woman she barely recognized. A stranger with haunted eyes. A wife in name, but nothing more.

The silence was unbearable.

She crossed the room, threw open the window, and let the rain-laced air whip against her skin. Beyond, the gardens stretched into shadow, the stone statues appearing like silent sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—low, mournful, wild.

Her throat ached. This was no wedding night. This was exile, cloaked in silk.

Hours passed. She lay beneath the heavy velvet canopy, staring at the dark ceiling beams carved with motifs of ravens and crowns. Sleep hovered, cruel and elusive. When it finally came, it brought no peace.

In her dreams, she was a child again. The smell of whiskey and smoke thick in the air. Her father’s voice, thundering through the house. A slammed door. Her mother’s muffled sobs.

Then silence. Always silence.

She woke with a start, breath ragged, the sheets damp with sweat. The storm had returned, wind rattling the windows, lightning clawing the sky.

She rose, wrapping herself in a robe, pacing the chamber as if motion could chase the memory away. But no matter how far she walked, the past clung to her like a shadow.

Damian’s POV

Down the hall, Damian sat in his private study, untouched glass of scotch before him.

The marriage was done. The contract sealed. Yet unease gnawed at him, a restless hunger in his chest. He told himself it was control—he had secured what was necessary, kept her safe from vultures circling her family’s ruin. But that was a lie, and he knew it.

He had seen the flicker in her eyes during the ceremony. Not love, not even hatred. Defiance. A will that refused to break.

It stirred something dangerous in him.

He closed his eyes, and memories bled through unbidden. A boy’s voice crying in the dark. The taste of iron from split lips. A door locked from the outside.

Damian slammed his fist against the desk. The glass tipped, shattering across the marble. Amber liquid spread like blood, seeping into papers and pooling along the edge.

Breathing hard, he pressed his palms to his eyes until blackness swallowed the memories whole.

There would be no weakness. Not again.

Back to Elara

By dawn, she had not slept again. She dressed in silence, donning one of the dark gowns Damian’s staff had prepared.

When she stepped into the hall, two guards flanked the doorway. Neither spoke. Their presence was a reminder: freedom was an illusion here.

At breakfast, Damian sat at the head of the long table, already dressed in black, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. He gestured for her to sit at his side.

The table stretched endlessly, set with silver and porcelain, yet only two places were occupied. Servants lingered in the corners, silent as shadows.

Elara lowered herself into the chair, her chin high despite the gnawing ache in her chest.

Damian poured her tea himself, his movements deliberate. “You look pale.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Dreams?”

Her gaze snapped to his. His voice carried no warmth, yet his eyes lingered on hers as though he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said finally, her tone flat.

He studied her for a long moment, then returned his attention to his cup. “You will grow used to them.”

The casual cruelty of the statement struck her, yet beneath it she sensed something else—an echo of recognition, as if he too woke from dreams that bled into nightmares.

She tightened her grip on the teacup. If this was to be her life, then she would not simply endure. She would learn, watch, and find cracks in his fortress.

No cage was unbreakable.

That morning, as the storm clouds parted briefly and pale light filtered into the hall, Elara made herself a silent vow.

She would survive Damian Veyra.

And one day, she would discover what haunted him in the locked chambers of this estate—whether he wanted her to or not.

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