Chapter Two: A Bed of Thorns

The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that echoed louder than the ceremony itself.

The wedding suite was silent — too silent.

Soft candlelight flickered against polished stone walls. Rose petals were scattered across the bed, arranged like a battlefield pretending to be romantic. A silver pitcher steamed gently beside a goblet, and the air smelled of crushed herbs, warmth, and… expectation.

Rhea stood awkwardly by the door, clutching her skirt like it might offer answers.

This is supposed to be my honeymoon, she thought dryly.

You know—soft kisses, nervous laughter, maybe some wine and awkward attempts at undressing.

Great. I've been married for two hours, haven't had a first kiss, and now I'm about to spend the night next to a man who looks like he kills people in his sleep.

She'd read about wedding nights.

Seen them in dramas.

Even A Moonlit Oath had described them with breathless, glowing words.

But this wasn't soft. Or glowing. Or breathless in any beautiful way.

It was cold.

Cyrien said nothing as he removed his gloves with methodical precision, letting them fall onto a chair beside him. He untied the buckle at his throat, loosened the black sash on his waist — all with the same quiet, practiced detachment as if he were alone.

He didn't even glance her way.

Not until the silence stretched too long. Not until it started to choke her.

Then finally, he looked.

"You're quieter than I expected," he said flatly.

His voice held no warmth — only cool observation, like he was catalogin her reactions.

Rhea cleared her throat. "It's been… a long day."

He studied her in the dim light, eyes unreadable.

"Mm. And here I thought you were eager to begin your duty. Isn't that why you're here?"

Her stomach twisted. "What duty?"

He tilted his head, one dark brow lifting in mock surprise.

"Don't play innocent, Lady Rhea. The Queen wouldn't go to such lengths unless she trusted you. You're her favorite little hound, aren't you?"

Rhea blinked. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."

A faint smirk curved on his lips — not warm.

Dangerous.

Like he was testing her with every word.

"Is that how it starts? Earn my trust. Climb into my bed. Whisper sweet nothings while reporting every breath I take?"

"I'm not a spy," she blurted, too fast.

He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just enough to force her attention.

"No?" he murmured. "Then what are you, Rhea Valencia? You stare at me like I'm a stranger. You flinch at the wrong things. And earlier when the priest called my name you looked like you were about to run."

Rhea's mouth went dry.

He was watching her too closed.

"I don't want to lie to you," she said softly, "but I can't tell you the truth either. You wouldn't believe it."

Something flickered in his expression — not quite shock, not quite understanding. But he stepped back.

"I don't need your explanations. I've heard better lies from enemies under torture."

The words weren't cruel — just cold. Measured. Like everything about him.

His gaze lingered for a heartbeat more, and then he turned from her — just like that. Uninterested.

Rhea stood there, still frozen in her ceremonial gown.

He moved to the bed, loosening his outer coat. His voice came again, this time quieter. Still sharp.

"You thought I'd take you tonight?" he asked suddenly, voice quiet but piercing. "Ruin the Queen's pretty little puppet on the first night?"

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She turned away instinctively, heart pounding in her ears.

"I-I didn't assume anything…"

"Good."

"Because I don't take what's handed to me on a leash."

He rolled onto his side, facing away from her now. He slipped under the covers, facing the far wall.

Rhea remained by the edge of the room, unsure if she should move. The wedding dress clung to her in places that felt foreign now. Her heart wouldn't slow.

Eventually, she crossed the room. Sat on the farthest edge of the bed, lowering herself beneath the covers as if sharing space with a storm waiting to break.

"Sleep, Rhea," came his voice, distant in more ways than one. "Tomorrow the court will expect you to smile beside me like you mean it."

She stared at the ceiling.

Cyrien didn't move again.

Two strangers.

One bed.

And a wall of silence thicker than any curse.