“No!” she shot back. “I love you, and we're going to get married. Right now.”
Some of the brothers laughed softly. “Guess we're straight on that,” one of them said with respect in his voice.
When she was under control again, Wrath looked over at Phury and nodded.
“We're going to make the presentation to the Scribe Virgin first,” the brother said.
Wrath took her hand and led her over to the robed figure.
“Scribe Virgin, this is Elizabeth, daughter of the Black Dagger warrior Darius, granddaughter of the princeps Marklon, great-granddaughter of the princeps Horusman…”
The list went on for a while. When Wrath fell silent, Beth impulsively reached out to the figure, offering her hand.
There was a shout of alarm and Wrath grabbed her arm, hauling her back. Several of the brothers leaped forward.
“That's my fault,” Wrath said, splaying his arms out as if to protect her. “I didn't adequately prepare her. She meant no offense.”
A laugh—low, warm, and feminine—came out of the robes. “Fear not, warrior. She's fine. Come here, female.”
Wrath moved aside, but stayed close.
Beth approached the figure, worried about every move she made. She could feel herself being surveyed.
“This male asks that you accept him as your hellren, child. Would you have him as your own if he is worthy?”
“Oh, yes.” Beth looked at Wrath. He was still tense. “Yes, I will.”
The figure nodded. “Warrior, this female will consider you. Will you prove yourself for her?”
“I will.” Wrath's deep voice carried throughout the room.
“Will you sacrifice yourself for her?”
“I will.”
“Will you defend her against those who would seek to harm her?”
“I will.”
“Give me your hand, child.”
Beth reached out tentatively.
“Palm up,” Wrath whispered.
She flipped her wrist. The folds moved and covered her hand. She felt an odd tingling, like a low-level electrical charge.
“Warrior.”
Wrath put his hand out, and it too was obscured by the black robe.
Suddenly, warmth surrounded her, enveloped her. She looked at Wrath. He was smiling back at her.
“Ah,” the figure said. “This is a good mating. A very good mating.”
Their hands were dropped, and then Wrath had his arms around her and was kissing her.
People started to clap. Someone blew a nose.
Beth held on to her new husband as hard as she could. It was done. It was real. They were—
“Almost finished, leelan.”
Wrath stepped back, pulling the sash on his robe free. He took the garment off, revealing his bare chest.
Wellsie came up and took Beth's hand. “It's going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”
Beth glanced around nervously as Wrath knelt before his brothers and dropped his head. Fritz brought over a small table with the crystal bowl full of salt, a pitcher of water, and a small lacquer box on it.
Phury stood over Wrath. “My lord, what is the name of your shellan?”
“She is called Elizabeth.”
With a rasping sound, Phury unsheathed his black dagger.
And bent down over Wrath's bare back.
Beth gasped and lunged forward as the blade descended. “No—”
Wellsie held her in place. “Stay here.”
“What is he—”
“You're mating a warrior,” Wellsie whispered fiercely. “Let him have his honor in front of his brothers.”
“No!”
“Listen to me—Wrath is giving his body, himself, to you. All of it is yours now. That's the purpose of the ceremony.”
Phury stepped back, and Beth caught a trickle of blood running down Wrath's side.
Vishous came forward. “What is the name of your shellan?”
“She is called Elizabeth.”
As the brother leaned down, Beth shut her eyes and squeezed Wellsie's hand hard. “He doesn't need to do this to prove himself to me.”
“Do you love him?” Wellsie demanded.
“Yes.”
“Then you must accept his ways.”
Zsadist stepped forward next.
“Easy, Z,” Phury said softly, staying close beside his twin.
Oh, God, not more.
The brothers came forward again and again, asking him the question. When they were finished, Phury took the pitcher of water and poured it into the bowl of salt. Then he dumped the thick, briny liquid on Wrath's back.
Beth weaved on her feet as she watched his muscles spasm. She couldn't imagine the agony, but except for bearing down onto the floor, Wrath didn't cry out. As he endured the pain, his brothers growled their approval.
Phury bent down and opened the lacquer box, taking out a pristine white cloth. He dried the wounds, then rolled the material up and put it back inside.
“Rise, my lord,” he said.
Wrath stood. Across his shoulders, in an arch of Old English letters, was her name in his skin.
Phury presented Wrath with the box. “Take this to your shellan as a symbol of your strength, so she will know that you are worthy