Chapter 45: A Withness In a Urn

Chapter 45: A Withness In a Urn

🌙𝐋𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth even as no one reacted. Like this was the most normal thing. It dawned quickly on me just how utterly dangerous the man that held me now was. I had seen him rip into wolves ten times his size, but it took seeing him render people unconscious with nothing but words for it to fully sink in.

"Vladimir, why would you..." I breathed.

"They will wake up in a few hours with headaches, nothing more. Consider it a mercy," his voice remained impassive as he gestured to the guards, who picked up the women with the delicateness of children with toys. "Their jobs here are terminated," he said matter-of-factly.

His hold on my hip remained gentle, reverent, as if I was made from spun glass.

"We are late," he murmured, his eyes finding me again. "Can you walk?" he asked me.

I swallowed as I flexed my hip against his cold grip. The pain was barely there now, almost like his cold, conducting hand had acted as a cold compress for the strained joint.

Quickly, I understood why he had kept his hand there.

He had been soothing the ache.

"Yes," I whispered.

He searched my eyes for a lie, and when he found none, he relaxed and we headed together to the door. I fought the urge to look back to where the women were.

Still, I felt guilt.

My mother would have been the one to dress me for my wedding, and now the women who did it had lost their jobs because of me. Because I couldn’t stay still. Because I was weak enough to get hurt by a simple yank, as if I hadn’t endured far worse and walked through it.

I slid into the car. A box sat between Vladimir and me.

As the car started, Vladimir’s voice intruded on my thoughts. "I knew you would lie for them."

My head whipped to face him, but he remained facing forward as he continued to speak, his voice painfully monotone, his expression stoic, like I couldn’t still feel his hand searing my flesh.

"You would make excuses for them hurting you."

I bit back a retort, mainly because he was not wrong, but he was not done, not even close.

"You have done so all your life," he stated.

I found myself chuckling to myself even if his words had no humor. "Old habits die hard," I muttered more to myself than to anyone. I am no stranger to hurt or to justifying it.

I watched the trees swiftly pass by. The dull ache in my chest returned, tears stinging my eyes. The longing returned: for a witness to the vows I was about to make to this man that felt so close, yet worlds away.

I longed for my mother.

Yesterday’s ordeal, having to face a memory of her, having her ghostly arms around me, made it all the more sharp, acute.

"Lilith," Vladimir said. "You will have family present."

I wanted to laugh, but I choked on it. I turned to him to see just how much he was fucking with me.

Only to be met with a serious expression. "Open the box," he said.

I reached for the item before my mind could catch up, pulling off the lid.

I clasped my hand over my mouth as I stared down at ceramic adorned with hand-painted iris flowers. I traced my finger over the varnished surface of the resting place of my only witness.

I pulled it out and cradled it in an embrace, and somehow I felt my mother’s arms envelop me.

I was not led to the council meeting chamber like I was the last time; I was brought here. I was taken to the entrance of what looked like a great hall. I gripped my mother’s urn tighter to my chest.

Were weddings for Lycans the same as those between humans?

Would Kustav be made to walk me down the aisle? My veins filled with ice at the thought alone.

"Kustav will not touch you," Vladimir whispered, adjusting the lapels of his midnight blue suit. "He has already given his blessings before the Concord. That simplifies things. We will say our vows and exchange the rings. We will be one in thirty minutes, or less."

I nodded. "Can I hold the urn as I walk in?"

He met my gaze then. "Of course." His cadence softened. "She can walk you down the aisle."

I bit my lip against the emotion that threatened to overwhelm me.

Vladimir gestured to the guards stationed nearby. "Wait here with your mistress until the doors open."

They nodded in unison, taking positions on either side of me like silent sentinels.

Before he could turn away, Vladimir paused. His hand reached up, and with surprising gentleness, he tucked a stray curl behind my ear. The brief contact of his cold fingers against my heated skin sent a flush crawling up my neck and across my cheeks.

For a moment, his glacial eyes searched mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Then he was turning away, his entourage of guards falling into step behind him as he disappeared down a corridor toward what I assumed was another entrance to the hall.

I was alone. Well, not alone—the guards flanked me like marble statues—but without Vladimir, the reality of what was about to happen crashed over me in waves.

I clutched my mother’s urn to my chest the way I would have held a bouquet, the ceramic warm against my palms. The hand-painted irises seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.

I’m getting married, I thought numbly. To a man I’ve known for three days.

The massive doors before me began to groan open, revealing the space beyond.

My breath caught.

The hall was cavernous and dark, the black altar at its far end looking like something carved from shadow itself. But scattered throughout the space were flowers—hundreds of them—that shimmered with the same iridescent quality as my dress. They shifted from silver to blue to green as if lit from within, casting prismatic light across the dark stone.

Someone had done this. Someone had cared enough to make this beautiful.

Vladimir stood at the altar, a pale figure of stark contrast in his midnight blue suit. Even from this distance, I could see the sharp angles of his face, the platinum hair styled like it was carved out of the metal, every inch of him radiating cold authority.

I forced my feet to move.

The guests were sparse; I could count them without even trying. Less than twenty people scattered among the rows of seats. But I kept my gaze locked on Vladimir, using him as my anchor. If I looked away, if I let myself see...

Golden eyes caught my peripheral vision.

Gustav.

My grip on the urn tightened until my knuckles went white. I would not look at him. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

One foot in front of the other.

The shimmering flowers seemed to lean toward me as I passed, their otherworldly glow casting dancing shadows across my iridescent dress. The silence was absolute except for the whisper of fabric and my careful footsteps.

I felt another gaze on me, boring like my father.

I did not need to look to know it was Caesar.