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“I’ll cherish it because it’s with you, Roark,” I say.
“And because it’s going to be amazing,” he says, smirking and continuing down the tunnel.
I smile at his back. Well, I would be happy either way, but having some spectacular royal wedding isn’t a point I plan to fight--I am a princess after all.
We emerge in another bedroom, and somehow manage to reach the in-palace cathedral without running into anyone except for scared, fleeing nobles.
Three priests are gathered around the altar on their knees, praying. “Up,” calls Roark, voice echoing in the large cathedral. The men stand, raising their hands when they see who it is.
“Please,” says the oldest man with the biggest hat--based on what little I know about churches, I assume the bigger the hat, the more important the guy is.
“No one is going to get hurt,” says Roark. “But one of you is going to marry me to my princess, and you’re going to give me an abbreviated version of the royal coronation ceremony. Am I clear?”
“Abbreviated?” asks Mr. Big Hat. “There’s no such procedure, my prince.”
“Now there is. Come on, we don’t have long.”
“I can’t abide by--”
Roark fires his gun, blasting out a section of stained glass a few feet behind the lead priest. The men flinch, covering their heads.
“You said no one would be hurt,” snaps one of the priests.
“And I said one of you is going to marry us.”
“I’ll do it,” says the tallest of the three with the smallest hat.
“Thomas,” snaps the lead priest. “Prince Titus promised us--”
Roark aims his gun at the man’s head. “Promised you what? Money? Promotions? Guess what? Prince Titus is bloody and tied up right now, whimpering for his mother. And once one of you fucking priests marries us, he’s going to be rotting in the dungeons, where I think he’ll have a hard time delivering on whatever he promised you.”
The tall man steps forward, opening the book on the altar.
“Good. You two are our witnesses. Do a good job and I won’t have your heads off when I become king.”
They nod sheepishly now.
The tall priest, Thomas, motions for us to stand on either side of the altar, facing each other.
“Abbreviated ceremony as well?” he asks Roark.
“Very,” says Roark. “We’ll have a do-over once we’ve planned a proper wedding.”
“Very well,” says Thomas. “You may kiss the bride.”
Roark quirks an eyebrow. “That counts?”
He nods. “The marriage pact is sealed with the kiss. The rest is just a formality.”
I stand on my tippy toes and Roark leans down so I can kiss him. I close my eyes, forgetting where we are and why we’re here for a moment, long enough to let it sink in. Roark Burkewood is my husband now. My king. And I’m his queen, at least I will be when they do the coronation ceremony. I have to admit, I would feel a twinge of sadness right now if I didn’t know the real wedding was still coming. A silly part of me wants to be the bride everyone envies, just for an evening, to wear the big puffy dress and the shoes, to have someone carry my veil and to have my moment--to finally have my moment when everything aligns and I couldn’t be happier. Except it’s not just going to be my moment. It’s going to be ours, and that makes it all the sweeter.
The doors to the cathedral burst open, revealing a squadron of at least fifty armed guards.
“In the name of Prince Titus, stand down!” shouts the captain at the front of the group.
“Coronation,” hisses Roark. “Now. Very abbreviated.”
Thomas reaches inside the altar, bringing out a golden scepter and two crowns--one gold and thick while the other is a ring of delicate silver swirls lined with glistening diamonds. He places the scepter on Roark’s shoulder, eyes darting to the group of men approaching with guns.
“The church recognizes this holy union of king and queen. I crown thee King Roark Burkewood,” he says, placing the crown on Roark’s head with trembling hands. “And Queen Elizabeth Burkewood,” he says, placing the surprisingly heavy crown on my own head.
Roark turns toward the men, who are so close now I can see the stains on their clothing. “Stop!” he shouts, voice booming through the building. “In the name of your king, stand down!”
The men hesitate, and it’s enough. Heads turn and the men talk in low tones, arguing amongst themselves until their captain shouts for silence, raising his arms high. “Quiet!” he turns to the priests. “Tell me, priests. Is this true? Is he our king?”
Thomas nods, then he glares at the other two priests until they nod as well. “It’s true. Yes.”
The guard captain watches us through narrowed eyes, turning once more to his men. I hold my breath, knowing with a word, this man could still end us. They could open fire and blast us all from existence, claiming the ritual was never completed.
