They dressed me in a simple white gown of floor-length silk.
Long sleeves buttoned neatly at my wrists. A high neckline carefully designed to conceal the bandage covering the cut along my throat.
It was classically modest, almost hauntingly so.
The dress looked old as well, far older than anything modern bridal boutiques would carry. The lace had yellowed faintly with age, the stitching far too intricate and delicate to belong to this century. It felt less like a wedding gown and more like something unearthed from one of their ancestors' wardrobe.
My stomach twisted every tine I looked at it.
They braided half of my hair back loosely, leaving the rest falling over my shoulders in soft waves. Makeup remained minimal only because I refused to let them touch my face for longer than necessary.
Honestly, if I could have walked down the aisle in my old clothes, I would have.
But they held me down, and I was too powerless to fight back. Especially when they threatened hunt him down. They had released him in the forest behind their property. Helpless, injured and vulnerable.
Now, as Garrick guided me down the aisle with my arm looped stiffly through his, I felt less like a bride and more like a prisoner being escorted toward her execution.
The estate chapel was dimly lit with candles instead of proper overhead lights, making the entire room glow in flickering gold and shadow. Portraits of long-dead Cavendish ancestors stared down from the walls while the stained-glass windows darkened even more, beneath the storm gathering outside.
Everything about this felt wrong.
I tightened my grip around the bouquet of baby's breath in my hands, clutching it hard enough that the stems bent beneath my fingers.
Please.
I swallowed hard.
If my plan worked, it should happen anytime now.
By the time we reached the altar, something caught my eye beneath the dim candlelight.
A faint, golden metallic gleam resting just behind the priest as he stood there with a Bible in his hand, waiting to begin the ceremony.
At first, I could not make out what it was. Not until the priest motioned for everyone to take their seats and Garrick turned me fully toward him. He pried the bouquet from my hands and passed it carelessly to someone nearby, as my gaze drifted back toward the altar again.
That was when I saw it.
Marcus's sword, laid across the table behind the priest like some ancient offering placed before a sacrifice.
My stomach dropped violently.
Garrick noticed it immediately.
"Ah," he murmured softly, following my line of sight. "So you recognized it."
My chest tightened. "How did you get ?"
His mouth curved faintly at the edges, though there was no warmth in it.
"As if I would tell you," he said, his voice low. "But we thought it best to keep precautions nearby in case circumstances changed."
The implication settled coldly beneath my skin.
My fingers curled tightly against the silk of my dress.
Garrick leaned slightly closer then, lowering his voice just enough that only I could hear him.
"Do not mistake our agreement for trust, Elena," he said smoothly. "Despite all the intelligence your lover prides himself on, he is still somewhere wandering through our forests as we speak."
A slow smile touched his mouth.
"And we are very good at tracking things on our land."
I stared at him in horror, anger following immediately after.
"You are disgusting," I hissed.
"And yet you loved me anyway," Garrick replied calmly. "Whether the Roman survives wandering through unfamiliar woods in the middle of the night is hardly our responsibility."
My nails dug into my palms.
But Garrick merely smiled like a man trying very hard to convince himself that he still had control over the situation.
Any moment now.
I just had to hold on for a few more.
"Now," he murmured, turning toward the priest, "please continue."
The priest nodded nervously and opened the Bible in his hands.
Around us, the chapel settled into tense silence once more. Candlelight flickering across the old stone walls while distant thunder rolled somewhere outside beyond the stained-glass windows.
I could feel his mother watching us from the front pew, waiting. Expecting victory, with her hands clasped tightly on her thighs.
The priest drew in a breath.
"We are gathered here tonight—"
A loud crash suddenly echoed from somewhere outside the chapel.
Everyone froze.
Shouts followed immediately after, but it wasn't like any normal shouting.
It was screams, violent and panicked.
The chapel doors remained shut, but muffled chaos erupted somewhere beyond it. Boots pounding against floors, shots fired, men yelling over one another, something heavy crashing violently into furniture.
Several people gasped when the doors started to bounce, nearly off its hinges as a body hit the other side with a loud thud.
One of the older Cavendish relatives, seated closest there stood abruptly from his seat.
"What on earth—"
Another scream tore through the hallway outside.
It was closer this time, causing real fear rippling through the room.
The remaining members of the Cavendish family began looking toward one another anxiously while several guards near the chapel entrance immediately reached for weapons beneath their jackets, but I knew it was no use.
Even Garrick stiffened beside me.
But it was his mother who reacted first.
"Sit down," she snapped sharply toward the guests, the authority in her voice cracking through the panic instantly.
Then she turned toward the priest.
"Continue," she ordered coldly.
The poor priest looked visibly shaken now.
"But, m-my lady—"
"Continue," she repeated.
Another crash thundered outside the chapel doors.
This time followed by a man screaming in agony.
"Fuck this," Garrick muttered under his breath, reaching immediately for the sword laid behind the altar.
The moment the chapel doors began rattling violently against the hinges, I moved.
I didn't need to see who was on the other side for me to know.
Adrenaline surged through me as I lunged toward Garrick, trying to stop him before his fingers could close around the weapon.
Everything seemed to happen in horrifying slow motion afterward.
His hand reached toward the worn golden hilt.
I shoved his arm hard.
Then suddenly, I was violently yanked backward.
A sharp cry tore from my throat as my back slammed against the wooden pews. My hand shot out instinctively for something to catch myself on, but found nothing. The back of my head cracked painfully against the edge before I hit the stone floor hard enough for my vision to blur.
Pain exploded through my skull.
For a second, all I could hear was ringing.
The priest did not even attempt to help me.
He simply stared in horror for one frozen moment before abandoning the altar entirely, rushing toward the side exit.
"Father!" Lady Cavendish snapped furiously behind me. "Get back here!"
She surged to her feet, prepared to go after him herself when the chapel doors exploded open.
Two gunshots rang through the room almost simultaneously.
The sound was deafening.
Garrick's mother jerked violently backward.
One bullet struck to her head, while the other buried itself directly into her chest.
For one impossible second, she remained standing.
Then she collapsed onto the chapel floor.
"Mother!" Garrick shouted.
Chaos erupted instantly afterward, as people screamed.
Several guests bolted for the exits while the others threw themselves beneath the pews in panic. Guards reached for their weapons far too late as shouting consumed the chapel entirely.
Breathing hard, I slowly lifted my head from the floor.
A dark-haired stranger stood in the doorway. Tan skin. Dressed entirely in tactical gear with a rifle still raised casually in his hands, amused. Like this entire massacre barely registered to him at all.
His mouth quirked upward slightly when our eyes met.
But then someone appeared behind him.
And suddenly, nothing else in the room mattered anymore.
My gaze locked onto him instantly, drawn there like gravity itself.
Marcus.
Light from the corridor behind the open doors spilled around him, silhouetting the broad shape of his body as he stepped into the chapel, dressed in tactical gear similar to the man before him. Blood still stained parts of his skin beneath his gear, bruises dark against his throat and jaw.
The stranger stepped aside slightly, gun still trained casually on the terrified room as more people entered, allowing Marcus to fully take in the scene before him.
And when his eyes finally found me, lying on the chapel floor—
something terrifying crossed his face.
Movement flickered from the corner of my vision.
Garrick.
He was already holding his sword, his face pale and frantic now as chaos erupted around us. One of the guards shouted something beside him while the dark-haired stranger near the doors raised his rifle again.
Everything happened at once.
"Marcus!" I screamed. "He has your sword!"
The words rippled through the chapel.
But it was too late.
Garrick had drove the blade forward, the sword leaving his hands violently, spinning through the air straight toward Marcus's chest—
And everything went black.