Crimson Thirties

Chapter 3

The cathedral doors loomed like the jaws of judgment.

Isolde stood in the shadowed alcove just outside the grand entrance, Cassian’s blood-streaked hand still clasped in hers. The bells had fallen silent. Inside, hundreds of Lycan nobles, vampire envoys, and neutral dignitaries waited beneath crystal chandeliers and banners of silver and crimson. They waited for a bride.

Two brides.

Vivienne had already entered through the main doors minutes earlier head high, gown pristine again thanks to vampire glamour, the wound on her throat hidden beneath a choker of black diamonds. She had taken her place in the front pew as the “dutiful daughter of Duke Draven,” smiling serenely at the gasps and whispers her miraculous return provoked.

Now it was Isolde’s turn.

Cassian released her hand only to cup her face, thumbs brushing away the last traces of blood from her lips. His eyes had not returned to amber; they burned pure gold, the beast riding close to the surface after the fight below.

“You walk in there as my queen,” he said, voice rough. “No one will dare question it. Not with my mark on you.”

Mark.

The word sent heat spiraling through her core. Lycans marked their mates with a bite permanent, claiming, binding. In her previous life, Cassian had never marked her. He’d waited until the thirtieth night, when the bite would have been part of the sacrificial rite.

This time, everything was different.

“I need more than a mark,” she said, stepping closer until her body pressed against his. The torn lace of her gown rasped against his formal coat. “I need them to smell you on me. Inside me. So deeply no glamour or lie can hide it.”

His growl vibrated through her bones. “Here?”

“Here. Now.” She glanced toward the side door that led to the royal vestry a private chamber reserved for the groom’s final preparations. Empty now. “Unless you’d rather explain to the entire court why your bride smells like fear instead of her king.”

Cassian didn’t argue.

He lifted her effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and carried her through the side door as if she weighed nothing. The vestry was small but opulent: dark wood paneling, a chaise longue upholstered in deep crimson velvet, a tall mirror framed in gold, and a single stained-glass window depicting the moon goddess in all her savage glory.

He kicked the door shut behind them. The lock clicked like a heartbeat.

Isolde’s feet touched the floor, but Cassian didn’t release her. His mouth crashed down on hers hungry, punishing, desperate. She tasted blood and fury and something deeper: the raw need of a man who had spent years denying himself the one thing he wanted most.

She kissed him back just as fiercely, fangs grazing his lower lip until copper bloomed between them. He groaned into her mouth, hands already tearing at the delicate laces of her gown. Silk ripped like screams. The bodice fell away, baring her to the waist.

Cool air kissed her skin, but his palms were fire cupping her breasts, thumbs circling peaked n*****s until she arched against him with a gasp. He bent his head, tongue tracing the upper curve of one breast before closing his mouth over the tight bud. He sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to send lightning straight to her core.

Isolde’s fingers speared into his golden hair, holding him there as he lavished attention on one breast, then the other licking, sucking, biting until she was trembling. Her hips rocked against his thigh, seeking friction through layers of fabric.

“More,” she demanded, voice ragged.

Cassian straightened, eyes blazing. With one swift motion he spun her to face the mirror, pressing her forward until her palms met cool glass. Behind her, she watched him strip off his coat and shirt, revealing a torso carved from years of battle broad shoulders, ridged abdomen, scars that told stories of survival.

His hands slid down her sides, gathering the ruined skirts of her gown and bunching them at her waist. Cool air kissed the backs of her thighs. Then his fingers hot, calloused traced the curve of her ass before dipping between her legs.

She was already soaked.

A low, approving growl rumbled from his chest as he parted her folds, stroking through slick heat with deliberate slowness. One thick finger circled her entrance, teasing, before pushing inside. Isolde’s breath fogged the mirror. He added a second finger, stretching her, curling them to stroke that spot that made her knees buckle.

“Look at yourself,” he commanded, voice dark velvet.

She met her own eyes in the mirror cheeks flushed, lips swollen, fangs fully extended. A creature of hunger and power. His creature.

Cassian’s free hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back gently to expose her throat. His mouth found the frantic pulse there, tongue tracing the vein before teeth scraped warning, promise.

“Tell me you want this,” he said against her skin. “Tell me you choose me.”

“I choose you,” she breathed. “Mark me. f**k me. Make me yours before she can take it away.”

The words snapped his restraint.

His fingers withdrew only long enough to free himself from his trousers. She felt the hot, heavy length of him slide along her cleft teasing, tormenting before the broad head nudged her entrance.

He entered her in one slow, relentless thrust.

Isolde cried out, the sound swallowed by the thick walls. He filled her completely, stretching her with delicious burn. For a moment he held still, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch of him buried deep.

Then he began to move.

Long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive nerve. His hand in her hair tightened, arching her back as he drove into her again and again. The mirror reflected everything: her breasts swaying with each thrust, his powerful body flexing behind her, the raw possession in his golden eyes.

One hand slid around her hip, fingers finding her c**t with devastating accuracy. He circled it in time with his thrusts slow, then faster, then slow again building the pressure until she was sobbing his name.

“Cassian please”

He leaned over her, chest to her back, mouth at her ear. “You’re mine, Isolde. Not hers. Not the prophecy’s. Mine.”

His pace turned brutal hips snapping against her ass, the wet sounds of their joining echoing in the small room. His fingers worked her c**t relentlessly.

The o****m hit her like a storm.

She shattered around him, walls clenching in waves that drew a guttural groan from his throat. Her fangs sank into her own lip to muffle the scream, blood trickling down her chin.

Cassian followed moments later thrusting deep one final time, spilling inside her with a roar that vibrated through her bones. Heat flooded her, marking her from within.

But he wasn’t finished.

Before the aftershocks faded, he pulled out and spun her again, lifting her onto the edge of a nearby table. Papers and ceremonial items scattered to the floor. He stepped between her thighs, pushing them wide, and entered her again in one smooth glide still hard, still hungry.

This time was slower. Deeper.

Face to face, he watched every expression as he rocked into her. One hand cradled the back of her head; the other braced beside her hip. Their breaths mingled, foreheads touching.

Isolde wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him closer. She felt every slide, every throb, the way he stretched her anew with each deliberate thrust.

His mouth found hers again kissing her through the building pleasure, swallowing her moans. When he broke away, it was only to trail open-mouthed kisses down her throat.

The bite came without warning.

Fangs no, Lycan canines sank into the curve where neck met shoulder. Pain flared bright and sharp, then melted into white-hot ecstasy as venom flooded her veins. The bond snapped into place like a lock turning: his pleasure echoing in her blood, her heartbeat syncing with his.

She came again instantly, harder than before, clenching around him as he drank from her in long, pulling swallows. The sensation was indescribable intimate, invasive, perfect.

When he finally withdrew his teeth, he licked the wound closed with deliberate strokes of his tongue. The mark remained: twin punctures already bruising into a permanent claim.

“My queen,” he whispered against her skin.

Isolde’s hands framed his face, pulling him into another kiss. She tasted her own blood on his tongue and felt no fear only power.

But they weren’t done.

She pushed him back gently until he sat on the chaise. Straddling him, she guided him inside her once more slowly, savoring the stretch, the fullness. His hands gripped her hips as she began to ride him, setting a rhythm that was hers alone.

Up and down, grinding in circles, taking him as deeply as possible. His head fell back against the velvet, throat exposed a vulnerability he offered only to her. She leaned forward, fangs grazing his skin without breaking it, teasing the way he had teased her.

Cassian’s hands roamed cupping her breasts, pinching n*****s, sliding down to where they joined to stroke her c**t again. Every touch built the fire higher.

When she felt him swelling inside her, close again, she slowed deliberately torturing them both.

“Beg,” she whispered against his ear.

His laugh was ragged. “Please, my queen. Let me come inside you again. Let me fill you until you carry my heir.”

The words sent her over.

She rode him hard and fast, chasing the peak together. When it crashed over them, it was mutual her walls milking him as he pulsed deep, another flood of heat claiming her from within.

They stayed locked together afterward, breathing harsh, bodies slick with sweat and other things. His arms banded around her, holding her close as if she might vanish.

Outside, the cathedral organ began to play the processional.

Time was up.

Isolde stood on shaky legs, Cassian steadying her as she smoothed what remained of her gown. The tears and bloodstains only added to the wild beauty. The bite on her shoulder throbbed in time with her heartbeat, visible above the neckline for all to see.

Let Vivienne try to challenge that.

Cassian dressed quickly, eyes never leaving her. When he finished, he knelt actually knelt and pressed a kiss to her abdomen, right over where his seed now rested.

“For the prophecy,” he said softly. “And for us.”

Isolde threaded fingers through his hair. “We’ll rewrite it together.”

He rose, offering his arm once more.

This time, she took it without hesitation.

The doors to the cathedral opened.

Hundreds of faces turned.

Gasps rippled through the assembly as they took in the bride gown torn, lips swollen, fresh mating mark blazing on her pale throat, the scent of s*x and blood and Lycan king thick around her.

In the front pew, Vivienne Draven went deathly still.

Her identical face twisted with rage and something that might have been fear.

Isolde met her gaze across the aisle and smiled slow, sharp, triumphant.

The organ swelled.

She walked toward the altar on Cassian’s arm, every step a declaration of war.

The real bride had arrived.

And she was ready to burn the world down to keep her crown.