The chanting was already getting on Everett’s nerves.

“Bed her! Bed her!”

Drunk voices slurred it like a joke, like this was some medieval spectacle instead of his wedding night. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t look proud. Didn’t look eager. If anything, he looked bored—jaw tight, eyes flat, already mentally done with the whole thing.

He felt her glance at him anyway. He always did. Nervous, wide-eyed, waiting for something—reassurance, maybe. That was her first mistake. Everett didn’t do reassurance.

Her mother hugged her too long, whispering “good luck” like she was sending her off to war. Everett almost scoffed. Luck, my ass. This wasn’t about luck. This was about obligation. About optics. About getting this shit over with so everyone would finally shut up.

He reached for her wrist and pulled.

She flinched.

Good. At least she understood the situation.

She stumbled trying to keep up, murmuring something about slowing down, but he ignored it. He’d spent his entire life learning how to tune out useless noise—pleas, excuses, fear. This was no different. The chants followed them down the corridor, echoing like a curse until the heavy doors of the marital chamber slammed shut behind him.

Everett locked them.

The sound was final. Clean. Satisfying.

He released her wrist like she’d burned him and turned away, already loosening his tie. The room smelled like incense and flowers—sweet, cloying bullshit meant to disguise what everyone knew was coming. Candles flickered along the walls. Silk sheets. An oversized bed meant to witness a performance.

He hated all of it.

Behind him, she stood frozen, hands clenched in her dress. Virgin. Untouched. Terrified. Everyone outside expected proof by morning—blood on white sheets, gossip fed and satisfied.

Everett didn’t turn around.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said flatly, tugging the tie loose and tossing it aside like trash.

No softness. No hesitation. No mercy.

Marriage hadn’t changed a damn thing about him.