Chapter Thirty-Six: The Wedding Night
The bedchamber was a tomb of roses.
Ariyana stood in the doorway, her hand still on the latch, and stared at the scene before her. The room had been transformed since the afternoon—garlands of blood-red roses draped every surface, their petals scattered across the crimson carpet like drops of blood. Candles flickered on every table and ledge, hundreds of them, their flames casting dancing shadows across the walls. The enormous bed at the center of the room was covered in white fur and silk pillows, and the air was thick with the cloying scent of flowers and wax and something else—something sweet and heavy that made her stomach turn.
She hated it.
She hated him.
She hated this.
"You are blocking the door."
Edwin's voice came from behind her, low and amused. She had not heard him approach. He stood close—too close—his chest almost touching her back, his breath warm against her hair.
She stepped aside quickly, putting distance between them.
"I was not blocking the door. I was observing."
"You were scowling at the roses."
"I was scowling at the excess."
He walked past her into the chamber, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He stopped in the center of the room, turning slowly, taking in the garlands, the candles, the bed.
"Clara's doing," he said.
"Obviously."
"It is... romantic."
"It is obscene."
His lips curved—that infuriating smirk that made her want to hit him. "You are not an easy woman to please, Lady Wife."
"I am not pleased. I am trapped. In a room that smells like a funeral."
"Roses are not funereal."
"These are." She gestured at the garlands, the petals, the cloying sweetness that clung to the back of her throat. "They smell like death."
Edwin's smirk faded. He looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression softened.
"I will have them removed in the morning," he said. "Tonight, we endure."
"Tonight, I endure. You—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.
"I what?"
"You are probably looking forward to this."
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, his glacial eyes fixed on her face. "And what, exactly, do you think I am looking forward to?"
"To—" She swallowed. "To the wedding night. To—" She gestured vaguely at the bed. "To that."
---
The Proximity
He stopped a few feet away, close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Ariyana," he said quietly. "I have spent fourteen years waiting for you. I can wait one more night."
"That is not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." His voice dropped, low and rough. "And I am not looking forward to anything except sharing a room with my wife. Sleeping beside her. Waking up next to her. Learning what makes her laugh, what makes her angry, what makes her—"
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because you are making me nervous."
His eyebrows rose. "Nervous?"
"I am never nervous with you. I am angry, or cold, or indifferent. But nervous—" She shook her head. "This is new. I do not like it."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the pulse beating in his throat, the faint scar on his jaw.
"I am nervous too," he admitted.
"You? The Crown Prince? The man who has faced rebellions and assassins and the weight of an entire kingdom?"
"Yes." His voice was soft. "Because you are not a rebellion. You are not an assassin. You are my wife. And I—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I do not want to fail you."
"You have already failed me. Many times."
"I know. I am trying to be better."
She looked at him—at the man who had broken her heart, who was now standing in front of her, admitting his fear.
"Trying is not the same as succeeding," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But it is the same as hoping."
---
The Wine
They had drunk too much at dinner.
Not intentionally—Ariyana had meant to sip, to nurse a single glass through the endless toasts and speeches. But the wine was strong, and the cups were large, and every time she set her goblet down, someone refilled it.
She was not drunk. She was... softened. Edges blurred, thoughts wandering, the sharp angles of her anger worn smooth by the warmth spreading through her veins.
Edwin was the same. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, his usually guarded expression open and almost boyish.
They stood facing each other in the candlelit chamber, the silence heavy between them.
"You are staring," she said.
"You are beautiful."
"You said that already."
"I will say it again." He stepped closer. "You are beautiful, Ariyana. Even when you are scowling at roses. Even when you are threatening to stab me. Even when you are looking at me as if I am the enemy."
"You are the enemy."
"I am your husband."
"Same thing."
He laughed—a soft, surprised sound that made something flutter in her chest. "You are impossible."
"So you have said."
"So I will keep saying."
---
The Threat
He reached for her hand.
She stepped back.
"Do not."
"Ariyana—"
"I said do not." Her voice was sharp, but her heart was pounding. "If you touch me, I will—" She looked around for a weapon. Her eyes landed on a letter opener on the writing desk. "I will stab you."
"With the letter opener?"
"With whatever is available."
His lips curved. "This is our wedding night."
"I do not care."
"The priests blessed our union. The kingdom expects—"
"The kingdom can expect whatever it likes. I am not—" She stopped, her cheeks flushing. "I am not ready."
Edwin held up his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender. "I am not asking you to be ready."
"Then what are you asking?"
"To share a bed. To sleep. Nothing more."
She stared at him. "Nothing more?"
"Nothing more." He walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and patted the space beside him. "Come. I promise I will keep my distance."
"You promised that before. You failed."
"I will try harder."
She did not move.
"Ariyana." His voice was soft. "I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to touch you. I am simply going to lie beside you and try to sleep. That is all."
"That is not all. That is never all."
"Tonight it is."
She looked at him—at the man who had held her in the inn, who had danced with her in the great hall, who had spoken vows that made her weep. She wanted to believe him.
She was afraid to believe him.
"If you touch me," she said, "I will stab you. I mean it."
"I know you do."
"I have a dagger. In my bag. I will use it."
"I do not doubt it."
She walked to the bed, sat on the opposite edge, and kept as much distance between them as possible.
---
The Years
They sat in silence, the candles flickering, the roses shedding petals onto the carpet.
"Why do you count fourteen years?" she asked.
Edwin turned his head, his glacial eyes meeting hers. "What?"
"Fourteen years. You said it in your vows—fourteen years of building walls. But I was eight when I came to Highgrove. Eight to nineteen is eleven years. Eleven years and eight months, if you want to be precise."
He was silent.
"You and the others—Clara, the court, everyone—you always say fourteen years. Why?"
Edwin looked down at his hands, clasped between his knees.
"Because the oath was taken before you came to the palace," he said quietly. "Before the war. Your father was my father's best friend—not just his knight, but his brother in all but blood."
Ariyana's breath caught.
"When you were born, my father made a promise. He said that one day, you would marry his son. That your children would sit on the throne of Valerius. That your father's blood would be joined with ours forever."
"Your father promised that? When I was born?"
"Yes." Edwin looked at her. "Your father laughed. He thought it was a joke—a drunken fancy between friends. He did not take it seriously."
"But on the battlefield—"
"On the battlefield, he was dying. And he thought of your future. Of what would become of you without him. Of the promise my father had made, years before, and never kept."
Edwin's voice dropped.
"He took that oath from my father because he was afraid. Not of death. Of leaving you unprotected. Of watching you become a victim in a world that devours the weak."
Ariyana's throat tightened. "And you?"
"I have known you since you were born." His voice was soft. "I remember when your father brought you to court, a tiny thing in a white gown, with black hair and your mother's eyes. I remember thinking you were loud."
She almost laughed. "Loud?"
"You screamed. Constantly. Your father thought it was hilarious."
"I was an infant. Infants scream."
"You screamed louder than any infant I had ever heard."
She did laugh then—a small, surprised sound. "You are making fun of me."
"I am remembering." His eyes met hers. "I never thought of you that way, Ariyana. When you were a child, I saw you as a child. I did not look at you and imagine—" He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"Imagine what?"
"Anything. I was... distracted."
"Distracted?"
He hesitated. Then, reluctantly: "I was into older women."
Ariyana blinked.
"What?"
"I was young. Stupid. The court was full of beautiful, experienced women who knew exactly how to catch a prince's attention." His cheeks flushed—actually flushed, the tips of his ears turning red. "I was not... innocent."
"You were a playboy?"
"I was a young man with too much freedom and too little supervision."
She stared at him. "You—" Her voice rose. "You have been with other women? Many other women?"
Edwin winced. "Ariyana—"
"How many?"
"I am not going to answer that."
"How many, Edwin?"
He was silent.
"Was it dozens? Hundreds? Did you—"
"I was young and stupid," he said again. "And I did not know you. Not really. Not until—"
"Not until what?"
"Not until you were old enough to notice. Not until you looked at me with those eyes—those impossible, beautiful eyes—and I realized that every woman before you had been a shadow. A distraction. A way of filling a void that only you could fill."
Ariyana's heart pounded.
She should be angry. She was angry. He had been with other women—had touched them, kissed them, shared a bed with them—while she had been alone. Waiting. Surviving.
But Theodore had never touched her. Had never tried to kiss her. Had held her hand with her permission, had looked at her with eyes full of love and longing, had been patient and kind and impossibly gentle.
Theodore was innocent.
Edwin was not.
"You are angry," Edwin said.
"I am not angry."
"You are clenching your jaw."
"I am thinking."
"About what?"
She looked at him—at the man she had married, the man who had been with other women, the man who was now looking at her as if she were the only woman in the world.
"Theodore never touched me," she said. "Not once. He held my hand, with my permission. He kissed my forehead, once, when I was crying. He never—" She stopped, her cheeks flushing. "He never tried to do more."
Edwin's face was unreadable. "Theodore was a gentleman."
"Theodore was kind."
"I know."
"He would have waited forever. He would have—"
"But you did not choose him." Edwin's voice was quiet. "You chose me."
She looked down at her hands.
"I chose survival."
"Then survive with me." He reached across the space between them, his hand hovering over hers. "Not because you have to. Because you want to."
"I do not know what I want."
"Then we will figure it out together."
They sat in silence, the candles burning low.
"Promise me," she said.
"Anything."
"Promise me you will keep your distance. Until I am ready. Until I say."
Edwin was still for a long moment.
"I promise," he said finally. "On my mother's grave. On my father's crown. On everything I have ever been or ever will be."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
She nodded, her throat tight.
"Thank you."
---
The Bathhouse
She escaped to the bathhouse.
The water was warm, the steam thick, the scent of lavender soothing her frayed nerves. She undressed slowly, folding her wedding gown with care, laying it across a chair. The shift she put on was simple—white linen, high-necked, long-sleeved—armor against the night ahead.
She sat on the edge of the tub, her feet in the water, and thought of Theodore.
He was alone tonight. In his chambers, perhaps, or walking the corridors, or standing in the frozen garden where they had once held each other. He was sad. She knew he was sad. She had seen it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he had raised his goblet and toasted her happiness.
She had broken his heart.
She had chosen Edwin.
She had been selfish.
She prayed for him—not to any god, but to the stars, to the wind, to whatever force in the universe might be listening.
Let him find happiness.
Let him find peace.
Let him find someone who will love him the way he deserves to be loved.
Someone who is not selfish like me.
Someone who will not break his heart.
A tear slipped down her cheek, mixing with the bathwater.
"I am sorry, Theodore," she whispered. "I am so sorry."
___
She opened the door.
The bedchamber was dim, most of the candles snuffed, the fire burned low. The only light came from the dying embers and the sliver of moon visible through the gap in the curtains.
Edwin was waiting for her.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back against the headboard, his legs stretched out before him. He had changed into a nightshirt—plain white linen, unlaced at the collar, revealing the hollow of his throat.
His hair was damp. He had washed too.
He looked at her as she emerged from the bathhouse—at the shift, the damp hair, the bare feet—and something flickered in his eyes.
"You were gone a long time," he said.
"I was thinking."
"About Theodore?"
She did not answer.
He nodded, as if he had expected it. "Is he all right?"
"I do not know. I hope so."
"Would you like me to check on him? In the morning?"
She looked at him—at the man who had every reason to be jealous, who was offering to comfort the brother who loved his wife.
"That is kind," she said. "Unexpected. But kind."
"I am trying to be better."
"I know."
She walked to the bed, climbed onto the opposite edge, and kept as much distance between them as possible.
---
The Bed
They lay down together, side by side, a careful distance between them.
The fire crackled. The wind howled. The roses shed their petals in the darkness.
"Goodnight, Ariyana."
"Goodnight, Edwin."
She closed her eyes.
She did not sleep.
She lay in the darkness, listening to him breathe, and thought about the future.
He had promised to keep his distance.
He had promised to wait.
She hoped—she hoped—that she would one day be ready.
But tonight, she was still a girl in a cage.
And the cage, no matter how gilded, was still a cage.
---