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Chapter Text

“So it is done,” was all Raven could say to her new husband as they stood before the stone edifice of the church.
With the formalities concluded and the rituals complete, there remained but one final piece to fall into place. She felt herself tremble at the thought—her body alight with desire, yet stiffened by fear. Her pulse quickened as Damian’s hand slid across the small of her back, and her heart skipped a beat.
He’ll know I lied.

“Congratulations, my brother!” cried Grayson with genuine delight. “This is most certainly cause for celebration!”

“We’ve no time for that,” Damian replied, irked the ceremony had taken so long. “This matter demands great expedience,” he added in a lower voice, knowing full well that time was of the essence if the marriage were to be fully legalised.

“Too much expedience, and the matter shall be no fun at all,” Rose teased.

Damian merely grimaced, steadfast in his resolve. “I’ve no patience for thy jibes, Wilson. My bride and I must be off.”

“Off where?” Drake asked. “All at the palace shall be looking for thee. ’Tis certain they’ve noticed thy absence by now.”

It was a hard truth to ignore. His grandfather was far too seasoned to take such disobedience lightly—only solidifying Damian’s fervour.

“Then what dost thou suggest?” he groaned in frustration.

“I may have a solution,” said the master of horses, mischief flickering in his green eyes.

Damian turned toward him, wary. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Then ask not,” West smiled. “Only get in the litter, if thou truly wish to make swift and private love to thy bride.”

“I think we shall walk, thank you.”

“Damian, get in,” Raven snapped, pulling him by the arm.

“Eager lady,” West grinned. “Thou art a lucky man.”

“West, if thou wish to keep thy station, thou shalt wipe that grin off thy face before I remove it,” was all the prince had to say.

The redhead merely nodded, but his shit-eating grin lingered. In moments, the litter was crowded as the party folded themselves within.

“I suppose we are resorting to laps, then,” Rose mused wickedly. “This ride shall be tight.”

Raven looked back at Damian, knowing she had little choice, as neither of them appeared thrilled with the idea.

“Thy throne awaits thee, my lady,” West said with a wink.

“As thy future queen, think not I shall hesitate to use my position to have thee decommissioned,” she warned, and climbed into her new husband’s lap.

Beneath her skirts, she felt Damian jolt with a shallow laugh, and her own heart fluttered—then eased.

“Well played,” he murmured in her ear, adjusting to the tight confines of their predicament.

Rose peered across the litter and saw her options: Cass or Lord Drake. She chose neither.

“I think I fancy my throne draped in red,” she declared, and set her sights upon the coachman’s seat. “Wouldst thou share thy throne with me?”

His wild smile only stretched wider. “For one as fair as thee, I shall gladly make room.”

“She is like a cat in heat,” Cass muttered under her breath, casting daggers at Lord Drake—ensuring the words “Wouldst thou sit upon my throne” dared not pass his lips.

Tim shrank back, hardly warmed to the idea to begin with, but took the hint and turned his attention to a lady with less edge.

“Mistress Brown…” he began, hesitating, loath to say anything uncouth. “If it doth not offend thee… thou may sit on my—”
The very notion struck him vulgar, and he shuddered, ashamed for having dared disgrace such a gentle soul.

“Just sit on this lap,” Damian barked, the entire endeavor testing his patience.

“Thou seem eager, my Lord,” Raven whispered at his ear, her breath hot against his skin, only stoking his growing impatience.

Damn her.

“Our union must be consummated,” he said, keeping his tone as even as possible. “If not, then Blood may still lay claim to thee.”

The thought sent a chill down her spine, and her desire withered at once. Though she assured herself such an outcome was unlikely, it remained—nonetheless—possible.

“Can we please be quick about it?” she muttered, then rapped the roof of the litter with a firm hand.

Master West let out a hearty laugh. “Eager girl indeed,” he mused, glancing back at the silver-haired lady beside him. “Who am I to deny a lady her fun?”

He cracked the reins, and the horses lurched forward. Rose giggled and braced herself as the litter jolted into motion. The hooves struck the cobblestone in rhythmic unison, their clatter echoing for several miles, until gravel muffled the sound and the path turned to mud.

“Where in God’s name is he taking us?” Cass murmured, peering out at the dismal road as they turned down a narrow street.

“The Mermaid Tavern,” Grayson sighed, his tone heavy with reluctant familiarity.

Raven leaned upward to see, catching sight of a wooden sign swaying above—a crudely carved mermaid, bare of chest and grinning obscenely.

“Azar help me…” she breathed.

Damian rolled his eyes. This was not his first visit to the infamous tavern, frequented by poets and playwrights of ill repute.

“It could be worse,” he muttered, though not by much. It reeked of low taste and spilled ale, but would suffice.

They disembarked, both he and Raven suppressing equal shudders at the thought of consummating their sacred vows in such a seedy place.

“Cheer up,” West grinned, as though his face knew no other expression. “’Tis not so bad.”

The tavern’s dim candlelight flickered against the cracked walls, casting long shadows across the crowd. The air buzzed with mischief and musings—an artists’ den, drunk on their own brilliance.

“If it isn’t Sir Dick,” crooned a pretty barmaid, handing Grayson a cup of ale. “Been some time. What brings thee here?”

“Fate,” the knight said with an easy smile. “My brother, the Prince, hath wed. We come to celebrate.”

“And here , of all places?” the wench asked, offended on the bride’s behalf.

“Aye.”

“ Why? ” she recoiled.

“I fear we’ve little choice,” Damian offered dryly. “Though crude, thy establishment is the best we could manage upon such short notice.”

“That, and if we sought a more reputable venue, we’d be—”

“Stephanie!” Tim hissed, forgetting himself and using her Christian name. “I mean, Mistress Brown. The Prince and his bride wish the matter kept private, that they may enjoy the night ere all of Nanda Parbat is made aware.”

She stared at him, stunned, then realized she ought to show greater discretion.

“My apologies, your Grace,” she said with a curtsy.

Damian waved it off. There was no time to scold her looseness of tongue. If Drake wished to correct her, that was his burden.

“Darling,” he said, glancing back at Raven, who now stood surveying the tavern with cautious interest, “Why not take thy ladies, find drink, and settle in. I shall see to the arrangements.”

Arrangements. The word left his lips with such indifference that her anticipation curdled into anxiety.

“As you wish, my Lord,” she said coolly, dipping into a curtsey.

“Please, miss—”

“Gordon. Barbara Gordon,” the sly redhead interrupted, her tone both amused and sharp. “Sir Grayson knows my name. Very well, in fact.”

“We’re old friends,” Dick said with a sheepish smile, a flicker of guilt caught behind his sky-blue eyes.

“That we are,” she replied. “Very old friends.”

Damian glared at his brother, unamused. Could they not go anywhere without crossing paths with one of Grayson’s old flames?

“Whatever antics have transpired between you two, I care not,” the prince said coldly. “My concern is that my bride is well cared for—discreetly, of course. Can I trust thee with that?”

“But of course, Your Grace,” Barbara answered coolly. “I shall see to it all thy needs are met, and with great discretion.”

“Thank you, and—”

“But it shall cost you.”

Damian sighed. He was no fool—he knew this endeavor would come at a price.
“How does forty shillings sound?”

Her mouth fell slightly agape. The offer was more than generous.
“Throw in an exemption from taxes, and I’ll even sew my damn mouth shut.”

“Perhaps that’s a touch too far,” Grayson grimaced. Not that he believed his brother would ever require such a thing.

Barbara smirked. “You wouldn’t like that, wouldst thou, Pretty Boy?”

The knight flushed. “If you two continue to flirt so openly, I shall take her up on that offer,” Damian muttered, half annoyed. “Now, Grayson—see to it my wife has a drink.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Dick bowed, then gave the barmaid a bashful nod.

“I’ll take my payment now,” she said, turning her gaze to the Prince and his brother, the Duke.

“You shall be paid promptly,” Damian replied. “However, there remains one further matter I must address.”

“If it’s that thy men require extra services ,” she said, tone flat, “I assure thee there are quite a few whores about the place—”

“No,” Damian snapped, his brow pinching at the vulgarity. “They can handle that on their own, if they must. What I require is a room.”

“What sort of room?”

He blinked at her. She was too clever to be so daft.

“What manner of question is that ?”

“We have many kinds,” she said with a shrug. “Shared rooms. Private rooms. Rooms by the hour. Some with beds. Some without. And do you wish it to be clean ?”

“Of course it must be clean,” Damian replied, scandalized. “We shall take the finest room thou hast.”

“That may pose a problem.”

“I’m paying thee a year’s salary and exempting thee from taxation. How is anything I desire a problem?”

“Because that room is currently rented.”

“To whom?”

She pointed toward a tall, richly dressed young man across the tavern.

“ Who the devil is that? ” Damian asked. He did not recognize the man, though the attire made it plain he was foreign. And wealthy.

“Zachary Zatara,” Barbara replied.

“Zatara?” Damian echoed, thrown off. “As in—?”

“The Italian House of Zatara,” she confirmed, clearly not as ignorant as Damian had presumed.

“He is cousin to the Holy Roman Empress,” Drake added helpfully. “Quite wealthy. His mother was heir to the Medici fortune and married into nobility. Both parents perished mere months after his birth. He was made ward of the Empress’s father, the Duke of Florence, yet kept imprisoned in a monastery for years. ’Tis truly a wild tale.”

“And does this wild tale lend itself to him surrendering his room?”

Drake shrugged. “Mayhap. He’s Italian. They’re typically… enlightened .”

Damian resisted the urge to groan. It would be easier to demand the barmaid evict the nobleman. But that risked far more scrutiny than he could afford. And as Drake said—perhaps the man was enlightened.

He exhaled, dreading what he was about to do. But it had to be done.

Squaring his shoulders, he approached the richly dressed foreigner.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Damian began—in fluent Italian. “But I thought it only proper to introduce myself.”

It was a rare thing for the Crown Prince to offer any man an introduction—least of all a foreigner. Still, he hoped the gesture might be seen as noble, or at the very least… enlightened.

“I am—”

“Damian of Nanda Parbat. I know,” the man interrupted, speaking in perfect Nanda Parbian.

“You do?” Damian asked, taken aback. “How?”

“I am—how do you say— psychic ,” the man said with a grin.

Fucking Italians…

“Is that so?”

“Of course not,” the nobleman replied, smiling warmly. “I am merely observant enough to know a prince when I see one.”

Damian felt a strange pang of insecurity curl in his gut.
“Is it truly so obvious?”

“Thou art wearing more wealth on thy back than most could earn in a lifetime.”

He glanced about. Even in his plainer garments, he outshone them all. His wardrobe alone could feed families for a year.

“Did I say something amiss?” the Italian asked, arching a brow.

“No,” Damian said, shaking off the sting. “I only… I know we’ve just met, but I wished to ask thee a favor.”

“Of course,” the man smiled. “Anything for a future king. All I ask in return—is a favor of mine own.”

“What wouldst thou have of me?”

“Oh no,” the man grinned. “I require naught now , but one day—I shall ask. And on that day, thou shalt grant it. Until then, how may I be of service?”

Damian hesitated. He despised the thought of being indebted, especially to a stranger. But he was in no position to bargain. Not if he hoped to make love to his wife in a bed that didn’t reek of stale ale and sweat.

“I was recently wed and—”

“ Congratulations! ” the man exclaimed, beaming. “When? I was not informed. I’d have sent a gift!”

“It was a private affair,” Damian muttered. “Roughly… twenty minutes past.”

“ Molto romantico, ” the nobleman sighed, his voice musical. “’Tis rare indeed to hear of nobility marrying for love. It reminds me of a French narrative poem I once read—”

“It’s more of a political arrangement,” Damian cut in, dryly. “But I won’t bore thee with such details. What matters is that we… consummate the marriage. Promptly. To ensure it is legally binding.”

“Ah,” Zachary nodded with sudden clarity. “So thou seekest my lodgings?”

Damian winced. Hearing it aloud made him feel all the more foolish. “Yes… and I apologize. ’Tis out of line.”

Just then, Raven appeared beside him, moving cautiously past the leering eyes of drunken men.

“Damian? Is all well?”

Zachary paused, wineglass in hand, his gaze transfixed. “And who might this wondrous creature be?” he asked, taking her hand before either could answer.

A flush crept into Damian’s cheeks—and then his eyes—as he noted the faint blush upon his bride’s face.

“This is Raven of Azarath. My bride.”

“Thou art a fortunate man,” Zachary murmured, pressing a feather-light kiss to her knuckles. “’Tis an honor to meet one as fair as thee. I am Lord Zachary Zatara of Italy.”

“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance,” she replied, her voice a soft breath. “Zatanna was—still is—one of my dearest friends.”

“She mentioned thee often in her letters,” Zachary nodded. “Yet somehow, she failed to mention thy beauty.” He turned again to Damian, smile still glowing. “I now see why thou art so eager to seal this union.”

Once more, he kissed her hand, and once more, she flushed.

Damian’s blood boiled beneath his skin, but he reined it in. What else could he expect from an Italian?

“So,” he gritted. “You will grant my request?”

“For thee—and thy enchanting bride—it would be my honor.” He raised a hand. “Miss Gordon, prepare my chambers for the Prince and his lady. See that the linens are fresh. And in the meantime, serve a round of the finest wine from my private stores. None of the swill from the tavern’s cellar. On my account.”

“That shan’t be necessary,” Damian objected, too proud to let another man fund so personal a matter.

“Nonsense,” Zachary waved him off. “It would offend mine honor not to offer the best to a fellow noble and his radiant bride. Now please, enjoy the wine, and the atmosphere. Think of it as a wedding gift.”

Though pride still stung like a blade to the gut, Damian nodded. “You have my thanks, Lord Zatara. Your generosity shall not be forgotten.”
Though thy audacity shall linger too long.

Raven, cheeks still warm from Zachary’s charm, cast a cautious glance at Damian.

“Thank you, my lord. I am most grateful,” she said gently, eyes shifting to her husband’s simmering stare. “As is my husband.”

Barbara assured them the room would be readied within the hour and moved to carry out his orders. But Zachary’s eyes returned, unyielding, to Raven.

“If ever thou find thyself in need, Lady of Azarath, do not hesitate. Italy may be distant, but my reach is long.”

“ Long reach , you say…” Raven mused, her tone wistful. “What brings you from Italy? I miss it so.”

Zachary inclined his head. “The land of my birth is a place of art, philosophy, and the most exquisite women.” He paused, his gaze deepening. “With the exception, of course, of Nanda Parbat’s newest princess.”

Damian rolled his eyes—but seethed as Raven’s face deepened to a shade of passion itself.

“Then perhaps thou should return.”

“Alas,” Zachary sighed, as though reciting from a play. “What keeps me here is a tale of heartbreak, desire, and love lost. But I shall not bore thee with it. ’Tis a long story.”

“So I’ve heard,” Damian muttered just as the wine arrived—a crimson testament to the Italian’s influence.

Raven received her cup, its rich, crimson surface catching the candlelight like blood in moonwater. She glanced sideways. Damian looked torn—relieved the ordeal was arranged, yet clearly nettled by how it had unfolded.

The air between them crackled—not quite love, not quite fury. Duty, desire, and the mounting weight of expectations pressed against their chests like armor.

“To new beginnings,” Zachary toasted, his voice as smooth as vintage velvet.

“To new beginnings,” Raven echoed, a nervous spark dancing behind her eyes. Damian raised his glass as well, though his gaze never left the Italian nobleman.

Zachary’s eyes lingered on Raven, longer than decorum demanded, before sipping. “You’ve chosen well, Your Grace. The lady is a rare gem.”

Damian’s jaw flexed, his smile sharp as a dagger. “Indeed. She is.”
He drank, swallowing the wine—and his irritation. Of course the bastard would bring fine wine to .

His gaze followed Raven, watched her blush beneath Zachary’s gaze, her body warming not just from the drink, but from the attention. She squirmed slightly, caught somewhere between flattered and unsettled.

She sipped, feeling the heat of the alcohol bloom in her chest. But it wasn’t wine that made her heartbeat quicken. It was her husband’s stare—smoldering, dark, unreadable. A dangerous excitement bloomed beneath her ribs.

He’s jealous, she realized, smirking into her cup.
Good. I have you now.

“So, Lord Zatara,” she began, her voice smooth with curiosity. “Tell me more of Italy. I’ve always admired its influence in the realms of art, literature, and philosophy.”

“And she has refined taste,” Zachary smiled, leaning in, his eyes glinting like polished emeralds. “Ah, Italy—land of passion, beauty, and legacy. Art is our heart, and culture, our soul.”

“Gag me,” Rose muttered, just low enough for Damian to hear.

He shot her a quick smirk, before leveling his voice, cool and dry. “A bit overstated. I’ve always found Italian art… slightly overrated.”

“You can’t be serious,” Raven gasped, affronted.

“But I am,” Damian replied evenly, savoring the provocation.

Raven blinked in disbelief. “You, of all people, dare deny the beauty of the Sistine Chapel? The genius of Da Vinci? And the tragedies you devour ?”

“Aha, Da Vinci!” Zachary exclaimed, hand to his chest. “A distant relative, as it happens.”

Damian blinked. “Are all Italians related now?” he asked dryly. “And I’ve never been one for the theater.”

“Strange,” Raven said, her tone cool and measured. “You read enough Italian tragedy to make a scholar weep.”

“I prefer the Greeks,” Damian replied stubbornly. “They understood suffering better.”

“Then perhaps thou art not more than a politician,” she challenged softly, eyes gleaming. She knew better. She knew the depth of his soul, and this feigned detachment was nothing less than an insult to it.

Zachary’s laughter was a low, velvet ripple. “Art is subjective, my lady. But to truly judge it, one must see it with one’s own eyes. Perhaps one day, His Grace will visit—and form a proper opinion.”

Damian opened his mouth, a scathing retort at the ready, but—

“From what I hear,” Lord Drake interjected smoothly, ever the diplomat, “you’ve quite the tale to tell, Lord Zatara. One that might entertain us all.”

Zachary smiled. “Ah, yes. My life—a tale of pleasure, tragedy, and persistent misfortune.”

“Some say thou art cursed,” Rose challenged with a knowing edge.

“If loss be a curse,” Zachary replied with a shrug, “then aye—I am the most accursed of all.”

“Cursed?” Damian echoed, tone sharpening. “Do tell.”

“It began, as most tragedies do… at birth.” He reclined, glass in hand like a storyteller before the hearth. “My arrival was a joyous occasion. My mother, daughter of one of Florence’s wealthiest merchants. My father, a duke—some three or four steps from the throne.”

“But fortune,” he sighed theatrically, “is a fickle lover.”

He sipped his wine.

“You see, my father had… appetites. A prince of indulgence. It was said he could not pass a glass of wine, nor a woman, without tasting both. He died of syphilis,” Zachary stated bluntly, skipping the more colorful truth—that the man leapt from the Ponte Vecchio screaming about ghosts.

“And my mother—sweet, fragile thing—followed not long after, taken by the plague.”

“Charming,” Damian muttered.

“Thus orphaned before I could walk,” Zachary continued, unfazed, “I was made ward of the King, who sent me to a monastery. I spent my youth among monks—quiet, simple, peaceful. But peace… like wealth and love… is fleeting.”

He paused, letting silence lend weight.

“Political tides shifted. Florence, once my cradle, turned cruel. Whispers of my bloodline spread—some calling for my execution. A Magi of noble birth is a dangerous thing when kings grow fearful.”

What he did not mention were the rumors—that the Zataras whispered magic into royal ears, and bent fate with incantations older than Rome itself. The family way, they called it.

“Fortunately, my cousin—the Pope—had other plans.”

“Oh, now we’re name-dropping?” Damian scoffed.

“Shhh,” Raven whispered, her eyes wide with fascination.

Zachary merely smirked, unfazed. “The Pope is my padrino —my godfather. A most influential man, may his soul rest. He, my uncle, and the Holy Roman Emperor conspired to see me removed from Florence—to shield me from those who would see me buried. Thus, I was sent to Sicily… where my bride awaited me.”

Raven arched a brow, wine cradled in her hand. “That bears a striking resemblance to an Italian tragedy I once read— Il Padrino .”

“Ah, sì ,” Zachary mused, lips curving with mischief. “ The Godfather is, in fact, based on my life.”

Damian scoffed into his goblet.

“And what came of it?” Raven asked, not the least bit deterred by his theatrics.

Zachary exhaled, a wistful smile ghosting his features. “I made my first mistake.”

He let the words fall like a dying note in a silent hall.

“I fell in love.”

The room held its breath. The words, though simple, were soaked in poetic doom.

“How original ,” Damian drawled, rolling his eyes as if to ward off the melodrama.

“I was to wed a lovely girl—Isabella. But another stole my heart. Catalina.”
He lingered on the name as though it were a sonnet.

“My betrothed’s own sister.”

Raven’s eyes widened, caught between delight and horror.

Damian scoffed, “How very Italian of you.”

Zachary chuckled, brushing the jab away like lint from silk. “Sadly, my padrino was murdered not long after my marriage was secured. With his death, my protection vanished. My name no longer held sway, and the Sicilian court turned sharp.”

He paused, his gaze flickering. “And that is when I made my second mistake: I underestimated the devotion—and the sanity—of my new bride.”

What he didn’t share, of course, was how Isabella had found him in bed with Catalina, and in a rage born of betrayal, slashed her sister’s face.
“Will you still love her if she looks like a monster?”
Her voice still echoed in the dark corners of his mind. But he moved past it.

“I learned from whispers that Isabella had suffered spells since childhood. Madness, they called it—but I hadn’t understood the depth. And then…” He looked down, voice heavy. “She took her own life.”

He also neglected to mention his wife discovered Catalina’s pregnancy, and how he’d dealt with the matter in what his uncle Giovanni had once called the family way. After all, everything has its cost.

“But fate wasn’t finished with me. Catalina—my beloved—discovered she was with child. Twins. She went into labor within days of her sister’s death. None survived.”

The candlelight seemed to tremble as he spoke, and Raven, moved in spite of herself, whispered, “A tragic story indeed.”

Damian’s face remained stone, though skepticism clouded his eyes like stormwater. “I need another drink,” he muttered, rising from the table like a wolf done circling its prey—not because it was sated, but because it was bored.

“And that, dear friends,” Zachary said, raising his glass once more, “is how I came to Nanda Parbat. To new beginnings—and to love’s enduring flame, no matter how often it is doused.”

Damian, now leaning against the bar, took a long drink as if trying to extinguish the burning in his chest. “Fucking Italians,” he grumbled under his breath.

Cass caught his expression in the tail of her eye, his resentment simmering like oil over flame.

“Envy does not suit you, Your Grace,” she said plainly.

“Envy is not what I feel,” he replied, though his voice was tighter than he intended.

“You’re green with it,” she pressed. “And your denial is not the disguise you think it is.”

Across the room, Zachary’s laughter rippled—a soft, seductive chime that scraped across Damian’s nerves like fine-cut glass. The man was dangerous, not with steel or spell, but with words —with charm . His poetry was his blade, and his seduction, a silent war.

“She’s utterly besotted,” Damian muttered, resentment stirring in his gut.

Cass raised a brow, noting the crack in his mask. “Not besotted. Intrigued.”

Damian’s eyes flicked to Raven—her posture relaxed, her eyes gleaming, drinking in the nobleman’s tales like vintage wine. Zachary’s voice, velvet and heady, painted Florence in golden brushstrokes, steeped in philosophy, soaked in passion.

“How could she not?” Damian whispered bitterly. “He is so… enlightened .”
The word curdled in his mouth like spoiled cream.
“Fucking Italians. With their poetry. Their art. Their—”

“— Enlightenment ?” Cass interrupted gently. “He’s not what you think.”

“It matters not what I think, but what she does,” Damian murmured, his tone low and rough. “What am I, to compare?”

“He is but a foolish noble,” Cass corrected, her whisper crisp. “He masks vice beneath wit, flees from duty cloaked in false virtue. You , my lord, are king in all but name. And all know it— even she .”

Damian turned, the truth in her words striking deep. Yet the sight of Raven—leaning in, eyes aglow like black diamonds in the candle’s breath—unmanned him more than any blade could.

“Thou must have seen so much in thy travels, Lord Zatara,” Raven mused, her voice soft with wonder. “It sounds as though fate hath dealt thee harshly.”

His guard—stone and iron though it was—quivered beneath the weight of her misplaced affection.

“And if she favors him?” he asked, bitterness tingeing the corners of his mouth.

“You insult your wife,” Cass tisked, a note of chastisement in her voice. “She suffers his gaze only because she has gone so long unfavored. She is but twenty—barely a woman—and longs, as any maiden would, to be seen. To be wanted.”

Damian arched a brow. “I believe that’s the most I’ve ever heard thee speak.”

Cass returned a withering glance. “And I’m not yet finished,” she snapped. “Zatara sees her as she is—a young woman aching for attention, not some coddled courtesan or spoiled brat. Not a middle-aged sodomite who asks her to bend her faith to please his guilt, nor a snarling brute with rot for breath and venom for heart. And certainly not a mad old king who calls her ‘sheltered’ while tightening the cage.”

“When thou says it thus…”

“She’d be dead, were it not for thee,” Cass said sharply. “But let us not forget, the men in her life have used her as a pawn in their political war. And thou art no exception.”

“That was never my—”

“Intentions matter not. Deeds do,” she cut him off. “You may continue to treat her like a pawn… or raise her to the queen she was born to be.”

“And if she will not follow?”

“You forget, my lord—Raven was raised not merely to rule, but to serve , to love, to endure . Whatever pain women must carry, she bears it still. But she is no vain princess, nor scheming mistress.”

“And how dost thou know ab—”

“Because I do,” she said, simply. “If you would have her loyalty, claim it. She will not yield to anyone else—not even me. It must be you .”

Damian’s voice dropped. “And how would thou suggest I begin?”

Cass rolled her eyes. Must I always lead him by the hand? “Tell her to bid the Italian goodnight. Remind her that she has a husband. And a king.”

“And if she refuses?”

Cass sighed, impatient now. “Then stand thy ground. She may protest, even bite—but she will respect thee more for it. She may even… enjoy it . And it would not kill thee to speak with longing.”

Damian exhaled slowly. If anyone understood Raven’s heart, it was Cass. “Thou speakest true.”

“I always do,” she replied, deadpan.

Just then, Barbara emerged with a thin, bone-handled key in her grasp.

“The room is prepared,” she informed. “There remain no obstacles, save those you make yourselves.”

Damian looked ahead.

Raven still sat rapt—her eyes locked on Zatara, lips parted in soft delight as the room drank in his every tale. But Damian saw only her . The violet bride. The woman he had wed. The woman he was slowly losing.

“It is time I go claim my wife.”

About damn time, Cass nearly muttered, but schooled herself to say instead, “Very good, Your Grace.”

He inhaled deep, then crossed the hall with slow, sure strides. Zatara’s hands flourished mid-story, the laughter of the table swelling. Raven laughed, too—light, soft, charmed. That sound twisted inside Damian like a blade.

But he wore stillness like a crown.

Raven felt him before she saw him. The air shifted—heavier, charged. His presence grazed her back like an unseen hand. Her smile faltered. Her body stilled. She turned, and he was there.

Watching.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned. And in their fire, her pulse leapt.

“Raven, my darling,” he said, his voice velvet over iron. His hands rested upon her shoulders, possessive and sure. Heat seeped through the silk of her gown, straight to her spine. Her cheeks flushed. Her heart betrayed her.

“The hour is late,” he murmured, rich and low. “Come. Let us retire.”

He spoke to all. But his gaze never left hers. Least of all, Zatara.

Raven’s voice was small, trembling on the edge of defiance. “Could we not remain a while longer? ’Tis rare, this freedom from courtly eyes. I am not yet ready to depart.”

Damian’s breath was long and measured. Were this any other night, he might have relented. But not tonight.

“Beloved,” he said, lower still, voice curling round her like a lover’s hand, “I have waited long enough… and I would have thee to myself.”

Color rose in her cheeks. A shiver traced down her limbs and settled low in her belly. Her desire bloomed—but so too did her fear. A quiet dread she could not name.

What if he discovered the truth?

That she was not untouched. Not the unspoiled bride he might expect.

“And thou shalt,” she whispered, steadying herself. “When I am ready.”

Damian’s jaw clenched as she turned away. He caught her arm.

“I will be master of what is mine,” he said, his voice iron and command. “Did thou not vow to be my house, my field, my barn… and my horse?”

Raven halted, startled. “Am I any of those things to thee?”

“No,” he answered coolly. “Thou art more . And for that, I must have thee.”

Her breath hitched. She did not know if his words were threat or promise, prayer or punishment.

“If it is her wish to remain, perhaps thou should honor it,” Zatara offered, stepping forth.

Damian did not look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Raven.

“Lord Zatara,” he said, the name like ash on his tongue, “thou art mistaken. She is not a bauble to pass hands, but my jewel—my solace.”

He drew her close, arm firm around her waist.

“She is my land. My flesh. My flame. My kingdom.”

His voice fell to a hush, dangerous and beautiful.

“She is everything . And should any man reach for what is mine—be he prince or beggar—I shall bring upon him the tempest. And it shall not yield.”

Raven’s breath fled her. Her mouth parted, a sigh escaping before she could catch it. Her body swayed toward his like a tide pulled to moonlight.

Checkmate.

Raven saw her reflection in his eyes. Lips parted, breath caught, drinking in the sultry spell he cast—his mouth hovering just a breath from hers.
His hand remained at her backside, firm, claiming, bold before their guest. But Raven was no easy conquest. Not in this war of wills.
Not yet.

“I believe I must bid you good night, Lord Zatara,” she said, gaze never breaking from her husband’s. Only then did she turn to curtsy. “I thank you for your story. I do hope Fate in Nanda Parbat is more favorable to you.”

Zachary smiled and brushed her hand to his lips with gallant flair.
“Ah,” he mused, his eyes like cool sapphires under moonlight. “Fate. We are all her pawns, my fair Raven—in one way or another.”

How original , Damian fumed, rolling his eyes. I should have him beheaded. But no... she’d never forgive me.

“Again, we thank you,” Damian managed, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. “And should you need anything—aside from my bride—do not hesitate to ask.”

Zachary’s parting smile lingered, a final glimmer before the storm. “But of course, Your Grace,” he said, stepping aside as Damian took Raven’s arm. “Anything… for a favor. ”

Damian resisted the scowl rising within him and turned away, leading Raven from the room.
And yet her skin still burned—where Zachary’s gaze had touched, where Damian’s hand had gripped.
Beneath the silk and civility, she longed for that touch to slip further still.
But only half her soul ached for him. The other half—the demoness within—raged. Furious he would dare touch her so boldly. Furious she had let him.

As they moved into the corridor’s dim glow, a figure peeled from the shadows.

Rose.

Silent, swift—she caught Raven in a sudden embrace. Raven stiffened, unprepared. But Rose’s whisper came like a blade:
“Thank me later.”

Raven blinked. Something cold pressed into her palm—a vial, its contents dark as a dying star.
Before she could speak, Rose was already gone, swallowed by the walls, her gaze flicking once to Damian before vanishing.

Raven looked down at the vial, her pulse quickening. “What is this?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.

From the dark, Rose’s voice answered—soft, sly, fading.
“Thy virtue, My Lady.”
A curtsey.
Gone.

Raven’s breath caught. Understanding crept in like frost.
So… she could present herself as the virgin bride she had once promised to be.
Or at least let him believe it.

She tucked the vial near her heart.
Begin a marriage with a lie…

“What did Wilson mean?”

Damian’s voice cut through her reverie.

She did not answer. Instead, her gaze locked to his.

“Did you mean any of those words?” she asked, tone cool, unwavering.

“Perhaps,” he said. But jealousy flickered in his eyes like fire behind glass. “Did you enjoy the Italian’s company?”

Her heart skipped. She remembered she’d asked first—but refused to yield the upper hand.

“He was... interesting,” she said, letting the word linger. “Though not as interesting as the words you painted with that sharp, silver tongue of yours.”

“You liked that?”

Her look smoldered. “I found it… intriguing,” she said carefully. “Though I cannot say whether I believed them.”

His expression darkened, wind before thunder.

“And why not?”

“Because I do not know your heart.”

Silence fell as they walked. Shadows closed in like velvet drapes around them.

“I don’t take kindly to men coveting what is mine,” Damian said. His voice was low, and possessive. “Who’s to say that same venom does not stir in thee?”

The edge in his words sent a shiver through her.

“I belong to no one, Damian,” she said. Her voice was soft—but steady. “You may be my husband, my king… but I am still my own.
And you—do not even love me.”

He stopped on the stairs. Shadows carved his features sharp.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“You’re not capable of it,” Raven said, voice like winter steel. “You’ve said as much. If not in words, then in every act.”

“I told thee—in the only language I knew—so I wouldn’t break you.”

“And yet, here we are,” she shot back. “Broken anyway.”

“Why?” Her voice rose. “Because Tara was a whore you didn’t love, so you took her head? Or because Nika gave you nothing—and you bled for it anyway?”

His jaw tightened. Her words landed like blades.

I will kill Wilson for telling her that.

“Whatever you think you know—” he began.

“I know what you did,” she cut in. “And I don’t judge it. But I judge this —you’ve punished me for their sins.
I’ve done nothing to earn your disdain.”

If she only knew…
The letters.
The gifts.
The aching words she never even read.

“And you’ve done nothing to earn mine!”

“Likewise!”

She stormed past him, her skirt brushing his leg. “Thou burn’st green with envy because another man gave me what you deny me. And yet… if you gave me the same? I’d forget the other existed.”

He followed, steps heavy behind her.

“I thought Azarathians were pacifists,” he muttered.

“Shows what you know,” she snapped, spinning to face him. Her eyes blazed. “I am more. The daughter of a king who won his crown in blood, just as your grandfather did. You? You’ll take yours from a dying man’s pillow.”

His vision flashed red. “May I remind thee— that crown lies atop my head, because I took it from thy father’s corpse.”

She refused to flinch. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No,” Damian said. “But it should remind you this life we share—it ends not in bliss. But in blood.”

Raven turned slowly on the stairs. The fire dimmed, replaced by something raw, human.

“I’m not your enemy, Damian. I’m your wife. So make me your lover—or make me your adversary. But if you treat every word like a war, we will both lose.”

He stared at her.

“I prefer rivals to enemies.”

Her jaw softened. Just barely. “Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Their arguments always burned like sieges—one stone hurled, one wall collapsed. He’d grown used to her as a warrior. But not as a partner.

And that—that was the heart of the matter.

He looked away.

“I was taught want is weakness,” he murmured. “That desire is a blade. One you must wield first—or it’s turned on you.”

Not a defense.

A confession.

“No wonder you keep everyone at arm’s length,” Raven said, something breaking gently in her voice. “Do you resent your desire for me?”

He met her eyes. The answer simmered.

“Resentment isn’t the word.”

“Fear, then?”

The question hung. Heavy. True.

He did not answer.

“You don’t have to fear me, Damian.”

Her voice was gentle. No scorn. No fire.

Just truth.

“I am not your rival. I am your wife.”

A laugh escaped him—short, bitter.

“You can still be both. My parents were.”

“But we don’t have to be them.”

Her voice dipped. Lower now. Fragile with hope.

She thought of her mother. Of the fire that came after love, not before. Of how she made her father a king—truly. Not by blade, but strategy. Power. Loyalty.

We could be like that… Raven thought.
All he had to do was ask .

She took a small step closer.

But her mother’s voice rang in her mind.
Do not move toward him. Make him come to you.

Raven stopped.

What if he doesn’t?

Her heart beat faster. We’re already married. How far could he run?

So she asked:

“In what way do you desire me?”

Damian stepped toward her. One stair. Deliberate.

“Enough,” he said, voice like a threat wrapped in silk,
“that I will not let another man have you.”

Something wicked stirred in her blood.

I can work with that.

She tilted her head. “So jealousy drives thee?”

Her voice was low. Testing. Dangerous.

He did not answer at once. He only looked up—dark, intense—the green of his envy burning just beneath the surface. Raven felt that ember catch; his jealousy warmed something inside her. Possession braided with vulnerability; Damian tried to hide it, but it spilled through the calm he had forged.

“Jealousy is a dangerous thing, Damian,” she said, voice soft, half dare, half invitation.

“I have not shirked danger in my life,” he returned, low and sure, stepping closer.

She could have reached for him then; she did not. The temptation pricked bright and sharp, and she kept her hand at her side. I want to be taken, a voice inside her admitted. But she would not grant him that satisfaction too easily.

“Perhaps,” she said, eyes on the dark corridor as she toyed with the promise of drawing him in. “But I am no ordinary danger.”

Damian’s look darkened in answer—jealousy folding into something warmer, keener. In a few strides he closed the distance between them. “You are no ordinary anything ,” he murmured, truth heavy in the words.

Then, without further warning, his hand found the hollow of her throat. Fingers brushed the delicate skin; he tipped her toward him and claimed her in a demanding, urgent kiss.

The ferocity stole her breath. He kissed as if the world were on fire; she yielded, then met him, lips parting to welcome the hunger he had long kept bound. Instinct and want uncoiled; she let herself be taken into his arms. Her arm looped about his neck; he lifted her as a groom lifts his bride.

As he swept her up he smiled, dark and satisfied. “I held up my end of the bargain.”

“What bargain?” she asked between kisses, tasting reprieve.

“The bridal bed shall have no audience tonight,” he said, grin sharp. “We can make a proper union free of unwelcome eyes.”

Relief washed over her. Their first night would not be a spectacle; no one would doubt her virtue or judge their bed. “I see,” she breathed as he carried her to the threshold. “You’ve kept this promise for me.”

He set her down and shoved the heavy door closed behind them, back pressing her against it while he fumbled for the key. He would not be interrupted.

Her fingers moved quickly over the gold buttons across his cheast; she worked with the ease of one not wholly unused to a man’s doublet. Damian was too absorbed to question it; his hands intent on freeing her. However, the gown proved stubborn.

“I thought you said you were no inefficiente lover?” she teased as he wrestled the fabric.

He only grinned. “I have never helped a lady from her wedding gown before.”

“I hope not.”

The sound of her voice and the wine on her breath made him weak. He spun her so his chest pressed to her back and nuzzled at the hollow of her neck.

“Rip it,” she said at last, patience gone.

“Are you sure?” he stammered.

“Just do it!”

“Say no more.” With a single hard pull he tore the seams as if the dress were mere muslin. Satin gasped and fell away; she stood then in corset and petticoat.

“You should count yourself blessed I spared you a cage skirt,” she murmured, breathless.

“A shame,” he answered against her mouth. “I might have enjoyed freeing thee from a cage.”

“You’d have to put me in one first.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He scooped her into his lap and turned toward the bed—but paused.

She followed his glance and saw what held him: the bed seemed suddenly wrong, small, exposed—the place where another had sat not long before. He hesitated. “It seems improper now… it did not before.”

“Fuck that Italian,” she snapped, not stopping for propriety. “Deflower me in his bed. Let him suffer the thought.”

“That does not trouble you?” he asked, uncertain.

“You took my father’s kingdom,” she said plainly. “Now you take his daughter. Take me where the man who desired me once lay.”

He reddened, stumbling for words. “What sort of virgin are thee—”

She cut him off, seizing his undershirt, and kissed him hard. “The sort that takes what she desires, Damian. What sort of king art thou?”

“The sort that takes what he wants.”

A smirk curved her mouth. She claimed him again and he gave himself to her, possession and consent braided into a single ache.

He lowered her to the bed with a firmness that made her shiver. The room tightened with their hunger—every stolen breath, every brush of skin building toward a violent, inevitable close—until a violent pounding split the door.

“By the King’s command—open at once!” a voice roared. “Royal Sergeant at Arms! Open the door!”

Damian swore, sharp and furious. They’d been found—unconsummated in the eyes of God and men.

Raven’s eyes widened. The vial thudded against her ribs where she had tucked it; realization struck like ice. She acted without hesitation. She drew the small glass to her lips, pried it open with her teeth, and poured the dark contents between her thighs. She did it with the same calm as any strategic move: swift, decisive, final. Then she tossed the empty vial into the hearth and flung her skirts over her bare legs.

“Don’t stand there—open the door,” she ordered, calm as a queen.

Damian looked at her, bewildered by what he’d seen, but the next battering at the door left no choice. “Open or we break it!” came the cry.

“The marriage is consummated,” Damian said, voice loud, iron. He turned the key and opened the door before the guards could force it.

The officers poured in. “Your Grace,” the lead said with a shallow bow, “by order of His Majesty Ra’s, we are to carry out the royal command.”

“And what be that command?” Damian asked.

“Your arrest,” the man answered.

Damian wanted to retort that he was co-regent, that such a thing was impossible, but he could not hide no surprise. He had known this defiance carried consequence.

Raven watched as they took him—gentle hands, a respectful cordon, yet hands nonetheless—treading carefully because this was still a prince of royal blood. “I ask only that my wife be treated with respect and allowed to make herself presentable,” Damian said, voice steady.

The officer nodded and sent a subordinate to fetch one of Raven’s ladies. Until she returned, Raven sat on the bed wrapped in skirts, covering herself from the officers’ curious eyes.

They led Damian down to the tavern bar where friends and kin watched with stifled mouths.

“Some wedding night,” Zachary remarked, voice smooth as ever as Damian passed. “What an unfortunate fate.”

Damian’s gaze cut back to the Italian like a blade. “It feels arranged,” he said, dark with meaning.

Zachary’s smile did not falter. “Fate works in strange ways.”

Damian forced his jaw closed and let the men take him. He would wear this brief humiliation now—better to be shackled in the cause of something greater than to let the scandal grow unchecked. He looked once at Raven—at the way she sat, composed and furious and utterly his—and the hunger in his chest turned to something harder.

Revenge, he promised himself. Not yet. But soon.