Chapter 43 The Wedding Day (Thalia's POV)
The sun rises on my wedding day and I watch it from the penthouse window, unable to sleep.
Six AM. Twelve hours until the ceremony. Twelve hours until I stand in front of three hundred witnesses and promise myself to a dying man who isn't my mate.
"Miss Thornewood." Petra knocks softly. "We should begin preparations. Hair and makeup will take hours."
"Of course." I turn from the window, catching my reflection in the glass. Golden eyes stare back… permanent now, marking me as different, as dangerous, as exactly what everyone fears.
The morning passes in a blur of activity I barely register. Stylists arrive with cases of cosmetics and tools. The hairdresser works for two hours creating elaborate braids woven with tiny diamonds that catch the light like stars. Makeup applied and removed and reapplied until my face looks flawless but unfamiliar.
"Beautiful." The makeup artist steps back, admiring her work. "Absolutely stunning."
I look like a stranger. Like a doll dressed for display. Like everything I never wanted to be.
"Thank you." The words are automatic, meaningless. "That will be all."
They leave in a flutter of compliments and well-wishes. I'm alone with Petra, who's laying out the dress with careful reverence.
"It's time." She sounds almost sad.
She helps me into undergarments designed to smooth and shape, to hide the slight curve of pregnancy that's growing despite everything. Six weeks along by human counting, but werewolf biology accelerates everything. Four more months until birth instead of seven. Four months until I hold a child that three packs will fight over.
The dress is exquisite… silk and lace, fitted bodice with delicate beading, flowing skirt that pools at my feet like water. It must have cost a fortune. Probably did, knowing Casimir's resources.
Petra fastens the dozens of tiny buttons running down my spine. "Breathe. You're holding your breath."
I force air into my lungs. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. The technique Lucien taught me weeks ago when everything started spiraling.
Lucien. I can feel him through the mate bond, distant but present. His anguish matches mine, amplified by the knowledge that in hours he'll watch me marry someone else. That he'll stand witness to vows that violate everything the bond represents.
"There." Petra steps back. "Perfect."
I study myself in the full-length mirror. The dress transforms me into someone I don't recognize… elegant, composed, every inch the political bride making strategic alliance. Only my eyes betray the truth, glowing gold in the carefully made-up face.
A knock at the door. Morrigan enters without waiting for permission, stopping short when she sees me.
"Thalia." Her voice catches. "You look..."
"Like a bride being sold for political advantage?" I'm sharper than intended.
"Like my daughter." She moves closer, surprising me by reaching out to adjust a strand of hair. "Like someone who's stronger than I ever gave her credit for."
The tenderness is unexpected. Unwanted. I've spent weeks being angry at her for the suppressants, for the manipulation, for nineteen years of control disguised as protection.
"Don't." I pull back slightly. "Don't pretend this is something it isn't. We both know why I'm doing this."
"I know you're doing it to save everyone else." She's not defensive, just factual. "Sacrificing yourself because you're too noble to let others suffer for your choices."
"Or too trapped to find another way."
"Maybe both." She pulls out a jewelry box, opening it to reveal a necklace I've never seen… emeralds set in platinum, each stone the size of my thumbnail. "This belonged to my great-great-grandmother. Eleanora Thornewood."
I freeze.
Petra appears with the veil… meters of delicate lace that will cover my face until Casimir lifts it at the altar. The symbolism makes me want to laugh or cry or both.
"It's noon." Petra checks her watch. "The cars arrive at five. You should eat something, rest, prepare mentally."
"I'm not hungry." The nausea has been constant for days. "And I can't rest. The prophetic dreams won't let me."
"Still seeing terrible futures?" Morrigan asks.
"Seventeen last night." I sink onto the bed, careful not to crush the dress. "In thirteen, something happens to the baby. In three, something happens to Lucien. In one, I lose myself entirely… become something I don't recognize."
"And in the others?"
"In the others, we survive. But survival looks like eighteen months of lying, of pretending, of watching Casimir die slowly while I play dutiful wife." I close my eyes. "Sometimes I think the futures where I die quickly might be easier."
"Thalia… "
"I'm not serious." I open my eyes. "Just tired. So incredibly tired."
Morrigan sits beside me, careful not to disturb the dress. "For what it's worth, I am proud of you. Not because you're doing what I want… you're not. But because you're making impossible choices with more grace than I did at your age."
"You married for politics too." I remember the stories. "To my father. Distant cousin chosen for bloodline consolidation."
"I married for politics and learned to love him." She's quiet. "Your father was kind. Patient. Loved me despite knowing I didn't love him back initially. We had thirteen years before Voss killed him."
"Do you think Casimir could be like that?" I'm almost afraid to ask. "Kind? Patient?"
"No." She's honest. "Casimir is brilliant and strategic. He doesn't have time or energy for patience. But he respects you, which might be enough for eighteen months of arrangement."
Eighteen months. The timeline that governs everything now. Eighteen months of marriage before Casimir dies and Lucien inherits. Eighteen months of pretending while the baby grows and the mate bond pulls and the prophecies threaten.
I can survive eighteen months.
I have to survive eighteen months.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien: "How are you holding up?"
The mate bond flares at just seeing his name. I type back: "Dressed. Terrified. Wishing I could run."
"We could still run."
"And watch your family die from the curse? Watch other packs hunt us for the baby?" I'm harsh about it. "We've been through this."
"I know. Just offering the option." A pause. "I love you."
"I love you too. See you at the altar."
"See you there."
I set down the phone, resting my hand on my stomach. The curve is barely noticeable beneath the fitted dress, but I can feel it… the presence of something growing impossibly fast, changing my body at supernatural speed.
"Baby." I whisper to it. "I'm sorry. Sorry you're being born into this mess. Sorry your first year will be complicated by politics and prophecies and people who want to use you. But I promise… I'll do everything I can to protect you. To raise you better than we were raised. To give you choices we never had."
No response, obviously. Too early for movement. But I imagine I feel something… warmth, maybe. Acknowledgment. Understanding that we're in this together.
Petra returns with food I don't want… delicate sandwiches and fruit arranged beautifully on china. "Please eat. You need strength for the ceremony."
"I need a miracle." But I'm picking up a sandwich, forcing myself to take small bites. "Or at least to get through the next twelve hours without vomiting from stress."
"The nausea is pregnancy or anxiety?" She's concerned.
"Both." I manage half the sandwich before setting it down. "Pregnancy symptoms are getting worse. Another week and hiding it will be impossible."
"After tonight, hiding won't matter." Morrigan is practical. "You'll be married. Legal claim established. Pregnancy becomes announcement rather than scandal."
"Still scandal." I laugh without humor. "Everyone will do the math. Know the baby isn't Casimir's."
"Everyone already knows." She's blunt. "The mate bond makes it obvious. The only question is whether they'll respect the legal fiction or cause problems."
"Wonderful." I stand, checking the mirror one final time. The bride staring back looks composed, elegant, ready. Everything I'm not.
Three PM arrives with makeup touch-ups. Four PM brings the photographer for pre-ceremony portraits… me alone, me with Morrigan, me with Petra, each pose more artificial than the last.
"Beautiful." The photographer reviews the images. "Casimir will be pleased."
As if this is about pleasing Casimir. As if any of this is about love or joy or celebration instead of political necessity.
Five PM. The cars arrive… sleek black vehicles with tinted windows and Dragomir security. Petra helps me into the first car, arranging the dress carefully so it won't wrinkle.
"You'll be magnificent." She squeezes my hand. "Whatever happens tonight, you'll be magnificent."
The drive to Convergence Hall takes thirty minutes through London traffic. I watch the city pass through tinted windows… normal people living normal lives, unaware that blocks away, three hundred supernatural beings are gathering for ceremony that will unite or destroy packs that have been separate for two centuries.
The mate bond pulls stronger as we approach. Lucien is already there, waiting. I can feel his anguish through the connection, his love mixed with helpless fury at circumstances neither of us can control.
"Almost there." Morrigan sits across from me, studying my face
The car pulls up to Convergence Hall and I see it properly for the first time… massive stone building, Gothic architecture, designed to withstand warfare. Security everywhere, checking credentials, scanning for weapons, ensuring nothing disrupts the ceremony.
"Miss Thornewood." Security approaches as I exit the car. "Please follow us. You'll wait in the preparation room until processional begins."
I'm escorted through back entrance, away from the main hall where guests are gathering. The preparation room is elegant… soft lighting, comfortable furniture, mirrors covering one wall.
Petra fusses with the dress, adjusting every fold, ensuring perfection. Morrigan stands apart, watching with an expression I can't quite read.
"Ten minutes." Someone calls from the doorway. "Processional begins in ten minutes."
My heart races. The nausea intensifies. I press one hand against my stomach, feeling the baby that's growing despite everything.
"You can do this." Petra is adjusting the veil, pulling it over my face. "Breathe. Just breathe."
The veil obscures my vision, turns everything soft and dreamlike.
Morrigan leaves. I'm alone with Petra and the ten minutes counting down to ceremony.
"How do you feel?" Petra asks gently.
"Like I'm walking toward my own funeral." The honesty escapes. "Like everything I am is being buried so someone else can emerge. Casimir's wife. The Convergence bride. The prophesied vessel's mother."
"You'll still be Thalia underneath all that." She's trying to be reassuring.
"Will I?" I'm not certain. "Or will I lose myself in the roles I'm forced to play?"
"Five minutes." The call comes from the doorway.
Petra hands me the bouquet… white roses and lilies, elegant and traditional, smelling faintly of death.
"It's time." She's blinking back tears. "You're ready."
I'm not ready. Will never be ready. But ready or not, the ceremony proceeds.
The doors open. Music swells… something classical I don't recognize, probably chosen by Casimir's coordinators. Through the veil, I can see the processional path, the doors to the main hall, the future approaching whether I want it or not.
Morrigan appears, offering her arm. "Shall we?"
I take it, leaning on her more than I'd like to admit. Together we move toward the doors, toward the hall filled with three hundred witnesses, toward the altar where Casimir waits.
The doors open fully and I see it all… vaulted ceilings soaring above, stained glass filtering colored light, wooden pews packed with wolves from three different packs watching with varying degrees of suspicion and calculation.
At the altar, Casimir stands in formal black, looking distinguished despite the illness ravaging him from inside. Beside him, Lucien is positioned as advisor and witness, face carefully neutral but eyes betraying everything the mate bond makes him feel.
Our gazes lock through the veil. The bond screams recognition, protest, anguish that this is happening despite everything it represents.
"Keep walking." Morrigan murmurs. "Don't stop now."
I force my feet to move. One step. Another. Down the aisle between pews filled with Alphas and pack leaders and political operatives who see me as weapon or threat or solution.
"Keep walking." Morrigan's voice is firmer. "Almost there."
Three-quarters down the aisle now. Close enough to see details… Casimir's composed expression, Lucien's barely controlled anguish, Nikolai standing as secondary witness with grim sympathy.
Final steps. I reach the altar where Casimir waits, where Lucien stands witness, where my future is about to be bound by vows I don't want to speak.
Morrigan releases my arm, stepping back to her seat. I'm alone now… Casimir across from me, Lucien to the side, three hundred witnesses watching.
The officiant begins speaking. Words about love and partnership and commitment that feel like mockery given the circumstances.
Through the veil, I see Lucien's face. See the anguish he's hiding from everyone except me. Feel through the mate bond exactly what this is costing him.
"I'm sorry." I mouth the words, knowing he can read my lips. "I'm so sorry."
His expression doesn't change, but through the bond, I feel his response: "I know. I love you anyway."
The officiant reaches the crucial moment. "If anyone has objections to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace."