The doors swing open, and a collective gasp rises from the assembly.
It’s not Cinder who walks down the aisle.
It’s another human.
Goldie is a bombshell in a bubblegum-pink leather sheath, her blonde curls tamed into a messy updo. On her arm is her large, bearded beau who has somehow managed to cram his bulk in a suit.
Then comes Red, fierce in a corseted silver gown, her arm linked with her werewolf mate. In a suit, Brexley is a slick lethal force to contend with.
If I weren’t so secure in my own masculine power, I might be threatened by the men in the bridal party, but I have way more appreciation for their Moxy to show up in style. I’ve always had an affinity for a well-dressed man.
Next comes Snow. She’s an ice princess in frosted blue, her silver-white braids woven through with delicate chains. Rap is her escort, mohawk higher than ever, her heavy black eye shadow and scowl ever intact. I’m a little surprised to find the bar owner in soft pinks and purples.
All the women wear spiked dog collars and both Ted and Brexley sport smoky eyeliner and black painted nails.
The mutterings of the crowd grow with discontent. They came for a traditional royal Midnight wedding. Instead, humans and fae make their way down in nontraditional pops of color with goth accents.
“Is this your doing?” I hear from my side.
“Why yes, father. Cinder wanted to make this soiree her own and who am I to deny my bride her bridal party or the wedding of her dreams?”
The ambassadors seem to be the ones enjoying the spectacle, humming and nudging each other in the ribs as if they are witnessing celebrities come down the way.
Which means my father’s hands are tied. The PR stunt is doing its job. And soon Midnight will be known as a beacon of power and strength because we have ties to the Common World.
I try to suppress my chuckle when I catch my mother touching her own neck almost wistfully as if she too wishes she’d been supplied a collar of her own.
I always knew she was a rebel.
Then the crowd hushes and the orchestra takes a back seat to the strings section as they perform “Paint it Black” by The Rolling Stones.
I crane my neck, eager for my first glimpse of my bride, and the breath leaves my lungs in a dizzying rush.
A spiked platform boot steps onto the cerulean carpet.
The gasps of shock and cries of outrage ripple through the room with a vengeance.
Cinder is a vision in red.
Her dress is a deep, blood-red masterpiece adorned with intricate black lace and beading that catches the light and shimmers with a dark allure. The strapless bodice, with its plunging neckline and detailed embroidery, highlights her slender frame and the soft curves of her shoulders, while the voluminous skirt cascades around her in a wave of luxurious fabric.
The gown is lifted at the front, so her footwear remains on display.
My bride's choice to wear red on the day of our wedding is nothing short of scandalous. The entire ensemble is a visual riot, a direct affront to the Midnight Kingdom's decorum. The deep crimson hues flicker and dance with each step she takes, causing whispers of outrage to ripple through the crowd.
Even her lips are a glossy cherry red. The choice is nothing less than a disgrace, and I have never loved her more.
I take the time to shrug off my jacket before turning it inside out. I adjust the high collar, proud to now match her dress.
Though he says nothing, I sense my father’s displeasure ratchet higher.
Cinder is led by the Fairy Godmother who sticks to light blues, her wig a towering confection of ocean-colored curls.
Cinder's bridal party assembles up front, the gentlemen taking their places in a line by me, including Rap. Cinder’s Lost Girls, her chosen family.
They are a force to be reckoned with, these women. Powerful, passionate, loyal to the bone. And they are here for her. For us.
As Cinder glides down the aisle, the rubies at her throat catch the light, scattering sanguine flecks across her collarbones. She is a dark enchantress, and I am aroused in every possible way.
