What an interesting and cryptic comment.
Wren’s eyes widened at her words as the servant and Queen Astrid both began drying and adorning her hair with jewels. It was nothing like her wedding to Rowen and for that, she was thankful. It would have destroyed what was left of her heart to go through this farce if it had. Even as she looked into the mirror, she hardly recognized the woman staring back at her.
You can do this.
Astrid was right; every pretty thing they were putting on Wren was armor, to make her look every inch the perfect Verlantian bride. And that was what she needed to be until such a time that she could put real armor back on and fight the way she was used to.
When they had finished getting her ready, the queen touched Wren’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Things are not as bad as they seem. I’m here for you and you’re not alone. You’re a princess. So, keep your chin up high, even though you feel like you’re crumbling inside. Trust me. I know how you feel. Can you do that?”
Wren stared at Astrid through the mirror.
For the first time, Wren wondered how this gentle and kind woman became queen to none other than Soren, who seemed the exact opposite of her. She seemed genuine, but was it all a game? Being queen amongst a hundred wives wasn’t for the faint of heart. Was Astrid as kind as she seemed? Maybe not, but perhaps—just perhaps—Wren had found a friend-in-arms.
“Everything about today feels wrong,” she admitted.
“I know.” Astrid hugged her, sympathy on her face. “This isn’t how I imagine I’d gain my first daughter in law either. We’ll brave it together, I suppose.”
“Was your marriage arranged?” Wren whispered.
“It was and it wasn’t.” The queen smiled, and it was sharp. “In our world, women are left powerless. I chose power, not love.”
“Mine was stolen from me.” She hated Arrik for it.
“Stop complaining and start fighting.”
“I am.”
Astrid shook her head. “Causing scenes and challenging Soren gets you nothing. Find a new way.” The queen hugged her once again. “Such heavy topics for a wedding day. My advice to you is survive today with grace and take what you want tomorrow. Just know that you’re not alone.”
Wren managed the barest of smiles for Astrid. “I can do that.”
And she could…for a while. She simply didn’t know for how long before the wrongness of the day seeped into her soul and cracked her brand-new armor.
22
Wren
The wedding was awful. It was everything Wren’s wedding to Rowen was not. With Rowen, there had been love. Spoken consent. A crowd of people who adored both parties getting married, who wished for nothing but the best for them.
Every single member of the Verlantian audience knew this wedding for exactly what it was: another moment for the glorious Prince Arrik to conquer. A chance for Verlanti to further humiliate a foreign princess, and, in so doing, solidify their own hold of her kingdom.
Despite what Wren had told herself earlier about how she could use this wedding to her advantage, it had been all she could do not to run away the moment she’d spied the aisle. But Queen Astrid had linked their arms together, preventing her from escaping the impending doom of marrying the prince.
Wren wanted to crawl inside herself and die as she walked down the aisle lined with courtiers. She observed the room. It was a ballroom of some sort filled with fresh flowers and plants. Lanterns hung from the walls and ceilings, casting soft light throughout the grand chamber. Her steps slowed as she reached the dais on which the prince and king stood. The queen led her up the three steps, placed a kiss to her cheek and took her place at her husband’s side.
King Soren sat on his throne and the queen perched on the arm. He waved his hand and an ancient elf approached clad in dark purple robes. Wren’s heart threatened to burst out of her chest as he began the ceremony.
The vows were spoken in the Elvish tongue, with King Soren overseeing them from his ostentatious throne. Thank the tides that Wren’s mother had insisted on her learning the Elvish tongue. She’d had not been as studious as she should have been, but she could understand a bit of what the pompous windbag was waxing on about. The words were complicated and antiquated, and, before long, she gave up trying to keep up with what was being said.
Arrik locked gazes with her and she wanted to look away. There was too much intensity in his eyes. He spoke his vows with so much sincerity that if she had not known him for all the evil he had committed, she would have believed the truth of his words. But she did know him—in all the ways that mattered—so she took his show of affection as simply another way for him to degrade her.
When it was her turn to recite the vows, her throat closed up and the air seemed to leave the room. She’d resigned herself to marriage with the prince but looking too compliant was an issue. Her hands shook and Wren couldn’t force the vows out. It was too soon after Rowen’s death.
Arrik’s fingers tightened against hers and she trembled. The king repeated the vows, but she kept silent. Her tongue felt too heavy to utter the words. The prince stared down at her stone-faced and she flinched when he ran his thumb over the top of her knuckles. It was a small caress but it jolted her very bones. Was he trying to calm her? Be encouraging? The pit of her stomach soured as Soren laughed and continued on, taking Wren’s silence for compliance.
It made her sick.
Arrik placed a quill in her right hand and helped her sign a marriage document. The quill scratched against the paper, setting her teeth on edge. She stared at the binding document as the prince signed it. It was done. She was married to the man who annihilated her family.
She scanned the room full of courtiers. Not one of them batted an eye.
How could they see the wedding—this marriage—as good and true and legal when she had not given consent? Never mind the fact she was already married.
Not true. You were never bound. You were not sealed with your markings or documents.
Wren swallowed the tears that found their way into her throat. She’d never been Rowen’s wife and she never would.
When the ceremony finally concluded, the room erupted into a cacophony of noise. The king moved purposely toward Wren, and Arrik immediately moved out of the king’s path. The way his eyes roved over her body was not the way a father-in-law should ever look at his new daughter-in-law.
Soren grinned at her and brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “As is custom,” he said, getting so close to Wren that her skin crawled. He towered over her, his blond hair full of golden beads and gem pins that glittered. “The High King gets the first kiss from the bride.”
Wren was speechless. There was no way she could get out of it; of that, she had no doubt. Soren’s hand pressed against the small of her back, and he wasted no time in capturing her mouth and kissing her. Wren stayed stiff and lifeless, pressing her lips together. A shudder of disgust went through her body when his tongue touched her bottom lip.
Not even kissing on the cheek, but on the mouth!
Everything about the king felt slimy and wrong. He was a snake if ever there was one.
“My turn,” the prince said, his tone somewhat bored.
Wren gasped as Arrik pulled her away from the king and into his arm. Soren chuckled behind her. “Enjoy your new wife. I did.”