The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 69

Chapter 69: Sixty Nine

Valka

The aisle is an unending path I must walk alone.

The great hall -- though ’hall’ no longer feels like the right word for it -- has been reborn into a celestial cathedral. The ceilings have been opened to the night itself, a vast dome of obsidian sky where the stars seem close enough to touch, silver fire polished into the marble beneath my feet. Ivy spills down the pillars like veins of green flame, each leaf tipped in starlight, like a thousand tiny lanterns lighting the world.

There are so many people.

Not just within these walls -- though the galleries swell with royals, nobles, emissaries from the cities I have yet to see -- but beyond them too. Through the open arches, I glimpse the courtyards and streets overflowing with bodies, citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, all craning for a glimpse of me. Me. The Queen.

Each step forward feels heavier, harder than the last. I cannot afford one misstep. Not when half of them expect that I fail at this, and the other half wish to glean if I am, at all, worthy of the crown I am to be given.

As I pass, hands reach for the train of my garments flowing far behind me like slow rivers, as though touching it might pass a blessing from them to me. From every tier of the gallery, petals rain down on me -- single blossoms of only the rarest, most beautiful flowers, each a prayer whispered into the air. Some fall into my hair, clinging to the intricate braids. Some scatter at my feet, softening the path with color.

Sweat clams my palms, my heart thudding in tandem with the swell of voices singing a tune old as dust, so hauntingly beautiful, the fine hair on my skin rises even higher.

Against it all, the magnitude of this gathering, I feel small. Inconsequential. This day will be recorded in Ebonheart’s history books, and even if my wedding to Lucien is a sham, it make this ceremony and the ones that follow any less sacred. I feel like I am being devoured by something that is significantly larger than me.

I see Evadne as I make past the front rows. And Wyatt. Margot. Trent. Soraya. Altheira. The rest of the Council. Lilith, who while under questioning on where she had acquired an ashen sword, was still given leave to attend. They all lower their heads in deference and toss flowers.

It is no coincidence that Lilith chose a black rose, I think. Gods forbid all evil.

Those moments are surreal, blending together in a blur, where a distant part of me notices Leander and Rhea, and those who died and couldn’t be here tonight. The details sear into me and in the days that come, I may remember each smile of genuine encouragement clearly and the eyes that burned instead with hatred and disgust...

But now, as I lift the front of my five layered dress and step onto the diaz, everything and everyone becomes a blur.

Because in that moment, all the chaos and enormity of the last few hours, the nerves, the anxiety, the fear, it all focus to one sharp point. Into one man.

Lucien stands slightly off to the left side, hands folded behind him. His attire is nothing like the gilded excesses he usually wears. It is darker, simpler, and yet far more arresting. The long coat that drapes from his shoulders is cut from fabric so black it swallows the light, and when he moves, it shimmers with undertones of amethyst and indigo, the same deep violet as his eyes. Beneath it, a high-collared tunic hugs the lines of his body. Across his chest, a thin sash of midnight blue is fastened with a brooch shaped like a crescent moon devouring the sun.

His head cocks softly as he surveys me with a long, unreadable sweep from the gold threaded into my half-up hair, my stark perfect brows, lightly shadowed and heavily kohled eyes that made the gold color of them pop, my cherry wine lips and the chiseled hollows of my cheeks dusted in red blush, to hem of the white sweeping across the marble.

The dress isn’t flattering, not at first glance at least, but his gaze changes. Like I wasn’t wrapped completely in silk, with not even a peek of skin exposed to the world, the collars high, sleeves as long as the train. Like he can see what the layers underneath would expose when taking it off. Like he could see down to the very last layer of it.

Lucien’s lips part slightly and as though catching himself in the furious, unabashed examination of him, he blinks and forces his gaze away with a barely perceptible scowl, the tips of his jewelled ears reddening. And as if unable to help himself, his gaze snaps back to me again, going over and I see him commit every little detail to memory in a way that makes my steps unsteady, because I have no idea what it means.

Is it to his liking? Is it not?

He moves, step for step, almost like the pre-steps to a dance only we knew the routine to and as one, we halt before each other. I tip my head back. Lucien’s eyes are black. No. Upon closer inspection, I note that they are dilated, so much so his irises seem like pin-pricks.

He is either drunk, high or hungry. But the clarity in his gaze strikes out the first two options, leaving out the last, and that scares me enough to make me balk when he takes the last step, hand outstretched to me.

"Lady Nythorn," he says.

Though, my body trembles, I lift my hand to his and lower my body in a courtesy as his fingers close around mine like I have been instructed to. "My King."

"Rise," he orders, and my spine straightens, head lifting once more. The world around us remains silent, or perhaps, we are the only two left on this universe. And as traditions follow, he lowers his mouth to my cheek and presses a small kiss there to my heated flush, eliciting an excited cry from the audience. And so, they do not hear him whisper, "It is... to my liking."

He leads me to the altar, like he didn’t just tug a rug from under my feet, and I barely hear the High Priestess’ words offering blessings to Thandric.

Lucien’s words drop to my center of my belly, like a hot spool of honey, and it is only when the priestess places a dagger in my hand that I am drawn away from those bewitching violet eyes.

"Witness the first vow," she says. "For in blood, there is truth, and in its spilling, there is binding. As the gods bore life from sacrifice, so too must you bare yourselves before them. Offer your lifeblood, freely and without fear, that they may sanctify this union and bind your fates as one."

I unsheathe the dagger and take Lucien’s right hand. I am yours, as you are mine. His fingers are smooth against mine as I turn them and draw the dagger against him, drawing blood. You are mine, as I am yours.

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