A Dance Macabre (Perverse City #1)

52. Wolfgang

52

WOLFGANG

Two weeks later …

“ S he’s ready for you,” Jeremial declares with a formal nod.

Giddy anticipation bubbles up my chest, and I nearly tackle him out of the way to get to Mercy. He somehow avoids my lunge and still manages to look stoic while opening the door for me. Eagerly, I enter the spacious waiting room connected to the large hall where our most important ceremonies occur.

Or in this case, the official union of the co-rulers of Pravitia.

The waiting room walls are full of formidable paintings of our ancestors, our likenesses soon to adorn the same walls.

But none of that matters right now.

Not when Mercy is standing near the crackling fireplace in her wedding dress, a long black veil cascading down her back, reaching the floor. Her dress is a blend of a dark red corseted bodice and black lace overtop, long flowing sleeves falling over her hands, and a wide circular train. Her gaze slides to meet mine from across the room.

And she smiles.

It’s almost demure as if she’s seeking my approval.

My heart explodes at the sight.

I stalk to her, setting down the gift I’m holding on a table nearby before cradling her face between my hands.

“My ruin,” I groan deeply, my forehead pressed to hers. “You look divine. A goddess amongst mortals. The entire city is undeserving to even lay eyes on you.”

The smallest of giggles leaves her lips, the puff of air warm against my skin, and I can’t stand the countless seconds separating me from calling Mercy my wife.

“You look dashing yourself,” she says breathlessly.

Hearing her voice laced with such levity is intoxicating. Especially momentous, when I know it only happens when it’s just us two.

“Did you expect anything less?” I ask amusingly. Pulling away, I preen like a peacock as I show off my outfit; a red velvet tuxedo, with black lapels to compliment her dress.

“Like the very embodiment of the god of idolatry,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. We fall silent for a few bated breaths, Mercy’s gaze brimming with affection.

Somehow ripping myself away from her enchantment, I reach for the gift. “I have a surprise for you.” I offer it to Mercy. “To my muse,” I say with a proud grin.

Her brow lifts in surprise. “For me?”

“Open it,” I urge.

Her smile returns, and I am enamored.

She rips the gold wrapping to reveal a thick leather-bound book inside. Letting the crinkle paper fall to the floor, her gaze jumps to mine and then back down as she inspects the simple black cover.

I’m jittery, but bite my tongue, trying not to rush her.

Finally, she opens the book, and her small gasp is the only thing I had hoped for in return.

I don’t bother to hide my pride. “Your photographs deserved a better home than a mere shoebox.” Referring to the ones she keeps of the dead.

Her green eyes turn glassy. Her smile watery.

“I love it …” Her gaze is serious and penetrating. She takes a small step toward me. “Thank you, husband” she finally professes, and my entire body feels bathed in light. She swallows hard, setting the book aside before approaching me, her hands slipping into mine, gaze ablaze. “Know that I am yours forever. Not even our gods can keep us apart. I am yours beyond this life, Wolfgang. Beyond death and the shadows of the eternal.” She kisses me softly, her arms wrapping around my waist, and whispers, “I love you.”

“Mercy,” I say, my voice aching and racked with need. “I am chained to you for all of eternity. Take my soul into yours and ruin me evermore.”

We stay embracing, hearts pulsing with the beat of our devotion, our interlocking gazes steadfast and yearning.

“Ready?” I finally ask her. She smiles and nods. “Then, let’s go my betrothed,” I say with a wide grin as I pick her up and twirl her around. Her shocked giggle is effervescent as she slaps my shoulder playfully. “Impish brute! Put me down,” she yelps.

My laughter rises from deep inside my chest as I settle her back on her feet. “Who’s calling who a brute, Crèvecoeur?” I shoot her a wink, lacing my fingers with hers as I lead her out the door. “Now come, I cannot bear another godsdamned second not calling you my wife.”