CRIMSON IVY

Chapter 3: The Midnight Vow

​The chapel at the edge of the Moretti estate didn’t smell of incense or peace; it smelled of old stone and damp earth. Sloane stood at the heavy oak doors, her reflection in the polished marble unrecognizable. The dress they had forced her into was a sheath of midnight-black lace, beautiful and suffocating, clinging to her skin like a second shadow. There were no bridesmaids, no flowers, and certainly no joy. Just two rows of men in dark suits—Dante’s "family"—whose eyes were as cold as the moonlight filtering through the stained glass.

​Dante stood at the altar, waiting. He had traded his leather jacket for a charcoal suit that made him look older, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous. When Sloane reached him, his hand shot out, gripping hers with a heat that felt like a brand. His fingers were rough, his knuckles still faint with the bruises from his latest "disagreement."

​"You look like you're ready for a war, Sloane," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the priest’s low drone.

​"I am," she hissed back, her eyes fixed on the crucifix behind him. "Because that’s what this is. You haven't won a wife, Dante. You’ve just let a spy into your house."

​Dante’s grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who held the power. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "A spy only works if she doesn't get caught. And I’ve already caught you. Now, say the words so we can get to the part where you try to kill me in my sleep."

​The vows were a blur of hollow promises. Every "I do" felt like a nail in the coffin of her former life. When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Dante didn't wait for permission. He pulled her flush against his chest, his hand tangling in her hair as he kissed her with a possessive, hot-blooded hunger that tasted of iron and salt. It wasn't a romantic gesture; it was a claim.