Page 24 of Fallen Court

Worst wedding ever.

Marin nodded to Oberon. “The handfasting.”

Alarm bleated inside me, but I found myself transfixed, unable to move, as Oberon produced a length of silk rope. I didn’t have to ask what it was for. Only days ago, I’d stood in another room—in another life—as Ciara was handfasted to Bain. Unfortunately, I doubted mine would end as fortuitously as hers. But I didn’t protest as Oberon laced it around my wrist. My hand trembled in his as he wrapped the silk around his, binding us together in a symbolic gesture that felt all too real. A knot formed at the base of my throat, the finality of the act striking me with a cold dread.

I waited for the tattoo to appear—proof of our marriage bond.

But it never came.

Oberon’s eyes narrowed. His hand clenched around mine, nails digging into my flesh.

“Where is it?” he growled, scanning my arm for the missing mark.

“You must be patient,” Ilsa advised, the authority in her voice daring him to challenge her. “This is a witch wedding, not a fae one. The mark shall appear once the goddess blesses the union tonight.” She pointed out the window to where a sliver of crescent moon inched ever closer to its zenith. “It is nearly midnight. We must begin.”

He dragged me toward the door, the rope still wrapped around my wrist, but Ilsa held up a hand.

“The rituals of the Belle Mère are for women alone,” she said firmly. He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. “If we do not begin soon, we will have to start over from the beginning.”

I wasn’t sure what was worse: the reality that I’d be married to Oberon according to fae and witch customs tonight, or the thought of being anointed and chanted over for one more minute.

Reluctantly, he released me. The silk rope slipped to the floor, but the sense of confinement lingered. He turned to Titania. “Watch her.”

Not a request. A command.

Titania nodded, though her lips curled in a mischievous smile that matched her rebellious dress. Oberon didn’t follow as they ushered me out of the room and through the halls, past guards, their eyes following us in silent curiosity.

Night embraced us as we stepped outside, the cool air soothing as my heart began to race.

Moonlight spilled over the flower beds and mixed with the flickering candles lining our path, casting elongated shadows that danced with the wind. The hedge maze loomed before us, its paths twisting and turning. The powdery softness of night-blooming flowers choked the air, my already shallow breaths catching on the knot forming in my throat.

I skimmed the dark silhouettes of the estate’s boundary, remembering the desolate wasteland Oberon had shown me. This was my last chance to make a run for it, to escape into the night. But what then? The stark reality of the world beyond—cloaked in an eternal darkness that promised no refuge—dashed the fleeting temptation. There was nowhere to run. I had no way to return to my world. I was trapped in Oberon’s web, and soon he would devour me.

“We must begin.” Ilsa’s voice cut through my racing thoughts, firm but not unkind. She placed a guiding hand on my shoulder, a spark of magic tingling across my skin as she directed me into a circle of salt—a solitary island under the vast expanse of the night sky. Candles glowed on the makeshift altar before me, their flames flickering in the breeze without extinguishing. Ilsa crossed to it and lifted a book from the cradle at its center. Marin and Titania took their places in their own circles, their faces illuminated by candlelight. The younger witch wore a fixed expression of reverie. Titania, however, looked torn between curiosity and boredom, like a cat considering a bit of string.

“Belle Mère, goddess of many faces, accept this offering of three,” Ilsa cried out. “Bless our cause.”

If there was a cause, it was a lost one. I doubted a goddess was listening, and if she was, I really doubted she cared about what I wanted. But I found my eyes turning up, like a child searching for a star to wish upon.

I didn’t want to marry Oberon.

I didn’t want to give him the ring.

I couldn’t trust anything he said, especially about the safety of my family and friends. Only a bargain could hold him to his word.

That’s why I was here, standing in a salt circle under the moonlight in a not-quite-wedding dress.

Because I was desperate.

I’d been here before. Lesson not learned.

Ilsa began to chant, her ancient words vibrating in the air. My skin prickled as energy hummed, building and expanding as she called forth magic. She picked up a silver goblet from the altar and dipped the knife, coated in our blood, into the cup, and plumes of smoke rose from it and vanished into the night. Ilsa passed the cup from Marin to Titania. They both drank without comment, their eyes glazing slightly, and a sense of inevitability settled like lead in my chest.

But when it was my turn, I hesitated, my hand trembling as she held it out to me.

“You must drink,” Ilsa hissed. “Trust the goddess.”

If she only knew trust was not one of my life skills.