Page 35 of Tricked By Jack
My mind catalogs the details with almost giddy precision. This is theater. Elaborate, manipulative theater designed for maximum impact. I know this. I understand the mechanism at work. And knowing makes it better.
When I reach the foot of the stage, the courier comes into view as he steps forward. “Come to me, Bride,” he says, the mask distorting his voice making it sound like an otherworldly command.
I pause, one foot on the bottom step, savoring the suspense. People close in behind me, but it feels like part of the staging. Like they’re here to make sure I don’t miss my cue.
A semicircle of jack-o’-lanterns burns along the edge of the stage; each carved with jagged, mocking smiles. Their flames flutter as if reacting to my presence, casting warped shadows that lick across the altar. Like they know they’re about to witness a defilement.
My heart stutters, recognition hitting me like a physical blow. Somewhere deep down, I realize I’ve been following the pull of him all along. Every step, every turn in the fog led me here.
Off to my left, another stage waits under its own pool of light, the nine other Brides and their masked Grooms already in place. Even though they stand in rigid formation, one pair sticks out.
Shelby’s Groom isn’t wearing a gas mask like the others. Instead, he’s wearing a bandana with the same print as the guy I saw by the dock. Now, as I study him, I become more convinced it’s Caleb. Or… at least someone that looks almost exactly like him.
While the others stand completely still and barely move, Shelby has her hand down her Groom’s pants, very obviously stroking his dick. Good for her.
As I look around, I realize I’m the only person looking at the other stage. The audience are all watching the altar. Knowing its time, I swallow thickly. Then I slowly climb the steps. Each one feels like a decision, a surrender, a choice I’m making despite every instinct screaming caution.
His breathing is audible, deep, measured, amplified by the mask’s filter into something mechanical yet undeniably human. He extends his gloveless hand across the altar, palm up, fingers slightly curled in invitation.
The gesture is both a request and a demand, a question I’ve been answering since the first midnight knock at my door. With a decision that feels both inevitable and deliberately chosen, I place my palm against his.
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and unmistakably real amid the theatrical unreality surrounding us. In a smooth motion I barely register, he pulls me around to his side, pressing my back to his front.
I gasp, but before I can say anything, his hand closes around my throat with delicious pressure.
We stand like that while the other couples get married, and if I’m honest, I’m barely aware of what’s happening around me. I’m way too focused on the man at my back and the impressive erection digging into me.
Chapter 12
The Bride
While the applause for the other stage fades, the officiant descends the steps, his robe trailing across the ground as he crosses the space between us. When he mounts my stage, the crowd’s gaze follows.
The loud ring of a bell sounds through the air. At the twelfth and last chime, two people step onto the stage from the curtain at the back. They’re not wearing masks or anything hiding their identities.
It’s the host pair and organizers, Nicklas and Carolina Knight.
Carolina steps forward, her figure cutting through the mist in a floor-length black gown that seems to absorb what little light there is. Her blonde hair is swept up, adorned with black roses, and her face is painted pale with dark, blood-red lips. She looks like a beautiful corpse brought back to life.
“Welcome,” she calls out, her voice carrying across the hushed crowd gathered before the stage, “to The Black Wedding.”
The audience stirs, a ripple of anticipation moving through them like wind through tall grass.
“Tonight we bear witness to darkness binding darkness,” she continues, her voice echoing. “To vows that, once spoken, cannot be undone. To a union sealed not with promises of love, but with blood and submission and the surrender of will.”
With each word, the man at my back flexes his hand around my throat. Not enough to cut off my airway, just enough to… I don’t actually know.
“This is not a wedding of hearts,” she continues, her smile sharp as a blade as she turns her head to look at me. “It is the wedding of souls—the kind that marks you forever, that claims what was never freely given.”
There’s something in both her word choice and tone that makes it feel more like a sentence than a performance. Below me, the crowd murmurs its approval, eating everything she’s dishing out.
Nicklas steps forward now, tall and imposing in a black tux with a blood-red tie. His hand rests on his wife’s shoulder briefly. When he speaks, his voice carries a weight of authority that makes the crowd fall silent immediately.
“As head of the Knight family, I give my blessing to this union,” he declares.
Carolina’s voice carries clearly and sharply over the crowd. “Tonight, nine couples have already sealed their vows. But of course, it was nothing more than a beautiful illusion. A trick.”
While the audience whoops and claps, she turns, her gaze sliding deliberately to me.
