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Stretching out from his upper back, extending to the sides, a pair of gossamer wings were magically translucent, all the colors of the rainbow shifting along the pattern of feathers—and up over his head… a circlet of gold hovered and winked. Indeed, the calling cards of his status were both muted, but very present, and as Rahvyn stumbled in her awe upon the stairs, her cousin caught her.
Lassiter, the fallen angel, with his halo and his wings, was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and now that the illumination within him had somehow returned, she could not escape the feeling that all was right in the world.
Verily, this was a night for miracles—especially as he stared up at her, his eyes rapt on her own as if he could not believe what he was seeing, either.
In fact, his mouth actually fell open… and indeed, halfway through her descent, he brushed at his eyes.
What a relief, that the Queen would not have to turn into a rabbit of Easter.
Down at the bottom, Sahvage stopped, and there was a moment of pause. Trying to catch her breath, she had to look away from her intended, and oh, what a wonderful assembly. The males and females of the house, as well as the young of all ages, and the doggen, had formed a semicircle around the foyer’s fringes, the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom upon the floor like a hearth they had gathered about for warmth.
They were all smiling, the goodwill like the candlelight, bathing her and her angel, in peace and love.
“Who giveth this female unto this male?” the King demanded in a loud, booming voice.
“I do,” her cousin, and sole surviving member of her bloodline, answered in an equally thunderous voice.
“Join her then with her intended mate that I shall conduct this ceremony in the right and proper way, that their union shall be recognized according to my authority and station.”
Sahvage walked her around the table and there was a gloss of tears in his eyes as he put her hand in Lassiter’s—and the instant she looked up into the face of her intended, she was transported to another place, everything disappearing… until there was only him.
This is home, she thought. He is my home.
The rest of what Wrath asked, and what she and Lassiter answered, was lost to her, in large part because of the majesty of the proceedings—and also because she kept glancing at the table and the pitcher of water and basin of salt that were upon it.
She marveled about what Fate provided. She truly did.
* * *
Rahvyn was the most resplendent thing Lassiter had ever seen, and as he answered the great Blind King’s prompts and stared into his shellan’s silver eyes, he was blown off the earth and sent into the stratosphere: Considering it was his mating ceremony, you’d think he’d pay more attention to the ins and outs of what was being said, but really… all he could focus on was Rahvyn and how he was the luckiest male on the planet. On any plane of existence.
And then it was time.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood lined up by the table, and as Lassiter removed his robe, revealing his bare torso draped in all of the gold that had been lent to him, he was aware that both Beth and Mae had stepped in beside Rahvyn and put their arms around his female’s waist.
They hadn’t talked about this beforehand, and the tense expression on Rahvyn’s face made him wonder if she didn’t want him to complete this part of the ceremony.
But then she nodded and he nodded back.
Wrath unsheathed a black dagger. “Kneel,” he commanded.
After Lassiter retracted his wings and complied at the feet of the King, Wrath said, loudly and clearly, “What is the name of your shellan?”
“Rahvyn,” he answered with equal strength. “She is known by the name, Rahvyn.”
He looked across at his mate as Wrath, guided by Tohr, made the first of the carvings, the symbol for the letter R cut into the skin on his upper left shoulder, his silver blood flowing, warm and vital, down the side of his ribs. To present himself as worthy, he bore the pain without flinching, without weakness. For his shellan, he would be strong in this and all things.
Sahvage, as Rahvyn’s next of kin and eldest male relative, was next, accepting the dagger from the King, and then moving over to Lassiter’s back.
“What is the name of your shellan,” the brother demanded.
“She is Rahvyn, and she is my one and only love.”
And so it went, each symbol carved into him by another member of the Brotherhood, the stinging agony something he continued to bear without submission. Beth and Mae stayed by Rahvyn throughout the cutting, and then, though his skin would not scar unless he willed it such—and he did—the salt water was brought to him. Bracing himself, he locked his molars as Wrath spoke.
