VOWS WITH TEETH
1606 Words
CHAPTER 3: VOWS WITH TEETH
The cathedral bells rang like a death knell.
Twelve slow chimes for the hour. One for each cage of silver stitched into my spine.
My gown glittered under the high arch of the Ashbourne Cathedral, a masterpiece of ivory silk and embroidered thorns. A duchess’s dress. A conqueror’s chain.
The lace at my throat was tight enough to suffocate. Pearls curled around my wrists like shackles disguised as elegance. The bodice was fitted so tightly I could barely breathe—but I didn’t dare faint.
He would like that too much.
I stood at the altar, facing him.
Damian Carter, Duke of Ashbourne. My husband-to-be. My captor was dressed in velvet and gold.
He looked at me as if the world had aligned in his favor, a soft smirk curling the edges of his mouth. To anyone watching, he was radiant. Regal. Devoted.
Only I knew the truth.
His hand extended toward mine like a gentleman's invitation, but his grip tightened the moment our skin touched, just enough to remind me: you are not free.
The crowd watched from polished pews, nobles and lords with jeweled masks of civility, blissfully unaware of the war blooming between our joined hands.
Or maybe they did know. Maybe that was the performance.
Let them see a girl conquered by love.
Let them envy the gilded collar around her throat.
Let them believe she walked willingly into his fire.
The High Priest began the ceremony, his voice echoing through the marble and stained-glass. I barely heard the words—just the rhythm. The ritual. The ticking countdown to the moment when I would no longer belong to myself.
I braced for the vow.
But Damian, ever the strategist, beat them to it.
He stepped forward before the priest could speak, interrupting tradition.
“My bride,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “...is no ordinary woman. She is the flame I walked through and the dagger that stayed in my hand.”
A ripple passed through the audience—surprise, curiosity, delight. He was making this personal. Intimate. Real.
But I knew better. It was a trap.
He turned to me, his voice gentler now, but sharpened at the edges.
“I offer you more than a title, Eloise. I offer you my world. My kingdom. My name. You may think I took your freedom, but I swear this before the gods and ghosts: I will make you the most powerful woman in the empire.”
The words curled around me like silk—and barbed wire.
It sounded like a vow.
It was, in fact, a leash.
Because with every poetic declaration, he raised me higher—and made the fall more impossible.
To reject him now would humiliate my family, provoke the court, and damn everyone I loved. He had rewritten the narrative: I was no longer the unwilling bride. I was the chosen one. The queen he elevated.
And if I ran now, I wouldn’t just be running from him.
I’d be running from everything he just made mine—and the entire world would hate me for it.
“Do you accept?” the priest asked.
I hesitated.
The air pulsed with silence.
My lips parted—dry, cracked, useless.
And then I smiled.
A slow, dangerous, duchess smile.
“I do,” I said.
He didn’t rush it.
Damian stepped close and cupped my jaw like I was something precious. His thumb dragged softly against my cheek, and I hated how steady my heart remained. How still I stood, while everyone watched the monster kiss the girl he claimed to love.
His mouth brushed mine.
Tender. Almost reverent.
But just as the crowd erupted in polite applause, he whispered against my lips, low and meant only for me:
“Good girl.”
My spine stiffened.
He pulled away with a look of practiced adoration—and I returned it, perfectly. A duchess mask molded onto my face like a porcelain.
We turned toward the crowd as husband and wife. They cheered.
He held my hand in his, and though it looked like a promise…
No. It was a possession.
The ride back to Ashbourne Manor was quiet. Outside, the city celebrated. Fireworks bloomed in the sky like burning flowers. Music spilled from the streets, and nobles toasted to our happiness with wine older than kingdoms.
Inside, the thick tension was enveloped in silence, not until Damian broke it.
“You looked beautiful,” Damian said, still staring straight ahead. “Almost made me forget how much you hate me.”
“Almost,” I said, my voice like glass.
“I meant every word,” he continued. “You will be powerful, Eloise. Worshiped. Feared. They’ll kneel for you just as they do for me.”
“But never equal,” I replied.
His head tilted. “You’d rather run through the woods and die in obscurity?”
“I’d rather be free.”
Damian turned to me then, and for the first time, I saw something real—beneath the control, beneath the mask. A flicker of regret? Or was it pity?
He leaned in close.
“You could burn this world to the ground,” he said softly. “I just want to be the man standing beside you when you do.”
I opened my mouth to retort back only to be stopped when the carriage stopped on its tracks as well.
"We're here." He chuckled at my expression.
I was fuming.
Ashbourne Manor was drenched in candlelight.
Hundreds of flames flickered along the walls—amber, gold, red—casting the halls in a soft, infernal glow. The scent of roses, smoke, and something darker lingered in the air as if the house itself was holding its breath.
I stood in the doorway of the bedchamber.
No longer a girl.
No longer free.
My gown had been changed. Ivory silk replaced by something thinner, softer, translucent. It clung to my skin like a second breath. My hair was unpinned, cascading down my back in dark waves like spilled ink.
I felt exposed.
Not by the dress, but by what was to come.
Because this wasn’t just a wedding night. It was war.
And Damian knew it.
He sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, his coat discarded, shirt open at the throat. He held a glass of dark wine, legs stretched out with the confidence of a king expecting tribute.
He didn’t rise when I entered.
He didn’t have to.
That was the game.
He made me come to him.
"Drink?" he asked, lifting the second glass from the table beside him.
“No,” I said, stepping further in.
“Afraid I’ll drug it?”
“No,” I lied. “I just don’t want anything from you.”
His mouth twitched.
"That won’t last,” he said. “You’ll want things from me eventually. Crave them. Power. Safety. The way it feels to win."
"Win?" I echoed. "You think this is a game?"
"I know it is." He rose slowly, setting the glass down, and stepped toward me. "You wore the crown, darling. Smiled for the nobles. Kissed me before the gods. And now here you are, dressed like a dream, ready to sharpen your teeth behind the veil of obedience."
He was close now. Too close.
My breath hitched, but I didn’t step back. I wouldn't give him that.
"You’re right," I whispered. "This is a game. But you should know something, Damian.”
I met his gaze, unwavering.
“I play to win.”
He stared at me for a heartbeat too long.
Then he laughed.
Not mockingly. Not cruelly.
But like something in him had finally cracked open.
He cupped my cheek, gently and slowly, and leaned in until our lips almost brushed.
“You were the greatest mistake I ever made,” he said. “And the most beautiful one.”
His hand slid down my back, fingers tracing the line of my spine. I felt the heat of him even through the silk. His lips brushed my ear.
“I could destroy you tonight,” he murmured. “Body, mind, soul.”
My hand found his chest—steady, warm, unflinching. “Then do it.”
I felt him still.
Then, slowly, he drew back.
“No,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Confused, I searched for his expression. “Why?”
His eyes were molten ice. “Because you want it too much. And I never give my enemies what they want.”
That made my blood run cold—and hotter than it should have.
He stepped away from me, circling, like a wolf studying the edge of a trap he may or may not want to spring.
"You think this room is where I’ll break you," he said, his voice low and calm. "But it won’t be tonight. It won’t be a single moment, a kiss, or a night of ruin. No."
He turned toward me, gaze burning.
“It’ll be slow. Every time someone bows to you, you’ll wonder if it’s because of who you are or who I made you. Every time you speak in court, you’ll wonder if your words are yours or mine. I won’t need to chain you, Eloise.”
He stepped back into the shadows and whispered:
“You’ll build the cage yourself.”
I stood frozen.
Barefoot. Breathless.
Crowned in silence.
And yet I smiled.
Because he had no idea how much I was willing to bleed to see him fall.
- Writer
