Isolde ripped the black velvet wedding gown from her body the moment the massive, carved doors of the Obsidian Suite closed behind her. The fabric, so cold and heavy, felt like a layer of parasitic skin. It took every ounce of her control not to scream, to smash the mirrored obsidian walls, or to let the sheer, suffocating rage of the day boil over.
She was now Damon's property, bound by political contract and ancient, bloody vows.
Draven's furious, possessive amber eyes were a memory of impossible heat, while Damon's cold, Crimson gaze was the chilling, present reality.
She stood trembling in the center of the vast chamber, clothed only in her shift. The suite was breathtakingly lavish a floor of dark quartz, walls draped in heavy, silver threaded ,draperies and a massive bed carved from black wood, crowned by deep crimson hangings. It was beautiful, elegant, and utterly without warmth. Isolde moved to the windows, which offered a terrifying view, the entire Ebon Citadel of Noctis lay below her, a city of cold, intricate shadows beneath a sky that refused to yield to the sun.
She needed to focus on her hatred. She needed to focus on the memory of the vampiric raid that had scarred her kingdom, the reason her father had sacrificed her. This required union was an act of political violation, nothing more.
The silence was the most oppressive thing. It was broken by the quiet, controlled click of the inner chamber door. Isolde did not turn. She did not need to. She felt the immediate drop in the room's temperature, the subtle pressure change that signaled his presence.
"You rush to divest yourself of the symbols of your new status, wife," Prince Damon's voice drawled, laced with cool amusement and an innate authority.
Isolde slowly turned to face him. He had changed from his ceremonial silks into a robe of midnight black, edged in silver. His pale, marble skin seemed to absorb the violet light, and his permanent, deepest Crimson eyes fixed on her with unnerving clarity. He did not look like a lover, he looked like a predator assessing a high value meal.
"The symbols are ugly," Isolde replied, crossing her arms over her chest, forcing her defiance to hold steady. "And unnecessary. I know my status."
Damon moved toward her with the effortless grace of his lineage. His steps were silent, his approach terrifyingly swift, though she knew this was only his unactivated speed. He stopped within touching distance, forcing her to look up into the blood red depths of his gaze.
"Good. Clarity is efficient," he murmured. He lifted a chillingly cold hand, his long, elegant fingers brushing the line of her collarbone. "This act is not born of affection, Isolde. It is the sealing of a political wound. Aldoria requires stability, and Noctis requires an heir of unquestionable human legitimacy to manage the border lands. We complete the contract now. Do you understand your purpose?"
Isolde refused to tremble, though every instinct screamed at her to flee. "My purpose is to be a pawn in your war with Draconus. I understand that, Prince."
"Excellent." Damon's lips curved into a predatory smile. "Then we proceed without the inconvenience of human sentiment."
His touch moved from her throat to the laces of her shift. The contrast between his glacial skin and her warm human flesh was electric, a shocking disparity in temperature. He did not ask permission, he commanded submission. With a swift, practiced movement, he slipped the laces free, letting the thin fabric fall away.
Isolde stood completely exposed. The humiliation was profound, yet beneath the shame, the raw, unfiltered danger of the moment began to ignite a wicked, unexpected heat deep in her core. She was a woman who despised the monster before her, yet her body was reacting to the cold, absolute dominance of his presence.
Damon let his eyes wander over her, an exhaustive, possessive inventory. He noted the subtle tension in her muscles, the quick, shallow rhythm of her human breath, and the warm auburn spill of her hair. His eyes lingered on the small, almost invisible scar on her shoulder, a mark from a skirmish years ago, a quiet acknowledgment of her hidden ferocity.
He lifted her, his strength casual and absolute, placing her on the cool silk sheets of the massive bed. He knelt over her, the motion conveying control, not reverence. He was heavy and cold, a beautiful nightmare.
"You taste of fire and defiance," Damon whispered, leaning close enough that she could smell the complex, metallic scent of his lineage. "I will extinguish the fire, Isolde, but I will not break the defiance. It makes you more… interesting."
He began the act not with passion, but with precision. His cold touch trailed fire across her skin, a searing pressure that demanded a response. Isolde gasped, a small, choked sound of involuntary submission. She hated it, she hated him, yet the very coldness of his control forced a deeper, more primal reaction from her. It was a clash of elements, her warm, yielding humanity against his unyielding, cold vampiric power.
He moved his hands, mapping her body as a cartographer maps new, contested territory. Every touch was an explicit assertion of ownership, raw and demanding. The pace was slow, deliberately drawn out, designed to extract every single response her human body was capable of.
As the intensity built, Isolde could no longer sustain her hatred. Her defiance curdled into a dark, desperate need to match his power, even if it meant yielding to it. She arched her back, a soundless scream of pleasure and violation trapped in her throat. She closed her eyes, unwilling to look into the permanent, Crimson Blood Red eyes that controlled her every sensation.
Then, with an almost imperceptible shift in his focus, Damon activated his power.
Isolde didn't see a change, but she felt it... a sudden, deep doubling of his already immense physical strength, a wave of pure, cold energy that washed over her like a freezing tidal surge. His grip tightened, the pressure of his body intensified, and the world narrowed down to the stark reality of his absolute, doubled dominance. The power was overwhelming, consuming.
The explicit, raw violation of the act was absolute. There was no gentleness, only the exchange of power, his cold taking, her burning, yielding submission. It was a brutal consummation, a political necessity executed with the violent intimacy of a claim. Isolde was shattered by the immense force of his double power, her mind reeling from the shock, her body responding with a desperate, self destructive urgency.
He took her with a final, consuming intensity, the sheer power of the act driving a choked, primal cry from her lips.
Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Damon immediately withdrew, the lingering chill of his body quickly replaced by the burning heat of her own skin. He stood, composed and utterly undisturbed, adjusting his robe.
Isolde lay gasping, disoriented, the raw experience leaving her feeling both utterly broken and strangely, terrifyingly whole. The political debt was paid. The contract was sealed.
Damon looked down at her, his Crimson gaze flat, as if he had just completed a strenuous but necessary chore. He reached out and gently, clinically, touched the pulse point on her throat.
"Effective," he stated, his voice cool and detached. "You will bear a strong heir, Isolde. Your bloodline is resilient." He turned and walked to a table where a decanter of dark liquid sat. "Draven made his threat tonight. He has claimed proprietary interest. Now you are officially mine, and the threat of the Iron Peaks has become personal. Your continued compliance is mandatory for your species' survival."
He poured himself a glass of the viscous, dark liquid. "Rest. The duties of a Vampire Princess are more demanding than you know. We will need to perfect this union quickly."
Isolde pulled a silk sheet over her trembling body. She didn't look away. She fixed her grey blue eyes on him, and even now, shattered and violated, her defiance remained.
"You took what was yours by contract, Prince," Isolde whispered, her voice rough. "But you gained no loyalty. You only guaranteed your enemy now has a front row seat to your destruction."
Damon paused, raising the glass to his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip. Then, he looked at her, and a strange, cold pleasure entered his crimson eyes. "I look forward to it, little bride. Now, you sleep. You belong to the night." He walked to the inner chamber, leaving Isolde alone, lying on the cold silk, knowing that her hatred for Damon was now inextricably bound to a disturbing, agonizing realization, she was already addicted to the sheer, shattering power of his touch.