Chapter 3 The Devil's Bride

The SUV slowed, the gravel beneath its tires crunching like bones.

Outside the tinted window, the world transformed-leaving behind the flickering streetlamps and grime of Elaros City and entering a different realm entirely.

A realm that didn't belong to the living.

The gates loomed ahead like the jaws of a beast-wrought iron twisted into wolves and swords, flanked by stone gargoyles whose eyes glowed faintly in the cold light. Surveillance cameras turned in perfect silence as they passed. The trees along the winding driveway were too perfect, too still, as if they'd been instructed not to move.

Sera pressed her forehead to the glass. Not to look. Just to breathe.

She didn't want to look at him.

Not at the man beside her. Not at the one who sat still, regal, unreadable-as if dragging a woman into a forced marriage was just business as usual.

She still wore the same jeans and torn shirt from the alley. Her hair was wild. Her face stung where a guard's ring had caught her cheek.

> No suitcase.

No phone.

No choice.

Just fear disguised as fury.

The SUV pulled up to the grand entrance. Twin marble staircases swept outward from the main door like arms ready to welcome-or ensnare-whatever was brought inside.

Two men in black stood waiting. Clean-cut. Stone-faced. Armed.

One opened the car door without a word.

The other held a velvet box like it was sacred.

Sera didn't move.

Not until Dante did.

He slid out first, slow and poised, then turned and looked at her like she was just another checkmark on his nightly agenda.

> "Get out," he said smoothly. "You're not a prisoner. Not exactly."

His voice was calm. Precise. Disgustingly collected.

Sera's jaw flexed.

Her chained ankles clinked softly as she stepped out, one foot at a time, refusing to let them see the stumble in her step.

> Not a prisoner, huh?

Then why did the cold air bite like handcuffs?

She straightened, back stiff, chin high, eyes locked on the mansion that now owned her future.

> Marble steps.

Manicured hedges.

Black windows that watched like eyes.

The Moretti estate didn't look like a house.

It looked like a throne.

And she had just been delivered to its king.

The moment Sera crossed the threshold, the temperature seemed to drop.

Not physically-no, the Moretti estate was warm, lavish even-but something about it made her skin crawl.

Inside, the air was thick. It smelled like expensive cologne and old wood, but beneath that... something darker. Like smoke, spice, and secrets soaked into the very walls.

High ceilings arched above them like a cathedral-ornate molding carved into wolves mid-hunt, swords clashing in eternal battle. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from iron chains, casting golden prisms across the marble below. The floor beneath her scuffed boots was too clean. Too polished. She half-expected to see her soul reflected in it-and didn't dare look.

The silence was unnatural. Heavy.

Even the footsteps of the guards behind her were muted, like they were trained not to echo.

Sera kept her chin lifted, her eyes forward, every muscle in her body taut. She wouldn't show fear. Not in this house. Not in front of him.

The hallway twisted, then opened into another corridor, wider and colder.

She noticed the cameras now. Every corner. Every blind spot.

This place wasn't just protected.

It was watched.

They passed sets of double doors-library, sitting room, something with velvet curtains and a white grand piano-and finally stopped in front of one, unlike the rest.

Massive. Oak. Black handles shaped like fangs.

Carved into the wood was the Moretti crest: a snarling wolf gripping a sword between its teeth. Beneath it, Latin, she couldn't read.

> No mercy for the weak.

The guards pushed the doors open.

Inside was a room that didn't belong in a house. It belonged in a courthouse. Or a cathedral.

Long table. Two velvet chairs. Tall windows sealed shut with thick drapes.

And at the front-on a raised platform-stood Dante.

Flanked by two men.

One wore priest's robes. The other is a sharp black suit and a briefcase.

Sera froze.

Her stomach dropped.

This wasn't a welcome.

It was a setup.

She took a step back, the chains on her ankles pulling taut.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, her voice echoing through the chamber like a gunshot.

Dante didn't smile.

Didn't blink.

He only straightened the cuffs of his shirt and met her gaze with absolute calm.

> "Your wedding, sweetheart."

"No."

The word shot from Sera's lips before she could even think.

She took a full step back, bumping into the guard behind her.

Her hands lifted like she could ward it off-the priest, the officiant, the velvet draped table with its ceremonial documents. The golden rings. The sealed fate.

> "No," she said again, louder. "Absolutely not. I didn't sign anything. You can't do this."

The priest didn't flinch.

He opened a small, worn book with steady hands, flipping to a marked page as if he'd done this a hundred times before.

The legal officiant beside him lifted a thick document from a briefcase. Parchment. Sealed. Inked in red.

Sera's heart pounded.

> This is a dream. A nightmare.

It has to be.

But Dante's voice cut through the fog like a knife wrapped in velvet.

> "You were offered a choice," he said smoothly, without looking up from the cufflink he was adjusting. "You didn't take it. The contract was made in your name."

He finally looked up-those eyes like polished obsidian.

> "We're just finalizing it."

Sera's chest rose and fell in sharp rhythm.

"You're insane."

> "No," Dante said, tilting his head slightly. "I'm thorough."

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't move toward her.

He didn't have to.

With a nod, one of the guards stepped forward and handed her something draped over his arm.

A dress.

Black silk. Strapless. Elegant. Funereal.

Paired with stilettos that gleamed like a warning.

Before she could speak, the other guard approached Dante and discreetly placed something in his outstretched hand.

A ring box.

He opened it with a soft click. Inside: a single black diamond set in a silver band. Sharp. Cold. A brand disguised as a jewel.

Sera stood frozen.

Her limbs wouldn't move.

The chains on her ankles felt heavier by the second. Her throat closed in.

> This can't be happening.

Not this fast.

Not real.

And yet-what else could it be?

There was no exit.

No screaming crowd outside.

No cops. No rescue.

No, Jaxon.

He'd sold her. Signed her away and vanished into the void where cowards went to rot.

There was only her.

Her and the man the city whispered about like a myth.

A legend.

> A monster in a tailored suit.

Dante stepped down from the platform.

Not to threaten.

Just to hand her the dress.

> "You have five minutes to change," he said quietly.

> "And then we say our vows

The next ten minutes blurred into a nightmare Sera couldn't wake up from.

They stripped her of her jeans and broken pride. Someone zipped her into the black silk dress-tight at the waist, bare at the shoulders, like a coffin lined with lace.

Her hair was pulled back, pinned hastily. No makeup. No music. No mirror.

Just cold hands and colder commands.

A guard handed her a veil. She slapped it away.

> "I'm not playing bride," she hissed.

No one argued.

No one needed to.

The moment she stepped back into that room, everything around her screamed ritual.

Not love.

It's not celebration.

> Execution.

The chamber hadn't changed, but the atmosphere had. Heavier. Final.

The priest stood waiting with solemn eyes, his Latin verses marked and ready.

The officiant lifted the legal document-already marked with her forged consent.

And at the center of it all: Dante Moretti.

Still in his black-on-black suit. Still polished. It's still perfectly composed.

He turned to face her as she was led to stand opposite him. He is not a flicker of hesitation in his expression. No emotion.

Just certainty.

She didn't reach for the ring. Didn't say a word. She couldn't even look at him.

> But none of that mattered.

They already had her name.

Her blood.

Her chains.

She was already theirs.

The priest began the ceremony in crisp Latin, voice echoing off the marble walls. It didn't sound like a blessing. It sounded like a curse.

When Dante was prompted, he spoke without pause.

> "I take Seraphina Vale as my wife."

Each syllable struck like a match.

Sera's pulse pounded in her ears. She couldn't breathe through the silk pressing against her ribs. Her throat locked. Her hands were trembling.

> When it was her turn... she didn't speak.

Didn't move.

A tense silence stretched across the chamber.

But the officiant didn't blink.

> "Consent was already signed," he said, flipping to the last page. "Witnessed. Verified."

Dante reached for her hand.

Cold fingers slid the ring onto her finger.

A black diamond.

Heavy as iron. Sharp as a threat.

It felt like it burned.

> The officiant sealed the document.

> The priest blessed the union.

The echo of his words wrapped around her like a shroud.

Sera stared straight ahead.

> Still.

Silent.

Seething.

Wrapped in black silk and fury, trapped in a marriage built on threats and ink and blood.

And then-

Dante leaned in.

Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

He didn't touch her.

Didn't kiss her.

Just whispered-dark and final:

> "You're mine now."

"Legally."

"Religiously."

"Completely."