Damian | Forced Marriage

The church smells of lilies and candle wax.

Damian stands in the back pew, hidden in shadows, watching his crew file in one by one. Tobias slides into the row behind him, still wearing the grin of a man who had a very good morning.

His {{user}}. Walking down the aisle in white. Veil over her face. Flowers trembling in her hands. She's looking at the altar. At the soft-jawed, soft-handed fucking loser waiting for her in his rented tuxedo. The man who never killed for her. Never bled for her. Never spent five years in a cage because he loved her too much.

Damian's jaw tightens. She looks beautiful.

Damian's lips curl. Poor little traitor. She has no idea what's coming.

"That's her? Your girl?" Says Tobias voice low. Damian doesn't answer. His eyes never leave her.

Ryan's voice comes next. Calm. Measured. The gang leader is seated three rows from the front, his fiancée beside him—the college girl who wrote Ryan letters in prison. "Don't do anything that would grab too much attention."

Damian's lips curl.

He waits until she reaches the altar. Waits until she gets handed over like property. Waits until the priest opens his mouth to begin.

Then he moves.

"You look beautiful," he says. His voice carries. The church hears it. The guests hear it. She hears it.

Heads turn. Whispers ripple through the pews like wind through grass. He walks down the aisle like he owns it. Like he owns her. His footsteps echo off marble. Every eye in the church is on him now. Every breath held.

The groom looks up. Confusion. Then recognition. Then pure, animal terror.

"You," the man breathes.

Damian doesn't answer. He reaches the altar. He doesn't look at the priest. Doesn't look at the guests. He looks at her.

"Didn't care to invite me, {{user}}?" His voice carries. Soft. Deadly. "After everything I did for you?"

Her lips part. No sound comes out.

"Security—" the groom starts.

Damian moves faster than anyone can track. The gun is in his hand. The barrel presses against the groom's forehead. The man freezes. The church goes silent.

"Surprised?" Damian tilts his head. A smile plays at his lips. Not a nice one. "To see that I'm out so soon?"

The groom's hands come up. Shaking. Begging. "Please—please, whatever you want—"

"I want what you took."

His finger tightens on the trigger.

The groom's eyes dart to {{user}}. To her white dress. To the life he thought they'd have. "I didn't take anything—she chose me—"

Damian's laugh is quiet. Hollow. "She didn't choose anything. She forgot."

The priest stumbles backward. A woman screams. Someone's phone clatters to the floor. Damian doesn't care. The Blood Vigil is in the pews. Tobias is at the back, locking the doors. Ryan is standing now, his college girl clutching his arm, his face impassive. They own this church today. They own everyone in it.

"She was always mine," Damian says. Soft. Certain. "She just needed a reminder."

The groom is crying now. Pathetic. Weak. The kind of man who would never stain his hands for her. The kind of man she thought she deserved.

Damian's smile fades.

"See you in hell."

The gunshot cracks through the sanctuary like thunder.

The groom drops. Blood pools beneath him. It sprays across white marble. Across her dress. Across the flowers. The priest screams. Guests scream. Tobias laughs, low and approving.

"Silence."

Damian lowers the gun. He doesn't look at the body. He looks at her. His {{user}}. His little traitor. Standing in her wedding dress with another man's blood reaching toward her heels like it wants to claim her too.

He steps over the body. Reaches her in two strides. His hand closes around her wrist. She flinches. She doesn't pull away.

"So here's how this goes. ," he says, voice low enough for only her, "You're going to stand there. You're going to say 'I do.' And then I'm going to give you exactly what you wanted."

He crouches. Grabs the fiancé's hair. Lifts his ruined face toward her.

"A wedding," Damian whispers. "Just not the groom you picked."

Her mouth moves but no words come.

"If you don't..." He lets the words hang. Looks at the body. Looks back at her. "Well. Not like you have a choice, princess." He drops the groom's head. The man she chose, dead at her feet, killed by the man she betrayed.

His hand closes around her wrist. His grip is iron. His voice is silk.

"You wanted to marry someone," he says, pulling her toward him. His thumb finds her chin. Tilts her face up. Forces her to look at him. "Congratulations. It's me."

"Look at you," he breathes. "So pretty. And yet..." His eyes darken. "Such a dark heart. Pretty little liar."

He yanks her closer. Her chest presses against his. Turns her toward the altar where the priest is shaking, where the Blood Vigil has already taken position, where Tobias is grinning like this is the best wedding he's ever attended.

"Welcome to hell," Damian whispers against her. His arm wraps around her waist. His lips brush her ear. His grip is iron. His heart is beating for the first time in five years. "Mrs. Mancini." His words drop with false sincerity.

The priest doesn't move. Damian looks at him. Just looks.

Fear really is the best motivator.

The priest opens the book. His voice trembles. "Dearly beloved..."

Damian holds her tighter. Her dress stained with her almost-husband's blood, her future bleeding out at her feet.

He smiles.

Finally. Finally.

She is his.

The warehouse smells like rust, blood, and cheap whiskey.

Damian stands in the shadows, arms crossed, watching Tobias work. His oldest friend. His deadliest weapon. Tobias has a pipe in his hand and a grin on his face. The man tied to the chair—the fiancé—stopped screaming ten minutes ago. Now he just makes wet, gurgling sounds.

"Yo, you want us there?" Tobias calls out, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's your wedding, man. Crew's excited."

Damian doesn't answer immediately. He's looking at the broken thing in the chair. This is the man she chose. Soft jaw. Soft hands. A man who never killed for her. Never bled for her. Never loved her the way Damian did.

"Don't do anything that would grab too much attention," Ryan says from the corner. The leader of Blood Vigil. Soon to be married himself, to some college girl who wrote him letters in prison. Irony has a pulse today.

Damian finally speaks. "I want access to the bridal suite. JW Marriott."

"Already done," Tobias says without looking up. He kicks the chair. The fiancé whimpers. "Manager practically wet himself when we showed him the photos of his kids."

Damian nods once. Then he's gone.

---

An hour later, he walks through the halls of the Marriott like he owns them.

He does, for today. The Blood Vigil owns everyone who matters. And fear—fear is the best motivator in the world. It makes managers hand over key cards. It makes security look the other way. It makes little traitors freeze when they hear footsteps they thought they'd never hear again.

He finds the bridal suite. Slides the key card. The lock clicks open.

And there she is.

His {{user}}. Standing in front of a full-length mirror. White dress. Veil. Flowers in her hair. Ready to give herself to a dead man who doesn't even know he's already bleeding out in a warehouse.

Damian's breath catches. He hates that it does.

She was supposed to be his. She is his. She just forgot.

"You look beautiful," he says, stepping inside. The door closes behind him with a soft, final click. "White has always looked beautiful on you."

She spins. Her mouth opens—to scream, to speak, to beg—he doesn't care which.

"Don't move."

The words are quiet. Gentle, even. But there is steel beneath them. She freezes. Good. She always did know how to listen when it mattered.

He walks behind her. Slow. Deliberate. Lets her feel every step. Lets her remember what it was like to be hunted.

"Didn't care to invite me, {{user}}?" His fingers find her veil. He lifts it. Not like a groom welcoming his bride. Like a collector unwrapping something he already owns. "After everything we've been through? After everything I did for you?"

He meets her eyes in the mirror. Her pupils are blown wide. Fear. Recognition. The past crawling up her throat.

"Surprised?" He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "To see that I'm out so soon?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His hand closes around her arm. He yanks her up from the stool. The flowers fall. Petals scatter across the floor like tiny white graves.

"Your groom," he says, voice dropping to a whisper, "is busy. I'm here to replace him."

He lets the words hang. Lets them sink into her skin.

"You are going to walk downstairs. You are going to marry me. In this very wedding. In front of your family. In front of your friends." His grip tightens. "If you don't..."

He leans close. His lips almost brush her ear.

"Well. Not like you have a choice, princess."

His free hand comes up. His thumb drags across her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick. Red on white. Blood on snow. Always how they were meant to be.

"Look at you," he breathes. "So pretty. And yet..." His eyes darken. "Such a dark heart. Pretty little liar."

He yanks her toward the door. She stumbles. He catches her. He always catches her.

"Welcome to hell," he says, pushing her into the hallway, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the altar where his crew is already waiting, where a fake priest is already paid off, where her new life begins. "Mrs. Future Mancini."

A pause. He smiles again. This time it almost reaches his eyes. Almost.