The weight of the hall pressed down on Alira like a second skin—heavy, suffocating, impossible to shed. The air was still, as though everyone inside the grand ceremonial room held their breath at the same time, waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for her.
She stood beside Damon, her hands cold despite the warm lights pouring from the chandeliers. The polished marble beneath her feet gleamed like a mirror, reflecting a bride who did not belong here. Her heart thudded, rapid and uneven, as the priest lifted his book and cleared his throat, signaling the official start of the ceremony.
"Dear guests, we gather today…"
His voice echoed through the hall, steady and solemn, but Alira heard almost nothing. Her ears rang, drowning the words into a distant hum. Her entire body felt disconnected from itself. She didn't know where to rest her gaze—every pair of eyes in the room seemed trained on her, watching, scrutinizing.
She dared a glance at Damon.
He stood beside her like a shadow carved from stone—tall, rigid, unshakeably composed. His expression remained unreadable, but those steel-gray eyes held an alert sharpness, as though he sensed something off in the air between them. Beside him, Alira felt like a trembling leaf clinging to a branch in a storm.
Her breath hitched. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her shoulders straight and her chin slightly raised, the way Helena would have.
Only she wasn't Helena.
And Damon knew something wasn't right.
"Please join hands," the priest instructed.
Alira swallowed a gasp of panic when Damon reached for her. His grip was firm—firm enough to ground her, firm enough to intimidate her, firm enough to remind her of the power he possessed. His palm was warm, but his touch radiated a kind of quiet authority that made her knees weaken.
"Your hands are freezing," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Her eyes snapped up to his. His expression had not changed, but something curious flickered behind his gaze—curiosity, suspicion, something darker.
"I…" Her voice failed.
She lowered her gaze quickly, terrified he had caught the tremor in her eyes.
The priest continued, reciting vows she could hardly process. Every word was heavy, demanding, binding. The guests watched with quiet fascination, unaware—or perhaps fully aware—that something was off.
When the time came for Damon to speak, he did so with calm certainty.
"I, Damon Vargaz, take you…"
His tone was steady, controlled, devoid of any warmth, but also devoid of reluctance. It was the voice of a man who accepted duty as easily as he commanded power. When he finished his vows, a soft murmur of approval rippled through the guests.
Then all eyes turned to her.
Her throat tightened.
The priest offered her a gentle, expectant smile. "And now the bride."
She blinked rapidly, trying to breathe, but her chest constricted as if bound by invisible ropes. Damon's hand tightened slightly around hers—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her she wasn't allowed to fail.
Alira opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The room held its breath.
The silence stretched long enough that whispers sprang to life.
"What's wrong with her?"
"Is she nervous?"
"Nervous? She looks terrified."
Damon's jaw flexed.
He turned his head a fraction toward her, his voice a whisper of restrained steel. "Speak."
Her pulse tripped over itself. Her lips parted again, a faint sound emerging—too soft, too thin, too weak.
"I… I…"
But the words dissolved before they could form.
Heat rose to her cheeks. Her palms grew damp in his grasp. Her eyes blurred slightly as she realized the room was watching her unravel.
No, no, no…
She tried again, but her throat closed.
Damon's eyes narrowed. The pressure of his hand tightened—not painfully, but assertively enough that she felt a command in the gesture. As though his grip alone could force the words out of her.
"Look at me," he ordered quietly.
Her breath stilled.
She lifted her gaze.
His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes locked onto hers with a cold intensity that stole her breath. "You will speak your vows," he murmured, "or you will create a problem you don't want."
The warning in his tone was subtle, but unmistakable.
Alira's heart stumbled.
She forced herself to inhale—slow, shaky. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was barely more than a whisper.
"I… Alira—"
She froze.
She wasn't supposed to say her own name.
She bit down hard on her lip, panic searing her lungs.
The priest blinked, confused. Damon's eyes sharpened like a hunter sensing movement in the brush.
"Continue," he said softly.
Her mind raced. Helena. Helena. She should have said Helena.
She prayed no one noticed the slip. She prayed Damon would let it pass. She prayed this nightmare would end before she accidentally destroyed herself.
"I…" She tried again. "I take you… Damon Vargaz…"
Her voice shook uncontrollably, but the words came, fragile and fractured. With each sentence, she felt Damon's scrutiny deepen. His gaze cut into her, not cruelly but calculatingly, as though he were dissecting every tremor, every hesitation, every breath.
She made it through the vows, though her voice stumbled over nearly every line.
By the time she reached the final words, her lungs burned.
The priest's voice rose.
"With your vows spoken, we move to the sealing of the union."
Alira's stomach dropped.
The kiss.
She would have to let Damon touch her again—in front of everyone.
Her fingers trembled. Her breath came shallow. Damon shifted slightly, turning to face her. The air around him thickened, colder, sharper.
He lifted her chin with two fingers.
Her entire body tensed.
"You will look at me," he murmured. "Not at anyone else."
Her breath caught.
She met his eyes—stormy, unreadable, consuming.
Then Damon leaned in.
The kiss was not gentle. Not cruel. It was precise, restrained, and impossibly controlled—like everything about him. But even in its coldness, it stole the breath from her lungs and turned her knees liquid.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Damon pulled back, his gaze lingering on her for just a second longer than necessary.
"Good," he whispered, almost to himself. "But you're hiding something."
Her blood ran cold.
He stepped back, releasing her hand.
The ceremony moved on, applause rising like a wave.
But Alira heard nothing.
Damon already suspected her.
And if he uncovered the truth…
She would never leave this hall alive.