Married to my Emeny’s son

The Thorns of the Vow The cathedral loomed, its white marble a stark contrast to the emptiness that echoed within. For the five hundred guests lined up in the pews, this was the wedding of a lifetime—two powerful families uniting. But for Elena, it felt more like a funeral. She hovered at the heavy oak doors, the weight of her silk gown a burden on her shoulders. Her aunt's grip tightened on her elbow, fingers digging in like a vice. "Smile, Elena," her aunt hissed, her voice barely cutting through the swell of organ music. "You look like you’re headed for the gallows. Do you even know what it took to get you here?" I know all too well, Elena thought. A life for a life. She glanced down at the bouquet of white roses she clutched, the leaves stripped away, leaving the thorns intact. As she squeezed the stems, a sharp point pricked her thumb—a sharp reminder that she wasn’t here for a joyful celebration; she was a soldier ready to face the enemy. Then, the doors swung open. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows, spilling crimson and deep violet hues across the aisle. With her heart racing, Elena took her first step, the fervor of her heartbeat clashing with the slow, somber pace of the music. And then she caught sight of him. Adrian Vale stood at the altar, framed by the golden glow of the cross. He appeared taller than in the photographs she’d memorized for months, radiating an unsettling calm as if nothing in the world could reach him. As she drew closer, the details sharpened: the chiseled line of his jaw, the way his black suit hugged him perfectly. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs—dark, observant, and focused solely on her. Once at the altar, she felt her legs tremble, and her aunt passed her over to Adrian. For a moment, they existed in silence, suspended in time. He leaned in, his voice a low, smooth murmur only she could catch. "You’re three minutes late, Elena." She didn’t falter. "I was reconsidering." A faint smile broke across his lips—barely there, yet potent. "Too late for that. The doors are locked." Taking her hand, he guided her up the last steps. His skin was warm—unexpectedly so. Contrary to the icy tales of the Vales, the heat from his palm sent a jolt through her arm, catching her off guard. The priest began speaking, the Latin phrases echoing in the high ceilings, but Elena tuned him out. All she could focus on was the blood dripping from her thorn prick and the way Adrian’s thumb moved rhythmically over her knuckles. He noticed her trembling. Leaning closer, his breath warmed her ear. "Don’t be afraid, Elena. I don’t bite... unless provoked." Elena turned to face him, defiance flaring in her gaze. "Then you should tread cautiously, Adrian. I’m easily provoked." The priest signaled for the rings. The point of no return had arrived. His voice droned on, a rhythmic murmur blending into the frantic beat of her heart. She looked down at the velvet cushion the altar boy held—it carried two rings, two golden circles that felt like a trap she’d set for herself. Adrian moved first, his motions smooth and confident, while she stood paralyzed with fear. He took her left hand, his fingers sliding beneath her own—he wasn’t just holding her hand; he was anchoring her. "I, Adrian Vale," he began, his voice resonating, vibrating through the floor beneath them, "take you, Elena, to be my wedded wife." Elena was forced to meet his gaze, and the intensity there was almost unbearable—it was as if he was peeling away her layers, searching for her innermost secrets. "To have and to hold from this day forward," he continued, his thumb tracing a deliberate line over her knuckles, right over where the rose thorn's blood had stained. "For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer..." He paused, a fleeting flicker of something crossing his eyes—was it amusement or a warning? "...in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part." As he slipped the heavy gold band onto her finger, an icy chill washed over her. Until death do us part. His tone made it sound less like a vow and more like a sentence. The ring felt like a shackle disguised as a piece of jewelry. Now, it was her turn. The silence stretched, feeling too long. Her aunt, sitting front row, cleared her throat sharply. Taking a deep breath, Elena found her voice, softer than she wanted but still sharp. "I, Elena," she whispered, her eyes glued to the knot of his silk tie, unable to face him, "take you, Adrian Vale, to be my wedded husband." She reached for the second ring, her fingers brushing against his as she took it. The touch felt electric. She steadied herself, reminding herself of her purpose: I’m doing this for my mother. Every word is a lie. Every promise is a weapon. "To have and to hold... for better, for worse..." she continued, her voice growing stronger. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a fierce clarity. "In sickness and in health... until death do us part." As she pushed the ring onto his finger, it slid on perfectly. "I pronounce you husband and wife," the priest declared, making the sign of the cross. "You may kiss the bride." In that moment, the world shrank until only the space between them existed. Adrian didn’t hold back. He stepped closer, cupping her jaw with a warm, firm hand. He leaned down, his shadow casting over her. "Remember this moment, Elena," he whispered against her lips, his breath heavy with mint and something darker. "From now on, you belong to the Vales. And we never let go of what is ours." Before she could respond, his lips captured hers. It wasn't the bland, formal kiss everyone expected. It was a claim—deep, yearning, and dangerously magnetic. For a split second, Elena forgot to despise him. Her eyes fluttered shut, hands that had been clenched at her sides instinctively moving to clutch at his jacket lapels. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were darker, a victorious glint that sent a chill down her spine. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Vale," he murmured. The organ music erupted in a joyful crescendo, and the guests rose, cheering and clapping, blissfully ignorant of the war declared at the altar.