Previously
Aracella rejects Oscar's crude advances by comparing him to a starfish, leaving him humiliated. Damian witnesses the exchange and further intimidates Oscar, warning him to stay away from his bride.
Aracella whispered softly, lifting onto her tiptoes.
Damian glanced down at her face, brought intimately close, and nodded.
A faint prickle stirred against his skin from the brief brush of proximity.
He answered, watching her beam with pride.
Damian hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting in mild dilemma, before the corner of his lips curled upward.
Damian chuckled softly under his breath as Aracella grimaced in mortification.
Countless gazes were indeed fixed on the newlyweds. Aracella caught on at once and forced a bright smile.
Aracella muttered reproachfully, pointing out that Damian had skirted any physical contact, leaving her standing beside him without any real closeness.
Aracella grumbled at Damian through full red lips that barely moved, mindful of her makeup.
Outwardly, however, they looked like an affectionate pair of newlyweds sharing sweet whispers.
Damian set his hand loosely over Aracella’s shoulder.
Noticing the sliver of space lingering between his palm and her shoulder, Aracella shook her head in exasperation.
Having agreed beforehand to forgo a honeymoon, they headed straight for Vandermeer Mansion once the reception drew to a close.
All that remained now was the wedding night.
Skipping the first night was out of the question; it was customary for a marriage born of love.
Since Aracella and Damian were masquerading as lovers, they were expected to observe the custom all the more. There was simply no excuse for two impassioned newlyweds to forgo their wedding night.
To dispel any lingering suspicion from the ducal family, they had to go through the motions.
Aracella was getting ready in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber. Having slipped into a silk nightgown and a robe, she rose to her feet.
Audrey asked in a hushed voice as she followed quietly toward the bridal suite.
The man harbored such an aversion to touching anyone that he had spent the entire reception hovering his hand above her shoulder, hiding the gap beneath her thick purple hair.
There was no chance he would lay a finger on her tonight, especially when they had already agreed on it beforehand.
Aracella let out a soft laugh.
Lost in troubled thoughts, Audrey could find no reply; she looked far more distressed than the bride herself.
Aracella slipped half through the bedchamber door, bidding her maid farewell.
Audrey offered a faint smile and nodded.
A maid would not be permitted inside tonight.
The door clicked shut, and Aracella took in the quiet room.
A crystal chandelier, ornate draperies, a plush carpet, and a fireplace framed in intricate carvings greeted her eyes.
Damian had furnished the room with opulent care. It was hard to tell whether this was meant to project the image of a devoted husband or simply reflected his own tastes.
Wandering about and admiring the decor, Aracella stopped before a solid gold sword mounted on the wall.
Aracella eyed the sword with distinct dissatisfaction. Even if it was purely ornamental, having a weapon hanging on the wall rubbed her the wrong way.
‘I’ll hang a golden magic wand right next to it later.’
Just as she made up her mind and settled onto the sofa, the door swung open, and Damian entered clad in a black robe laced with gold embroidery.
She called his name as she stood, her silky hair spilling over her robe.
Their prenuptial agreement explicitly stated that they would not consummate their marriage.
There would be no physical relations between them—not simply because love was out of the question, but to rule out any risk of an unplanned pregnancy.
Yet in this dim bedchamber decked with flowers and wine, an odd tension quietly crept between them as their eyes met.
Facing each other in the silence, Aracella spoke first.
She had no intention of sharing a bed with him.
It wasn’t out of the dread Audrey had harbored, but simply because she was accustomed to sleeping alone and felt uncomfortable sharing space with anyone.
Aracella scampered toward the bed like a rabbit, drawing a faint smile from Damian as he turned toward the sofa.
A small table stood nearby, bearing fruit, wine, and two glasses.
Aracella felt neither surprise nor disappointment at his reply; in fact, having the bed entirely to herself suited her just fine.
Perching on the edge of the mattress, she pointed toward the golden sword on the wall while Damian poured the wine.
Damian paused mid-pour and knit his brow.
Knights often treated their swords like an extension of their very souls, carrying them as if they were life itself. A knight simply wasn’t a knight without his blade.
Mages, by contrast, could weave magic without a wand, and lacking one hardly stripped them of who they were.
Consequently, mages never shared the habit of proudly hanging their wands as knights did with swords.
Aracella grumbled under her breath as she slid beneath the covers.
Even if mages lacked such customs, the sight bothered her. This was their shared bedchamber, and letting a lone sword dominate the room felt unfair.
Satisfied, Aracella smiled and settled down against the pillows.
The soft, plush covers wrapped snugly around her.
Yet in an unfamiliar room and a strange bed, sleep did not come easily.
Tossing and turning, she rolled toward Damian. He sat motionless as a sculpture, drinking his wine alone.
Aracella studied Damian closely. Though the dim candlelight made it hard to see clearly, his cheeks seemed faintly flushed.
Through the slight parting of his loose robe, the taut contours of his chest caught the moonlight.
He had already finished a glass and a half, but when he went to answer, his eyes inadvertently drifted toward the bed and froze.
Aracella had propped herself up, and the thin silk had slipped down slightly, baring her delicate shoulders.
Aracella retorted with a frown. In truth, her own alcohol tolerance was astonishing; she had never once succumbed to drunkenness no matter how much she drank.
Seeing Damian flush after just a couple of glasses left her equal parts baffled and wary.
As if to prove his point, his eyelids slowly fluttered closed.
Aracella watched him with a discerning eye.
‘He really does just fall asleep when he’s had a drink.’
Well, being an accomplished mage, she could easily defend herself even if attacked in her sleep.
Relieved, Aracella lay back down. She closed her eyes, and before long, slipped into a quiet slumber.
Damian, set his empty glass aside, stretched out on the sofa, and threw an arm across his eyes.
Whether from the wine or the steady rhythm of her breathing across the room, sleep claimed him quickly as well.
And so, their wedding night came to a quiet close.
Morning sunlight filtered through the arched window and warmed Aracella’s face, coaxing her eyes open. She sat up with a faint scowl, blinking around the unfamiliar room.
Shaking her head cleared the fog of sleep. Yesterday had been her wedding day, and she had moved into Vandermeer Mansion.
From now until their divorce, this room would serve as her temporary bedchamber.
Although the Magic Tower had offered her time off after the wedding, she had turned it down.
She was wary of colleagues taking advantage of her absence to push past her on assignments. Besides, quite a few viewed her marriage to a knight with deep suspicion.
Taking days off for a wedding would only feed those rumors.
Reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, Aracella froze at the sound of a groan.
As the groaning grew clearer, Aracella turned toward the sound and spotted Damian sprawled on the sofa.
Approaching him cautiously, Aracella saw beads of sweat on his knit brow; he looked trapped in the throes of a nightmare.
He seemed in so much distress that she decided to do the decent thing and wake him, taking his shoulder and shaking him lightly.
After a few shakes, Damian’s eyes cracked open.
His golden eyes fixed on her in a daze.
Aracella asked, concerned.
He stared at her blankly for a second, then sat up abruptly and snatched her wrist in an iron grip, fast as a hawk seizing its prey.
Aracella stared back, stunned.
Damian didn’t seem to notice her shock. He let go of her wrist and cradled his head in one hand, nursing a dull ache from the wine the night before, compounded by the harrowing nightmare.
Damian snapped back.
Anger flared within her; rather than a word of thanks, all she got was cold hostility.
Damian cast a sidelong glance at her fuming by the sofa, then dragged a hand over his face.
Aracella pushed herself up and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Damian heard her angry parting shot muffled through the heavy wood.
He lowered his hand and let out a long sigh.
Perhaps it was the morning sunlight flooding the room, but he had clearly seen Aracella dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown. That had been the real reason he covered his face—to shield his eyes.
‘It really would be better if we didn’t share a room.’