MARRIED TO THE DEVIL'S SON

Chapter 3: married without consent

The Internal Wedding Takes Place — Cold, Terrifying, and Final

The door closes. Not loudly. Not with drama. Just closed, like it was always meant to be that way, and I was naïve for expecting anything else. There is no one here with me. No guests. No witnesses. No one to object. Only this space inside my head pretending to be a room. Stone walls, maybe. Or something trying too hard to feel solid. Cold either way. A cold that doesn’t stay on the surface, but sinks in, slow and deliberate.

This is where it happens. Not a church. Not anything recognizable. An internal wedding. Mine. Without my knowledge. I stand in the center, not remembering how I arrived. Beneath my feet, the floor is carved with symbols I do not know. They glow faintly, breathing in rhythm with my heartbeat. Each thrum pulses back at me, alive, attentive, recording me.

I try to move. My body responds, but the room does not. The air leans against my shoulders—not heavy enough to injure, but enough to keep me exactly where I am. Stillness is demanded here. A low hum fills the air. Constant. Calm. Ancient. Neither hastening nor lingering, yet patient in a way that twists my stomach.

Then the voice begins. Not from a mouth. It is everywhere—walls, floor, the quiet space behind my thoughts where words form before I can stop them.

“Do you accept—”

“No,” I say immediately, too fast, too sharp. The word disappears before it can land.

The voice does not react.

“—this union as it is given?”

My chest tightens. My throat locks. It feels like an invisible finger rests there—not squeezing, but reminding me who decides when I speak. The cold deepens, my breath thins.

Then I understand. The answer does not matter. I am not here to consent. I am here to be completed.

Something shifts before me. A shadow, at first—but too solid, too close. It does not step forward; it simply exists nearer than it should. Distance means nothing. This is who I am being married to. Faceless, featureless, smooth where a face should be—unfinished, wrong. Cold seeps from it, threading into my arms, my chest, my thoughts.

I wait for anger. For panic loud enough to shatter the room. Instead, a heavy understanding settles in—the kind that comes when you realize something was decided long before you arrived.

Between us, a ring forms. Not gently. It rises from the air, from the hum, a thin band of dull metal etched with the symbols beneath my feet. They crawl along the surface, rearranging themselves as if thinking. I know, without being told, I will never take it off.

The figure lifts its hand. Fingers too long, bending where they shouldn’t. The room reacts: walls inch closer, the hum deepens, impatient. I pull back without thinking. The floor speaks first. Pain flashes up through my legs—not sharp, but enough to stop me. Knees buckle. I drop. Guided. Resistance expected, accounted for.

The voice returns, quieter now, almost gentle.

“Union is not about desire,” it says. “It is about permanence.”

The ring slides onto my finger. Cold threads through me, absolute. Not stopping at skin, it winds through veins, tightening around my heart. My breath fogs and drifts away, no longer mine.

Still, something inside me fights. Flare bright and frantic, throwing itself against my chest, trying to win. For one moment, the hum wavers. The figure tilts its head, curious. Then the ring tightens—not physically, but internally. Memories blur, thoughts echo distorted. Parts of me reshape into something I never wanted.

“Vows are not spoken here,” the voice says calmly. “They are absorbed.”

Images flood me: futures I do not recognize, doors closing, paths sealing shut. I see myself beside the figure, over and over, until the line between us fades. Fear spikes, then flattens, smoothed down, silenced. I try to scream. Only breath comes.

The figure steps closer. Where a face should be, a reflection forms—mine. Pale. Still. Already changing. The union is complete.

No celebration. No warmth. Only pressure lifting, the room satisfied. Walls retreat, symbols dim, the hum settles into a steady, permanent background. I am alone again. The cold remains.

I look at my hand. The ring seems ordinary now—dull, harmless. Others would not notice. But I feel it in every thought, every breath, every attempt to remember who I was before this place existed. Something inside me is closed, locked, final.

A door opens behind me. I do not remember it being there. I walk through because there is nothing else to do. As it shuts, the voice offers one last sentence—not cruel, not kind, just certain.

“A marriage without consent is still a marriage. Especially when it happens within.”

The door closes. This time, its sound follows.