Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Three
Standing at the end of the aisle is the king of Jokith, a mountain of a man clad in gray and white furs with an enormous axe strapped to his back and a short sword at his side.
By all appearances, he looks more prepared for battle than matrimony.
Or, are they the same in his mind?
But that’s not what surprises me. I wonder, for a moment, if he is the king at all or if this is all part of an elaborate hoax. King Einar is a solid sixty-five years old, but the man in front of me appears to be no more than thirty.
My heart sinks. Is this how Madame arranged for me to come here? Had she given him one of her potions? It’s true that Jokithans live several times as long as the rest of the world, but it never occurred to me that they wouldn’t age in the meantime. Besides, no one looks this perfect without the use of alchemy.
I shake the thought away. That wouldn’t make sense. Her role as an alchemist is wholly separate from the one she plays as a noblewoman.
His long white-blond hair is braided close to his scalp on the sides of his head, far enough for his silver crown to rest on before falling down in a straight line.
A slightly darker beard covers the lower half of his face; a small braid is woven into this, too, ending a few inches below his chin. A silver chain glints around his collar, dipping down to fall under his shirt.
When his glacial blue eyes meet mine, I’m taken aback by the fury burning within them. His gaze barely roves over my figure before he stiffens, his knuckles going white around his clenched fists.
Whispers sound throughout the small room as veils and beaked masks lean closer to one another, likely to discuss the king’s reaction to the strange new addition to their castle. Or the fact that I’m still standing here, frozen as the world around us.
Still, I don’t move. My legs have turned to marble, cold and heavy and utterly unyielding. Mentally, I chastise myself. I know better than to make a scene.
Einar scowls in my direction, a timely reminder that he has all the power here.
Taking Leif’s proffered hand, I place one foot forward. Then another, and another afterward. My heart beats a furious rhythm within my chest, punctuating each halting step the masked man and I take toward the end of the aisle.
When we stand directly before the king, Leif bows to us both before moving to stand behind him at a place of honor.
Interesting.
Einar stretches out a massive hand for me to hold, and I force myself not to cringe while placing mine in it. I can’t help but notice that his warm fingers are calloused, one more thing to set him apart from the noblemen I’ve known.
The officiant opens the ceremony in the aggressive, clipped tones of the Jokithan language, and our wedding is now underway. Einar repeats his vows in his own language, promising things he has no business swearing to a girl he’s only just met.
When it comes time for my vows, the man surprises me by giving them to me in the desert language. The tongue of my people. His accent is thick, but the words are there, clear as the noon sun.
My body goes rigid, and it takes everything in me not to scream and run from this place as fast as I can. It is one thing to vow my life and future to a man who is as foreign to me as the language he speaks.
It is something else entirely to be forced to make promises in my heart language that I never wanted to make in the first place. Somehow, it makes me feel...exposed. Like one more piece of me has been offered up for the taking without my consent.
I close my eyes, trying to will calm into my breaths, but the only thing I manage to do is morph my vulnerability into a wave of white-hot anger. It’s an emotion that will get me nowhere, though, so I shove it back down and repeat the words I will never be able to give to anyone else.
When I am finished, the officiant holds a hand out to Leif, who passes him something from the pocket of his cloak.
Rings,I register as he hands one to both Einar and myself. The King takes my left hand in his and slides the delicate band over my finger. I reciprocate the gesture with a quick, impersonal motion.
“King Einar and his consort, Lady Zaina of Jokith.” The officiant announces our union along with my new title and I fight to keep my features neutral.
Consort? No one has used that title in half a century except for the Emperor of the Eastern Lands, and even he only uses it in reference to his concubines. Surely even Madame didn’t agree to this, not with her aims.
Then again, she does love to see me humiliated.
I push back the heat trying to creep its way into my cheeks. These people and their king will not see how this title affects me.
The officiant makes an announcement with the word koss, pulling me back to the moment. The king steps closer, his lips curling in distaste as he pulls me roughly against him.
Before I can even brace myself, he has crushed his mouth against mine. His scruffy beard is even more abrasive than the kiss itself, scratching at the soft skin of my face.
I focus on that momentary discomfort instead of the gesture that is as empty as our marriage would surely be.