Thread: Two Households, Both Alike in Dignity (Findarato and Lemon)

I don't care if you don't want to do it. I don't care if you hate her! You will do what is needed. You will do what is required for our house, and the good of our people. The sooner you ensure her pregnancy, the sooner you can frolic and dance around with your other sluts, his father spat, lecturing Zlatan in his room, after Zlatan had told him he did not want to go along with this. Do you want your brother to do what you cannot? If you can't rise to the occasion and fill that woman up with your seed, I will be more than happy to let your brother do it. I'm sure he'll have no problem. It was a one sided conversation, as it always was with his father. It had started out with Zlatan protesting, refusing to do it, an exchange of shouts and snarls, until it became one sided. He ended up staring at his feet, listening, the anger boiling up. Are you going to do it? Zlatan mumbled that he would, and the rest was a blur. He did not even remember being in control of his body. He just went through the motions, and found himself standing with two priests, one for each race, at the top of a stair case in the main hall of the castle. This was a more publicized event than the private dinner. The castle hall was filled with guests, of both races, of various house holds, all able to look up at the top of the staircase, even if they were in the far back of the room. Don't you dare fucking make a scene out there. I will cut your fucking balls off, Zlatan's father had said to him as he yanked his arm down the hall way. The words echoed in his head. The least thing he could do was to hold his head up high, which he did. Zlatan, despite his sour mood, was living up to his name of being the golden prince of his people. He stood like a giant next to the two priests. His outfit was similar to what he had worn at the dinner, except it was white. The buttons running down the front of it had the sigil of his house upon it, black shapes of a wolf howling with a crescent moon surrounding it. The same logo was imprinted on his right breast, once again in black. His robe fell to his ankles, where his feet could be seen in heavy black polished boots, black pants seen just above them. His chest pressed out with pride, his large hands staying motionless at his sides, refusing to show any sign of weakness as his hard eyes surveyed the crowd. His back was rigid. It almost looked like this was some military ceremony, rather than a wedding, if one were to look at him exclusively. Then she came. He watched her. The crowd grew deathly silent. He did not snarl, nor smile. His eyes merely followed every motion of her body with a hard stare that most men would not be able to meet. His face was cold, emotionless, without expression, his lips tightly sealed. All he had to do was fuck her once, and that would be enough. He was more than sexually capable of giving her a child. The sooner it was over, the better. At least he took satisfaction in seeing Venessa unable to meet his eyes or even look around, until she found herself across from him. It was only because of his father's threats that Zlatan took her small hands in his own. His were warm and large, calloused from use and age, textured compared to her own soft ones. Hers felt very cold... was that because of her vampire blood or because of how much she detested him? His eyes met hers without faltering. The hate that was expressed in them was undeniable, and he squeezed her hands suddenly, a painful grip that no one would notice as she felt the pressure crack down into her bones and joints. It was not enough to break her hands, but enough to get his point across of how much he hated her, if his eyes could not do the task alone. Next to them, the priests began to take turns, reciting lines from the ancient marriage ceremony. Zlatan did not hear them, only focused on her, trying to listen to her breathing as the priests monotone voices was like background music.