The transition from the wedding ceremony to the private chambers felt like a dream—a nightmare Hazel could not escape from. The air in the palace had grown heavy, thick with the weight of expectations and unseen threats. As the grand celebration continued downstairs, Hazel was led away by servants, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind overwhelmed by the reality of the marriage she had just entered.
Her eyes flicked nervously over her surroundings as they walked through the corridors of the royal wing. The walls seemed to close in around her, each step taking her closer to the dreaded bedchamber. She couldn't remember a time when she had felt so small, so utterly powerless. In just a few short hours, she had gone from a princess imprisoned in a gilded cage to a wife—no, a prisoner—of a man who had the power to destroy her.
They reached the door of the bedchamber, and the servants left them alone, retreating into the shadows. Azrael stood at the door, his presence looming in the dim light. He had not spoken a word to her since the wedding, and the silence between them felt as though it could suffocate her.
Hazel's breath caught in her throat as Azrael turned to face her. His eyes, cold and distant, regarded her without emotion. There was no tenderness in his gaze, no warmth. Only a calculating, almost predatory glint that made her blood run cold. He stepped aside, allowing her to enter first, and she hesitated at the threshold, her heart thumping louder with each passing second.
Azrael's bedchamber was both grand and dark. Heavy, black curtains draped the tall windows, blocking out the moonlight, and the room was illuminated only by the soft glow of candlelight. The air smelled faintly of wood and something unfamiliar, something almost metallic, like the scent of impending danger. The walls were adorned with dark tapestries that told tales of battles long past—stories of power, conquest, and blood.
The bed, large and imposing, dominated the center of the room. Its canopy was draped in dark velvet, casting a shadow over the lavish sheets that looked far too luxurious for the nightmare she had just walked into. It was impossible to escape the feeling that the room, like everything else in this palace, had been crafted for something far darker than comfort.
"Come in," Azrael's voice broke through the silence, low and commanding. He didn't seem to care whether she obeyed or not; the words were simply a statement of fact. "There's no need to hesitate."
Hazel stepped into the room, her feet moving with a mind of their own, carrying her further into the unfamiliar darkness. She felt as though she was walking toward her own demise, her body on autopilot, her mind screaming for a way out.
Azrael closed the door behind them with a quiet click, the sound sending a jolt of fear through her. She felt trapped—encased in the very walls that had been designed to keep her in, to keep her under control. There was no escape now. She was his wife, bound by duty, by blood, by a prophecy neither of them fully understood. The night had only just begun, and she feared what would come next.
"I know you are nervous," Azrael's voice was soft, though it held an edge of something far more dangerous. He moved toward the bed, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. "But there is no need to be. It is just us here."
Hazel swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing, but the fear gnawed at her insides, relentless and unforgiving. She glanced over her shoulder at him, but he was already seated on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her with a strange intensity.
His gaze raked over her body, lingering for a moment too long, as though he were studying her every movement. It wasn't lustful, nor was it tender—it was almost clinical, as though he were observing a piece of art he was meant to possess but didn't fully understand.
"I'll make this easy for you," Azrael continued, his tone colder now, more detached. "This is our bedchamber. You will sleep here with me from now on. There will be no pretending. There will be no escape. You will stay, and you will learn your place."
Hazel's heart raced, her hands trembling as she fought the urge to run. She could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air, heavy and suffocating. There was no room for rebellion, no chance for defiance. In this room, she was nothing—no longer a princess, no longer someone with a future of her own. She was a prisoner of her own fate.
The space between them seemed to stretch infinitely, and yet, it was impossible to ignore the growing tension, the electricity that crackled in the air between them. She felt like a moth drawn to the flame, terrified yet inexplicably compelled by him, by the dark power he exuded.
Azrael finally stood, his long, lean frame moving with a fluid grace as he approached her. He was tall—taller than she had expected—and the intensity in his eyes left her speechless, trapped in his gaze.
"You are afraid," he observed, his voice low, almost a whisper. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. "Good. You should be. But fear will not save you, princess. Not here. Not with me."
Hazel recoiled slightly, instinctively taking a small step backward. But there was no room to retreat. The room, the bed, the man—all of it seemed to close in on her, to trap her in his dark embrace.
Azrael reached out, his fingers grazing her chin, lifting her face to meet his gaze. His touch was cold, yet it sent a strange shiver through her body. She was repulsed, yet unable to move away from him.
"You will learn to understand," he continued, his voice softening just slightly, though the coldness never left. "That power is not something given—it is taken. And you, Hazel, are mine now."
A chill ran through her, as though the words had carved a permanent mark into her soul. There was no escaping him. Not now. Not ever.
With a final glance, Azrael turned away, moving toward the bed and sitting down once again. "You can sleep on the other side," he said, as though the conversation had ended.
Hazel stood there for a long moment, her heart still racing, her body trembling with fear and uncertainty. The bed loomed ahead of her, the one place she would now be expected to lie next to the man who terrified her.
This was no fairytale. No simple arranged marriage. This was something darker, something much more dangerous. And Hazel feared that it was only the beginning.
As she climbed into the bed, her body stiff and tense, she realized something that chilled her to the core: this was her life now. This was her reality. And there would be no turning back.
Azrael was right about one thing—she was afraid. And the fear only grew stronger with each passing second as she lay next to him, trapped in the unholy union they had forged together.