Page 19 of Darkest Oblivion
“You’re the bride everyone’s been waiting for,” he whispered, gravel thick in his tone. “Step to the altar... your husband is waiting.”
My heart thundered so violently I thought it might shatter my ribs.
The opulent hall blurred at the edges, the velvet-draped walls closing in.
My emerald dress—the one I’d chosen in defiance—now felt like a cruel joke, as if fate itself had dressed me for my own undoing.
A laugh escaped me, brittle and edged with hysteria.
“Wait—what?” My hand shot to my arm, nails digging into flesh, the sharp sting confirming this wasn’t a nightmare I could wake from.
The scarred man leaned closer, his shadow swallowing me whole.
“You heard me right,” he said, firmer now. “Step to the altar. Now. And pledge your vows to the great Dmitri Volkov—your husband.”
My chest seized, lungs burning with the threat of an asthma attack.
I glanced down at myself—at the simplicity of my dress, the clutch still in my hand—then back to Dmitri.
He was at the altar, unmoving, his gaze fastened to me like a predator sighting its prey.
And then the truth clawed through me. There was no bride.
I was the bride.
“No,” I rasped, the word ripped from my lungs. “I never agreed to this.” My voice cracked but carried, trembling yet defiant.
The scarred man’s expression didn’t falter. “Your father agreed on your behalf. That’s enough.”
My father.
The betrayal sliced through me sharper than Antonio’s deception, deeper than Dmitri’s threats.
My father—my protector, my blood—had bartered me like currency.
There was movement at the altar, a ripple of tension that silenced even the air.
And then I saw him.
Dmitri descended the steps with measured grace.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but no one moved. No one would dare.
I stumbled back a step, my hands trembling.
I couldn’t breathe—wouldn’t breathe—if it meant walking willingly into his snare.
He stopped before me, towering, the scent of sandalwood and smoke wrapping around me like chains.
The scarred man retreated a few paces, his presence still looming but secondary now, as if even he bowed to the greater danger standing inches from me.
His lips curved into a slow, merciless smirk.
He raised his hand—not to strike, but to brush his knuckles along my cheek, tender as a lover, cruel as a predator savoring the inevitable.
“You’ll walk down that aisle, Penelope,” Dmitri said, his voice a blade—merciless. “You made the promise, and you’ll honor it.”
I glanced down at myself, my defiance cracking beneath the weight of his gaze.
