Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Brianna
The verdict came quieter than I expected.
He weighed the dagger in his hand, the blade turning over once in the firelight—then slid it into his own belt.
"You'd better remember what you said."
His gaze dropped to my forearm, to the wound that no longer existed, and his tone flattened into something almost domestic:
"I'm keeping the knife. Even if a blade can't kill you—you don't get to carve yourself up like a lunatic."
I stood frozen.
Those words. From the mouth of the most notorious lunatic on the continent. For a moment I couldn't tell if it was an order, a confiscation, or—something I didn't dare put a name to.
No. I crushed the thought before it could finish forming. He was simply securing his property. The knife. And me.
He was already walking toward the door. I snatched up my lead-heavy skirts and hurried after him—two steps, and my ankle buckled.
The heels had been made for Paige's feet too. A full size too small. My toes had been curled inside them since the chapel doors, and now every step landed like walking on knife points.
He stopped and simply turned his head and tipped his chin toward the door.
A maid appeared instantly; he gave two short instructions—and moments later, a pair of soft flat shoes sat in front of me, along with a gown that weighed a fraction of the one I was drowning in.
And then the monster crossed his arms, leaned against the wall outside the dressing screen, and waited for his bride to change—like an actual groom.
Behind the screen, my fingers shook as I worked the laces loose. Not from fear. From confusion.
Bloodlust, a whispered threat, an interrogation, a confiscation—and then a pair of shoes that fit. Every single move this man made landed somewhere off every map I had.
When the doors to the great hall opened again, hundreds of eyes nailed themselves to us at once—followed by a ripple of gasps no one managed to swallow.
They'd expected a corpse to be carried out of that room.
Instead, I had traded the ill-fitting wedding gown for flowing silver-white silk, my flat shoes carrying me light and steady, my hand resting on the arm of the most feared killer in the land, walking in step by step.
I saw my family's faces.
My father's smile froze on his face like a portrait hung crooked. My mother's fingers twisted her handkerchief into a knot. And Paige—Paige looked at me the way you look at a corpse sitting up in its coffin.
Behind the gauze of all those staring eyes, I nearly laughed out loud. You didn't even bet on me surviving one afternoon.
I dragged my gaze across each of their faces, slow and deliberate and savoring, then followed his stride straight toward their table.
"Carry on." Colton waved a careless hand at the assembled guests. "Enjoy the party."
The music started up again, stiff as a wind-up toy. He pulled out a chair and seated himself at the head of my family's table—my father's place. No one said a word.
He picked up the empty wine glass in front of him. The attendant at his side stepped forward to pour; he stopped him with a raised hand.
His gaze traveled across the candelabra and settled on Paige, as if seeing her for the very first time.
"Who is this?"
Dead silence for two full seconds. My father forced out a dry laugh. "This is—my other daughter."
He didn't even dare say her name. Still clinging to the lie, even now.
"Ah." Colton, however, didn't bother pretending. He nudged the empty glass toward the table's edge. "Real Paige—isn't it?"
The words hit like ice dropped into boiling oil.
My father's laugh died halfway out of his throat. My mother's hand jerked on the tablecloth, setting the glasses chiming.
Paige stopped breathing—her name, the name written in his own hand on the demand for marriage, spoken aloud by the groom at last, and in that tone: the tone of a man inventorying goods that someone had swapped.
The paper screen this entire table had so painstakingly held up—he'd punched through it with one finger, without even trying.
No one dared respond. To admit it was deception. To deny it was worse.
Then Colton smiled. The smile never reached his eyes.
"No need to panic." He turned his head, and his gaze landed on my face—traveling over it inch by inch, examining me in front of the entire table. "I'm very satisfied with my bride."
"I'm merely curious," he continued, his gaze sliding back to my father, tone as idle as ever, every word landing crystal clear, "about how Duskwood does its arithmetic. Treating garbage like treasure—keeping it safe at home, wrapped in silk—"
He paused.
"—while handing the real jewel over to a stranger."
He said nothing more. In the dead silence that followed, I slowly released my grip on my skirts.
And Paige's face went whiter than it had at the word garbage: no one at this table could tell whether he'd meant it or was toying with them. But every last one of them had understood the ranking.
My father all but launched himself out of his chair, bowing deep at the waist. "This—this was our error, Alpha, we deeply apologize, we—"
"Spare me the apology." Colton cut him off with a raised hand, nudged the empty glass another half inch toward the edge, and let his gaze drift to Paige. "As for making amends—"
"You. Come serve the wine."
The color dropped out of Paige's face. She looked to Father; Father lowered his eyes. She looked to Mother; Mother's knuckles went white.
And then Jax moved—half rising from his seat, reaching as if to take the glass himself. "Alpha, allow me—"
"And what exactly are you?"
Four words. Not loud. Not sharp. They landed squarely on Jax's outstretched hand.
Jax froze. I watched his mouth open—that mouth I once believed would talk me through the rest of my life—and not one word came out.
My former mate, or Paige's secret lover. He didn't dare claim either title.
Either one would cost him his life.
Slowly, he sank back into his seat, neck flushed scarlet, head dropping.
The strange thing was, I felt none of the satisfaction I'd imagined.
Watching this man who didn't dare answer the question of what he even was, all I felt was a slow tide of grief.
I had loved this. For two years. I had entrusted a dream as small as I just want to marry someone simple to this hollow shell of a man.
The scoff escaped before I could bite it down—quiet, but loud enough at this dead-silent table. Jax's shoulders flinched. He didn't look up.
"I said," Colton tapped a finger once against the rim of the empty glass, eyes on Paige, "pour."
Paige finally rose. She rounded the table and lifted the wine flagon, her hands shaking so badly the spout clattered against the rim, wine spattering the cloth.
"Stop." He frowned and leaned back, as though personally offended. "Who taught you to pour like that? Flagon held that high—are you pouring wine, or pouring away my face?"
He tipped his chin at the attendant. "Teach her."
And so, in front of every guest in the hall, the most precious daughter of Duskwood was corrected by a servant, hand over hand—the angle of the flagon, the height of the pour, the turn of the wrist on the finish.
Paige's face went from white to red to a mottled gray, unshed tears trembling on her lashes—and she didn't dare utter a single word of protest.
When his glass was filled, he tilted his head toward me. "Hers too."
Paige came around to my side. And in the space of the wine filling my glass, her face dipped close to my ear, her breath light and venomous, poured into my ear alone:
"Enjoying yourself?" It was barely more than a hiss. "Don't worry—you won't be enjoying it much longer."
I lifted my glass. I didn't look at her.
I couldn't even summon the anger. Even now—even now—she had the presence of mind to threaten me.
She still hadn't understood: every person at this table, myself included, was nothing but a piece on that man's board.
He could flick any one of us off it without needing a reason.
Fool.
Sure enough, the moment Paige retreated to her seat, Colton spoke.
"My bride," he said, swirling his wine, his gaze traveling around the table, resting on each face, one at a time, unhurried, "carries the name Westbrook as of today. Brianna Westbrook. She is mine. And anyone who causes her a moment's displeasure—"
He smiled.
"—I will personally escort to hell."
Then he drained the glass in one swallow.
Sweat beaded at my father's temple. My mother's smile sat on her face like wet paper.
And I understood: this was not on my behalf. This was Duskwood being pinned to the floor in front of a hall full of witnesses—a declaration of ownership. Every ounce of threat in his words was spoken not for me, but for himself.
This man wanted something from my family. That was why he demanded a bride.
But what?
Colton
The wine was cheap. The show was excellent.
I set down my glass and let my gaze sweep across this table of rigor-mortis faces—the woman whose hands were still shaking, the man with his head buried in his chest, the in-laws sweating through their collars.
So much for Duskwood's famous discipline.
Finally, my eyes came back to rest on the bride at my side.
I'd just settled her scores for her. In my experience, this was the moment she should be glowing—at the very least, some flicker of vindication should be leaking through.
I've seen too many of those eyes. People trampled for half a lifetime, handed a blade to borrow just once—that kind of triumph can't be contained.
But not her.
She held that wine without taking a single sip. Something sat pressed between her brows that wouldn't dissolve—not hurt, not fear.
As if none of this table's humiliation had anything to do with her at all.
Interesting.
I thought of the wound sealing itself shut in the firelight of that chamber. I thought of her eyes when she offered me the hilt—eyes that refused to look away. And I looked at her face now, still refusing to stand down.
Clever girl, my little bride.
So clever that I have to be on my guard.
