The veil was too heavy. I could barely feel my face beneath the lace, but I felt every eye—hungry, waiting. Then the organ stopped.

The doors burst open. Not the groom. Men in black masks. Gunfire. Screams. My father’s men dropped like puppets with cut strings.

And then I saw him—Elias Crowe—standing in the wreckage, untouched, holding a syringe and a cold smile. 'You’re not getting married today,' he said. 'You’re being rescued.'

He reached for me. Behind me, my real fiancé lay unconscious, dragged into the shadows. Was this salvation? Or just a different kind of cage?

My fingers curled around the knife in my bouquet. One move. One choice. Do I take his hand… run… or stab him where he stands?