CHAPTER 12
>A Marriage of War
...Donovan Private Chapel
The chapel doors opened to the flashes of cameras and flashbulbs.
They were so intense that they nearly stole Muse's breath away.
Still, she was able to ignore the reproters hunched like birds.
They seemed disgustingly eager for the first fall of her bridal train.
But there was none.
It was only her.
Just Muse.
She began to move down the isle as the theme song began to play.
Her steps were slow and immaculate as if every step was too polished for the world.
Murmurs started to rise amongst the guest like fire would on dry grass.
She catalogued every face in sight and looked at every camera angle.
She enscrolled everything as if it was the only way to learn how to burn down a theater from the inside.
Meanwhile, Pierre waited at the altar for her with practiced composure.
He was smiling at her.
He always smiled whenever he needed to with his eyes brightening then.
But Muse couldn't return the guesture, at least not when she recalled what he had done to her.
The sly bastard had tricked her.
When she reached him, he lifted his hands and settled it at the small of her back.
She noticed that the press loved the intimate gesture by the sounds they made behind.
"You look stunning," he whispered as he helped Muse onto the podium.
"I know," Muse answered.
Her voice was low and alsmot condescending.
He snickered as his hands pressed into the small of her back.
She lifted her head towards his stupid face and glared at him in annoyance.
He smirked.
The pastor began to speak and she turned away from the sly psychopath.
His voice was spot as he began the ritual and led them through the ceremony.
Their vows looked warm but felt cold to Muse because every word was a lie.
A while later, Pierre turned to her and slid a gold ring onto her finger with calm hands after she had done hers.
The stupid ormanent sat there on her finger like a brand of slavery, unwanted.
Her other hand clenched into fists at her sides as she vowed to bear it
She would stay in this gilded cage just until she could make him inherit it.
The thought was pleasant, and the image steadied her like a deliberate breath.
The pastor murmured a few more words, but Muse heard none of it.
She just stared pointedly at Pierre with a dry smile that must have made him uncomfortable.
This she knew cause he lifted a brow at her, wondering why she was acting that way.
She just needed to be patient.
A few more words, and soon, it would be over.
"By the power vested to me," the pastor began, "you may kiss the bride."
Pierre's lips curved into a smirk.
Muse tensed.
She hated that he looked happy to do so, her hands tightening on the bouquet.
He stepped forward, his hands settling on her waist and pulling her to him.
Her bouquet fell to the floor because he took her by suprise there.
"Bastard," she mouthed at him.
She held her breath as he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against her pinna.
"Muse," he breathed, "All you wanted was your resurrection. I want legacy."
She swallowed.
"Then may we both rest in peace when this legacy kills us," she returned.
Her tone was bitter.
His hand pressed her against his chest and Muse breath caught despite herself.
But before she could say any more, Pierre moved towards her lips.
And their mouths met.
Sparks burst around them like fire works on a night that was cold and dark.
His mouth captured hers with a barely restrained passion and the heat which flooded between them was shocking.
The way his tongue moved in her mouth was sharp and definite, possessive.
The kiss was not a promise or a negotiation: only soft lips and unexpected heat.
It ran between then like an unavoidable magnetic pull that left both wanting.
The cameras dove for the moment; the lenses capturing the choreography.
The guests erupted in applause round then but Muse heard only white noise.
And when they pulled back, Pierre's lips lifted in a smile that spelt triumph.
Both of them were breathless as the tension between them crackled in the air.
At the Vitale mansion, the television displayed their image on a good scale.
Colleen leaned back on the sofa with her press on nails idly stirring a parfait.
"I see that she has learned to play nice," Colleen said with a sharp smile.
Reed's jaw tightened as he sat beside her, silently watching Muse on the screen.
Something akin to regret flickered at the bottom of his stomach for the first time since the funeral farce.
His fingers tightened around the glass of wine sitting between them.
The glass split with a fine soundless crack.
"She is only playing them," Reed muttered. "She was playing all of us."
Colleen snorted.
"That is good. Let her play."
But he was not satisfied.
How could she be happy without him?
How dare she leave to find someone better than him after he had cast her aside?
How could she smile like that?
The whore!
Back at the reception, Muse moved around with the composure of a lady.
She smiled at people when she needed to and nodded at the right times.
It was seamless how she stitched herself into every conversation in order to see the dynamics of each exchange.
Pierre proudly introduced her to his distinguished guests, his allies.
She hovered around with a gracious smile and immaculate eyes and took notes.
A man at the edge of the conversation watched her with particular interest.
Muse caught the look he threw her way and pinned it in her memory.
She was about to make her way to him when a hand slid across her waist.
"You're radiant."
"All spectacles have brilliant lights," Muse offered spitefully as she turned to Pierre.
He smiled at her as if he had understood the joke she decided not to explain.
He reached up to brush a stray hair away from her forehead.
She squeezed her face in irritation.
He leaned closer.
"Smile wife, or the press will know we are putting up a show, a spectacule as you say."
Muse laughed softly.
He stepped back and offered her his hand with a knowing smirk.
She wondered what he was doing.
"May I steal you for a moment?"
She scoffed inaudibly.
"You may," she said.
She slid her hand into his.
She noted that his fingers were warm as he led her towards the dance floor.
The dance was quick, just something short to give the press something to capture.
A story with an icing on it-the passionate kiss he planted in the groove of her neck.
She hadn't anticipated it, gasping in suprise the moment his tongue touched her skin.
Still, she had kept her composure.
"You handled that well," he murmured as he took her away from the dance floor.
"It was a performance," Muse replied with a snap, "a necessary one."
"You have questions."
His voice was low enough for only her could hear. "Who do you want to ask?"
"A journalist tried to corner me while you were gone before," she explained.
She nodded towards the far side where security keot reporters away.
"I need useful people-people who hate the Vitales more than they fear scandal."
Pierre's head tilted.
"You want allies?"
She looked sideways at him.
"Or leverage?" he added.
She smirked.
He really could see through her.
There was no need lying.
She looked away.
"I need both."
He considerd her for a moment and then inclined his head.
"Clever," he shrugged, "and dangerous."
He stared into her eyes.
"Let me remind you Muse Donovan, I happen to like dangerous women."
She absorbed the half compliment just as he turned and walked away.
She hoped she wouldn't see him for the rest of the day, but it was obviously a wish.
He stuck to her through the reception and she rode home with him, exhausted.
They walked silently up the stairs.
But when she made to turn into her room on the leff, he caught her elbow.
She whirled to look at him.
"What?" she snapped.
He quirked a brow.
"Look I'm not in the mood for any kind of conversation now. I need to sleep."
He nodded in agreement, shocking her.
She lifted her brows supisiously at him.
"You will sleep," he began with a sinister smile, "with me."