Given the genuine fear Isobel would run away and refuse to cooperate, someone kept watch on her those two days before the wedding.

They needn’t have bothered.

For all her newfound defiance, Isobel was hurting. The fight drained out of her. She kept hoping against hope that Chris would realize he’d screwed up. That he would pound on the door and demand to see her.

The only people coming to the house, though, were all wedding related. Florists, a local baker, a seamstress with a gown off a rack that they could adjust.

Isobel couldn’t care less. She let her mother handle it all.

A sudden opening at a local church caused by food poisoning at a rehearsal dinner—Mother?—meant they had a location where the ceremony could be performed. Being a holy place, it meant Grandfather had to scramble to ensure he had unsanctified the grounds before the hastily invited guests arrived. Nothing worse than having someone with evil blood running through their veins exploding or melting into a pile of sludge.

Her mother told her it had happened to Great-Uncle Dawson when Auntie found him cheating on her and laced his vodka with holy water.

The story didn’t bring a smile, although Eva cackled.

Then again, her sister had reason to be happy. She wasn’t the one being forced to marry.

Stupid Isobel and her intact maidenhead were the ones being sacrificed. At least her impending nuptials gave her something to focus on other than Chris. More especially, his lack of contact.

Isobel had left him one voicemail. Just one, inviting him to her wedding.

She didn’t beg him to save her.

Didn’t say she loved him.

Forget saying all the things in her heart. He knew how she felt. The ball sat in his court.

And it began to look like he wouldn’t grab that ball.

No one had seen or heard from him. The explosion at the cemetery—blamed on a methane buildup in the marshy pond—had news reports listing Chris as missing.

Had the angels gotten to him? His mother? The Devil?

Part of Isobel wondered about his fate. Then cursed herself for even caring. He’d rejected her.

His loss. Things could have been different if only he’d said yes to marrying her. I would have found a way to keep him safe.

The wedding loomed, only minutes away instead of hours, and still, apathy gripped her. The dress, some factory-made thing, fit her well enough, as if her appearance mattered. She could have been married in a sack for all she cared. Unlike her mother, she didn’t think Chris would arrive to save her in time.

Either he couldn’t or he wouldn’t. It no longer mattered now with the moment almost here. Almost time to marry a stranger because Isobel still didn’t know the name of her groom. Grandfather wouldn’t tell, and she wasn’t reassured by the gleeful rub of his hands. As for Mother, she claimed he kept her in the dark, as well.

Whatever. Whoever Grandfather bargained with must have been powerful, given the frantic way her grandfather ran around, ensuring everything would run smoothly.

Just in case, Isobel had a dagger strapped to her thigh. The ride over to the church in the limo happened in silence. Her mother wrung her hands, appearing more nervous than Isobel. Eva had finally run out of rants, probably because she finally realized what her actions had wrought.

In a daze, Isobel stepped from the luxury car and stood before the simple church. She noted the cross missing from the steeple, the stained glass painted over, and wondered at the effort.

Just who had Grandfather invited that required such extreme measures?

As to those who might wonder why get married in a church, especially given their planned retirement in Hell, it had to do with promises. In order for vows to be truly binding, ritual had to be followed. In their case, marriage vows spoken inside a holy place would bind them to their word.

The doors to the church swung open, and she entered, dreading every step, hoping against hope that a miracle would occur—a miracle called Chris coming to her rescue. Only he didn’t, and the music played.

The melody demanded she march down the aisle and face her future. If it was ugly, then she had her knife.

Head held high, she didn’t let anyone see the pain she hid inside. She shrugged off her grandfather’s hand.

Let him walk beside her. She would face this on her own two feet.

She took a step on worn red carpet—a carpet so like the one she’d walked with Chris—and for a moment, her vision blurred with tears. This wasn’t how she’d pictured her wedding day. She’d always thought she’d get married in the same church as her parents, the grand cathedral in Russia. That she’d have a hand in choosing the bridesmaids’ dresses. Spend time poring over magazines, selecting the perfect dress.

Most of all, she wished she had a choice in grooms.

Speaking of whom, time to get a peek at the bastard her grandfather had bargained her to.

Through her veil, she looked to the top of the aisle. Saw him standing there.

A man, tall and proud. Broad of shoulder. Dark hair slicked back. Face hidden behind a mask.

A stranger still.

Why?

Why keep him hidden?

Her grandfather cleared his throat in evident displeasure at the pause. She cast him a glare from behind her thick veil.

Way to remind her of another thing wrong with this picture. It should have been her papa by her side, her papa walking her up the aisle.

But Papa’s ghost was stuck in the house.

Shoulders thrown back, she took in a deep breath and shoved the pity party—and the scream that wanted to escape—deep inside. Her mincing steps took her to the altar, where Eva and her mother stood on the bride’s side.

Neither looked happy.

Good.

Isobel turned to face her groom. A hint of brimstone tickled her nose, and she gasped. Only a denizen of Hell wore that scent. What had her grandfather done?

She peered into the eyes, the only part of him visible through the mask, and while the veil obscured much, it didn’t hide the glowing orange fire dancing in the orbs.

Surely Grandfather wouldn’t wed her to the Dark Lord himself? Although it would explain the urgency, the precautions, and his glee.

Except it couldn’t be Lucifer because he stood off to the side, wearing a crimson tuxedo and a grin. A wide grin.

A knowing grin.

Something tickled at her as she tried to think of who else shared his eyes.

It couldn’t be.

Surely the hope fluttering in her breast was wrong.

She reached up and pulled the mask from his face then gaped at her groom.

A happy sigh left her as she whispered his name, “Christopher. You came.”

Fate hadn’t betrayed her after all.