Naomi plastered a smile on her face, a beautiful, brittle mask that Anaya had perfected. As the music played, she took the first step. The aisle seemed to stretch for miles, a white carpet leading to a destiny she hadn't chosen.
Every pair of eyes in the church was on her, a weight of silent, judging analysis. She kept her chin up, her back straight, her eyes cast away, just as she'd been taught. She was a performance artist walking onto the stage of her own life sentence.
She stopped at the altar, and turned to face the groom, her movements fluid and graceful. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today for the union of..." The priest's voice droned on, a distant hum against the roaring in Naomi's ears.
She was staring at Xavier, and despite the terror swelling in her gut, she couldn't help but admire how handsome he was. It was a detached, almost clinical observation, like appreciating a piece of art that was about to fall on you.
His grey eyes were cold, like ice, but they were captivating. His face was covered with a short, dark stubble that emphasized the hard line of his jaw, making him look ruggedly and dangerously handsome.
His hair was slightly messy, a deliberate, artful disaster that was still somehow so representable. But he stared down at her, his gaze utterly cold and indifferent, as if she were a valuable object he was inspecting, not a woman he was about to marry.
"...if anyone objects please speak now or forever hold your peace," the priest said, his voice echoing in the large space. He looked around the assembled guests.
A wild, desperate urge surged within Naomi, a scream building in her throat. Say something! Do something! But the impulse died as quickly as it was born. The memory of her father's threat—I will personally make sure you never see the light of day ever again—flashed through her mind.
Her eyes darted instinctively to the exits. The men in suits were still there, standing like silent sentinels. She saw it now, the subtle but unmistakable bulge under their jackets, the way their hands rested near the holsters at their hips. They weren't just security; they were wardens. And this was her cage.
The silence stretched, heavy and absolute. No one spoke. No one would ever dare.
The priest gave a slight, satisfied nod and continued, "Then we shall proceed." The moment was gone. The wild, desperate urge was extinguished, replaced by a cold, heavy resignation that settled deep in her bones. The opportunity had passed, if it had even existed at all.
The priest's voice, so formal, filled the large space, each word a hammer blow to Naomi's fragile composure. "Do you, Naomi Daniella Michaelson, take Xavier Alexander Thorne to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"
The vows, words that were meant to be a sacred promise of love and devotion, felt like a list of accusations, a display of the chains that were about to be fastened around her. Love and cherish? The thought was a bitter, silent laugh in her mind. Until death do you part? The phrase had never sounded so literal, so much like a threat.
All eyes were on her. The silence was no longer just deafening; it was a physical presence, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed down on her, stealing the air from her lungs.
She could feel the weight of every gaze, the cold judging of the strangers, the smug satisfaction of her father, and most of all, the chilling, indifferent stare of the man beside her. Xavier hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. He was simply waiting for her compliance, as if it had already been done.
She opened her mouth, but her throat was tight, the words were supposed to be simple, but it felt like trying to move a mountain.
"I... I do," she finally managed to stutter, the words barely a whisper. They weren't a declaration; they were a surrender.
The priest, leaned forward slightly, his expression laced with mild impatience. "Is that a yes?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment at her hesitation.
Naomi, at a complete loss for words, could only nod, "I need verbal confirmation, Ms. Naomi," the priest insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. The formality of her name was a final, cold nail in the coffin.
She forced a smile onto her face, the same brittle, beautiful mask Anaya had taught her. It felt like her cheeks might crack under the strain. She drew in a shaky breath and made one last attempt.
"Yes."
The word was small, thin, and barely audible, but it was enough. It hung in the air for a moment, a single, damning sound that sealed her fate forever.
The priest turned his attention to the groom, his voice echoing the same sacred words that had just sealed Naomi's fate. "And do you, Xavier Alexander Thorne, take Naomi Daniella Michaelson to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"
As the priest spoke, a slow, predatory smile began to grow across Xavier's face. It wasn't a smile of joy or love; it was a smile of triumph, of absolute victory. It stretched his lips, revealing perfect white teeth, but it never reached his cold, grey eyes. They remained fixed on Naomi, dark and intense, savouring the sight of her standing there, a beautiful, terrified prize he had won.
When the priest fell silent, and Xavier spoke, his voice a low, confident hum that vibrated with dark amusement. "I most certainly do."
The words were a declaration of ownership, and they hung in the air with terrifying finality. Seemingly pleased with this enthusiastic affirmation, the priest went on, his voice booming with false approval. "With the power vested in me by our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, I now pronounce you Mr and Mrs Thorne, husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."
The title, Mrs Thorne, hit Naomi like a physical blow. She was no longer Naomi Michaelson. She was his.
Xavier turned to her, his movements fluid and deliberate. The predatory glint in his eyes was no longer just a glint; it was a dark fire, a possessive hunger that caused a violent, uncontrollable shiver to run down Naomi's back, a tremor of pure primal fear.
He stepped closer, his large frame casting a shadow over her, blocking out the light from the stained-glass windows. He raised a hand, his fingers cool as they gently, yet firmly, tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. The world narrowed to the cold, grey depths of his eyes and the terrifying promise of what was to come.
He moved with a swiftness that stole her breath. An arm, strong and unyielding like a band of steel, wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The force of it caused her to gasp, a sharp, audible intake of air as her body slammed against the his chest. Instinctively, she braced her hands against him, a useless attempt to create some space, to push back against the overwhelming power of his presence.
He leaned in, and Naomi, who's heart was hammering against her ribs, squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable public kiss. She expected the press of his lips, the performance for the crowd. But he ignored her lips entirely, his head dipping lower. She felt the warmth of his breath against her ear, a sensation so intimate and unexpected it made her flinch.
"Hear that, wife?" he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that was for her alone. "Jesus is watching, so you better make it damn good."
The words were a venomous poison dripped into her ear in the middle of a holy sanctuary. Naomi gasped, her eyes shooting open wide with a fresh wave of shock and horror. Wife. The word felt like a weapon in his mouth.
Before she could process the threat, before she could even draw another breath, he captured her lips. It was not a kiss; it was an invasion. It was dominating and demanding, a brutal claiming of her mouth. There was no tenderness, no semblance of affection.
He kissed her like he hated her, like he was punishing her for some unknown reason, like he wanted to hurt her, to erase the very essence of who she was. His kiss was hard, the pressure bruising, and it stole the air from her lungs, leaving her dizzy and weak.
A sharp, stinging sensation pricked the back of Naomi's eyes, the familiar, hot threat of tears. But she wouldn't let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him, not in front of this entire congregation.
She blinked, a rapid, fluttering motion, forcing the moisture back, holding on to the last fragile thing she possessed: her confidence. It was a weak shield, barely enough to deflect a single blow, but it was all she had, and she would not let it shatter in public.
When he finally pulled back, it was with a deliberate slowness that was its own form of torture. The air rushed back into her lungs, but it felt thin and useless. He was smirking. It was a small, cruel twist of his lips, a look of victorious possession that said he knew exactly what he had just done. He had claimed her, humiliated her, and enjoyed every second of it, all under the approving gaze of God and his congregation.
And Naomi? She was still trapped in the violent aftershock of the kiss. Her mind was a chaotic whirl, reeling from the venomous whisper and the brutal assault on her lips. She was gasping for air, her lungs burning, each ragged inhale a desperate struggle.
Her lips felt swollen and bruised, a throbbing, painful reminder of his possession. She could still feel the ghost pressure of his mouth, the taste of his dominance. She stood there, frozen and dazed, a beautiful, broken doll whose last ties to freedom had just been cut.
The reception that followed was a blur of forced smiles and muffled noise, a surreal nightmare that dragged on for hours, or at least it felt that way to Naomi. They were seated on white thrones, fancy, elaborate chairs placed on a slightly raised platform at the head of the grand ballroom.
It was a position of honour, meant to display them as the new king and queen of this dark dynasty. But for Naomi, it felt like a stage, a cage on display for a room full of predators. Every clinking glass, every burst of fake laughter, every murmur of conversation was a stone thrown at the fragile walls of her composure.
Different men and women, she didn't know, approached their table. They were a display of power, dressed in expensive silks and sharp suits, their eyes analysis her with a cold curiosity. They offered hollow congratulations that felt more like examination.
Xavier sat beside her, a silent, imposing statue. He would nod or offer a short word, his hand resting possessively on her thigh, a constant, heavy reminder of his ownership. Naomi, for her part, played her part. She smiled when she was supposed to, nodded when spoken to, and kept her head down, just as Anaya had taught her. She was a beautiful, silent puppet.
Just when she thought she might suffocate under the weight of it all, a new voice cut through the crowd, a voice that was smooth yet carried an undeniable authority. "Welcome to the family."
Naomi turned, her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach. The voice belonged to none other than Sebastian Thorne. He stood before their table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a picture of relaxed power. He was smiling, an expression that didn't crinkle the corners of his eyes. There was no kindness in them, only a chilling, predatory satisfaction, as if he were admiring a new, valuable addition to his collection. The words weren't a welcome; they were a brand, a final, public declaration that she now belonged to them, body and soul.