"Trying to impress someone?" Her gaze drops to the pendant resting against my collarbone, then flicks to my carefully woven braids. "New jewelry. Fancy hairstyle. You think dressing up makes you less pathetic?"
I turn my head slowly, meeting her eyes. "Wealth changes one's taste. I'll have plenty soon."
Her smile fractures. "You'll always be inferior. Doesn't matter what you wear or who you marry. You're just livestock with delusions."
I hold her gaze, unbothered. "And you'll be living in this house long after I leave. Enjoy that."
Her face flushes, mouth opening for another strike?—
"Ilyra."
Vaelra's tone cuts sharp across the space between us. She approaches with measured steps, expression neutral but eyes warning.
"Behave," she says quietly. "We're in public."
I shrug, the motion easy. "I am behaving."
Vaelra's jaw tightens.
I turn and walk away before she can respond, leaving Mariselle fuming and Vaelra struggling to maintain composure. My steps carry me toward the edge of the square where fewer eyes follow.
Bram's voice continues behind me, still boasting to the merchants about imported silks and ceremonial contracts.
Let him talk.
Let them all think this wedding's inevitable.
The pendant pulses faintly warm against my skin—or maybe I'm imagining it. Either way, the reminder steadies me.
Soon, none of this performance will matter.
Soon, I'll dismantle every carefully laid plan Vaelra and Bram constructed without my consent.
And I'll do it smiling.
24
AZRATHIEL
Itrail them through the market square like something feral barely leashed.
Shadow clings to me, keeping mortals from noticing the infernal predator stalking their ridiculous promenade. I could claim I'm here for contract surveillance—monitoring threats, ensuring Ilyra's safety, maintaining strategic advantage.
All lies.
This stopped being professional the moment she touched me.
Now it's obsession. Raw and consuming and utterly beyond my control.
I watch her navigate the crowd with new confidence, shoulders back, chin lifted with a grace that speaks of power finally acknowledged. The pendant—my mark, my claim—rests against the hollow of her throat where I traced that delicate skin with reverent fingers just nights ago. Her hair's woven tight today in an intricate pattern that showcases the elegant curve of her neck, that vulnerable stretch of skin I've memorized in exquisite detail.
She's stunning.
Not in some fragile, breakable way that men typically covet—not the wilting flower beauty that crumbles under pressure. No, this is something far more potent. She moves like sharp edges catching light, dangerous beauty wrapped in deceptively mortal softness. The kind of woman men would slaughter entire bloodlines to possess, would burn kingdoms to claim.
The kind of woman who could bring an Infernal Lord to his knees with a single glance.
Every step she takes draws eyes—merchants pausing mid-haggle, laborers stopping their work, even children turning to stare. They sense something different about her now, something that wasn't there before our contract sealed. Power recognizing power, even when they can't name what they're seeing.