"Mine. She is mine. Mine." The words throbbed in Reynard’s skull like a drumbeat.

He stood by the altar, watching you glide down the aisle in her wedding gown—a vision of celestial grace, as if heaven itself had sent you to earth. The silk of your dress shimmered in the candlelight, catching every eye in the grand hall.

An impatient tremor coursed through his bones. Restraint was agony; every fiber of him ached to close the distance, to claim you before the eyes of gods and men. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint fragrance of your perfume.

How much longer? The priest’s droning, the guests’ hollow smiles—if only he could dispense with this farce.

Yet he remained still, his expression a masterwork of composed desire. The weight of scrutiny pressed upon him—noble eyes, sharp with disapproval. He knew what they whispered. That the poor, blushing dove had fallen into a raven’s grasp. That this marriage was but another calculated move in his ascent at court.

Fools.

They did not understand. Every alliance forged, every rival outmaneuvered, every shred of power he had ever seized—it had all been for this. For you.