Disclaimer: I don't own the Grisha Trilogy and its characters – it belongs to Leigh Bardugo. I do not own the Shadow & Bone TV series, which was developed by Eric Heisserer for Netflix and based on Leigh Bardugo's books.
Alina's head feels like it is full of cotton wool, her mouth tastes like something died in there and the light seems near-blinding.
The last thing she remembers is shots with her new friend Genya. Everything after that is blank. She wants to move, but her limbs are heavy and it seems easier to just lay still and quiet for the moment.
"She doesn't look like much," she hears a man say, clearly unimpressed.
"She'll be radiant once I've finished with her," trills a familiar voice … Genya, she thinks.
"He ripped apart the last nine you brought him. What makes you think this little scrap of a girl will be any different?"
"I've been watching her. She's the one, Ivan. I'm sure of it."
A grumpy harumph, "we'll see."
Alina thinks she should sit up, demand to know what's going on, ask why Genya is saying such strange things.
Instinct, however, keeps her still and silent. Even though her head aches, she can nevertheless tell there is something not quite right. Better for her if they think she is still unconscious.
She relaxes her limbs as a boot nudges her leg, fighting against the natural urge to tense.
"When will she wake up?" the man – Ivan – asks.
"Leoni said another few hours. I'll return in an hour to start getting her ready."
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
Alina breathes steadily, trying not to betray herself, as she listens to the sound of two sets of footsteps fade away.
She gives it five more minutes just to be sure they're really gone before she sits up, wincing as her head spins, looking around to try and get her bearings.
It's a small room, decorated in varying shades of beige. There is one window, a single bed, a noisy old radiator and nothing else. The door is bolted shut, and she has a feeling that calling for help will only end up trapping her even more securely.
The window it is then.
It is a big window, and Alina is petite enough to be able to maneuver herself out of it. The issue is that it is locked and there's no key to be found. Her only option, it seems, is to smash the glass.
It's not ideal – she risks making too much noise or cutting herself on broken glass, not to mention having to figure out how to get down onto the ground since she's two stories up.
But she cannot see any other option. She knows what a hangover feels like, and this isn't it – a few too many tequila shots aren't enough to leave her unconscious for so long (the sun is low in the sky, it must be late afternoon) and feeling so awful
Genya's presence suggests the red-head is somehow responsible for this situation, meaning she can't be trusted anymore. They've only been friends for two months, but the older girl has always appeared to be so open and friendly, not at all the sort to drug and kidnap someone.
Alina doesn't have a clue what this is all about – trafficking of some sort, perhaps – but she's not about to stick around and find out for sure, not if she can help it.
With a vague plan in mind, she pushes through the fog still clouding her brain and tugs off her jacket, hoping it might muffle the sound a bit when she breaks the glass.
She's too delicate at first, worried about being caught, but time is of the essence and in the end – with more force – she is successful.
It isn't pretty, though. The window is large and she'll be able to get through, but the jagged edges of the glass look wickedly sharp and she isn't sure she'll make it out entirely unscathed.
Don't be such a baby, Alina tells herself, it's a bit of blood or ending up murdered or sold or running drugs or whatever these crazy people are into.
She climbs up onto the windowsill and contorts her body gingerly through the gap.
In the end, she slips only when she's almost made it out unscathed, banging her knee and then managing to slice it on a sharp piece of glass, ripping straight through the demure white tights she had paired with one of the world's tiniest miniskirts the night before.
"Fuck," she hisses, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out in pain, wincing as she moves slightly and the wound oozes blood all over the place.
It's fine. She'll deal with it. She's out of the room now and just needs to find a way to sneak out of this place.
Alina frowns as she glances around. No easy way to the ground, men in body armour patrolling the grounds, high walls surrounding what must be a compound. And then … wait … security cameras.
Maybe they aren't on. Perhaps they're just for show.
But then she hears shouting, footsteps coming closer to the room, and she knows she has to go now if she wants any chance of escaping.
In the end, she nearly makes it to the wall surrounding the compound.
Limping, her leg aching, and dripping blood from a cut in her hand that she only noticed when she grabbed onto a drainpipe to shimmy down to the ground.
She has a brief moment to wonder what she would have done when she reached the wall, and how she might have gotten over or through it, before she is surrounded.
Genya is there, red hair piled into a neat bun, looking exasperated.
A man stands next to her, stern and irritated, with a frown on his face, and she knows instinctively that this is Ivan.
"Look at you, Alina," the red-head sighs, "you're going to feel the pain in that knee tomorrow."
"You think I care about my knee when I have been drugged, kidnapped and locked in a room," she hisses, flinching away from the men who try to grab hold of her.
"Our actions might seem untrustworthy, that's true," Genya concedes, although without any sign of guilt or regret, "but you are here to fulfil a glorious purpose, Alina."
The red-head has a wide, almost manic, grin on her face – that, combined with the words "glorious purpose", does not fill Alina with confidence.
"Well, if it's all the same, I'd rather skip the glorious purpose and go back home, away from this madness."
Genya gives her best attempt at a sheepish smile, which Alina thinks really isn't very good, "I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter, Alina. You're the one we have been looking for, and the ritual must take place tonight, when the veil is thinnest."
Alina goes cold, "ritual?"
"No need to worry," Genya promises, even as two men move to hold her arms with steel grips, "you were born for this, Alina."
"You're crazy!" she shouts, struggling against them even though she knows it's futile, "this is insane."
Genya only pats her hand, "I'll come and get you ready soon. It'll be fun."
Ivan, cold and solemn, turns to the men holding her, "some restraints will be necessary, to avoid any more escape attempts."
Alina shrieks as they take her back inside, trying to kick her captors, twisting her head to attempt to bite one of them, doing her best to slip out of their grasp.
She's only 5'3, though, and while she's a regular at the gum, she certainly can't compare to the two men – who look like they belong in the army's special forces – dragging her back to the room she was in before.
"What the hell!" she hisses indignantly when they both pull out manacles that look like they belong in a period show about pirates.
One leans down to cuff her ankle to the radiator, and the other clicks manacles into place around her wrists. They don't say anything, expressions blank, and then they leave her, cuffed and scared, all alone.
Genya appears a little while later, although Alina can't be sure exactly how long it's been.
"Are they really necessary?" Alina asks, as the same men who had cuffed her unlock the manacles and march either side of her as they follow Genya to another room.
"We can't have another escape attempt, darling," Genya says, "you might really hurt yourself this time."
"You've kidnapped me to use in some kind of ritual," Alina seethes, "I wouldn't think you'd care if I got hurt."
"Of course I care about you, Alina. You're my friend."
"Well you certainly aren't mine."
The red-head only shakes her head, as if Alina is a confused little child who needs to be corrected, "we're only helping you fulfil your potential, Alina. This is your destiny."
"And what exactly is this?" she asks, "a sacrifice?"
Genya's silvery laugh echoes around the room she leads them into – done in black and gold, high ceilings, a garment bag to the side, a dressing table by the window, and a large mirror in the corner – "this isn't anything like that, Alina. This is a happy occasion."
Alina frowns, "a happy occasion. Happy for who, exactly?"
"Why for the bride and groom, of course," Genya's amber eyes are wide and excited as she unzips the garment bag and Alina sees what hangs within, "you're going to look beautiful, Alina."
Alina stumbles backwards, right into the hard muscle of her unsmiling escorts.
Bride and groom. Wedding. A dress – black and gold, gorgeous, even if it looks nothing like the wedding dresses she is familiar with – and a gauzy veil.
"No," she shakes her head, trembling, "this … I …no!"
"It's for the best," Genya tells her, "this is what you were meant for."
"You can't make me," Alina insists, "I won't agree to this."
Exasperation clouds Genya's face, "I don't want this to be a fight, Alina, but I have my orders."
It is mad how the red-head seems to think she's being so reasonable and that Alina should be perfectly happy to put on a dress and marry a complete stranger after being drugged and kidnapped by a girl she'd thought she could trust.
There is no way out of the room, not with the two hulking men blocking the door.
That does not mean, however, that Alina has to play nice.
"I won't do it," she insists stubbornly, "you can drag me up to the altar but you can't make me say any vows."
She stalks across the room to the window, trying to get it open even though she knows they'll stop her. She can't just do nothing, can't let anyone believe she is complicit or agreeable.
"Alina," Genya's voice is chastising now.
Someone pulls her away from the window and pushes her down into the chair by the dressing table.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Alina realises there are tears dripping down her cheeks.
She's been putting on a good show of defiance, but this isn't a game or a joke or a mild annoyance.
This is a kidnapping. This is being betrayed by a girl she believed was her friend. This is hearing that she is about to be forced into a wedding by people who live in a heavily armed compound and keep telling her she needs to fulfil her potential by taking part in a ritual she knows nothing about.
Genya pats her shoulder gently and carefully wipes away the tears.
"You'll understand soon," the red-head says.
Somehow, that doesn't make Alina feel any better.
"Stunning," Genya beams.
Alina has to admit that she agrees. She really is a vision.
Too bad she feels as if she is walking to her doom.
"What is this, Genya?" she asks quietly, "you can't believe some random guy just wants to marry a girl he's never met."
"He's been waiting for you, Alina," Genya insists.
Alina scoffs, "and what was it Ivan said - he ripped apart the last nine you brought him – is that supposed to comfort me?"
"I made some errors, but I'm right this time, I'm sure of it."
"Errors … is that what you call nine dead girls? Who are you, Genya, because you're certainly not who I thought you were?"
The other girl says nothing, only smooths out some non-existent wrinkles in Alina's dress and leaves her to stare into the mirror and wonder if her lifespan can now be measured in minutes.
She has been alone – or as alone as a person can be with two guards standing menacingly outside the door – for about ten minutes when Ivan arrives.
"I don't suppose you'll let me go?" she asks as he gestures for her to follow him.
He ignores her question.
"So how does one become involved in a cult that kidnaps girls for marriages that apparently have a disturbingly high mortality rate?"
He ignores that one too.
It seems to get darker and darker as they walk down corridors and steps.
Not a normal kind of darkness either, as if the lights are simply out. No, this is an unnatural darkness, and the shadows curl around her ankles as she follows Ivan.
Something inside her seems to wake up, a spark she's never noticed before, as if there is power yearning to be free. Or perhaps she's just gone crazy.
They come to a stop outside a set of ornate double doors.
As Ivan knocks, Alina wonders if there is any chance that she'll be able to flee. If she uses the element of surprise and sprints for it, then maybe …
"Don't even think about it," Ivan's harsh voice cuts through her thoughts, "you wouldn't make it to the stairs. And He has endured too many disappointments recently, so He isn't in the mood for a chase."
Alina shivers at the implications of Ivan's words. Who is this man, who inspires such loyalty and fear?
As the doors open, Ivan turns to examine her, "let's hope you survive, Miss Starkova, for everyone's sake."
And then he nudges her into a pitch-black room, the doors clicking ominously shut behind her.
Alina can't see a thing.
She can sense something, though … or someone.
Perhaps if she can just find the door?
Wrench it open, maybe find that the corridor is empty and she can sneak out while they think she's still in this room.
But the air shifts, there is a rustle of movement, and then He is behind her.
His presence feels familiar, but for a moment she cannot understand why.
And then she realises. He is the little voice in her head egging her on when she does something she shouldn't, or chooses to be selfish, or indulges in hedonistic pleasures. He is temptation personified.
There is something else too. She wants to reach out. She might be terrified but she also feels like she knows Him, as if there is a connection between them, one that has always existed even if she's only just realised it.
Alina freezes when a cool hand lands on her bare shoulder, a thumb stroking a pulse point on her neck.
The pull intensifies, the spark inside her seems to flare to life.
"I've been waiting a long time for you, Alina," a rich, low voice murmurs.
His fingers press down slightly and suddenly all of Alina's nerves feels like they are on fire.
The darkness in the room is dispelled by a searing burst of light.
A burst of light it takes Alina a few seconds to realise is coming from her.
"What –"
"My perfect little bride … finally."
Alina spins around in his arms and finally gets the first glimpse of the mysterious man she is supposed to marry.
At first glance, he seems like an ordinary man – albeit a distractingly handsome one, all dressed in black furs – but the longer she looks, the more she realises there is an otherworldly air about him.
His eyes are not just dark, but fully black. He features are almost too perfect, as if chiseled from marble by the world's most talented sculptor. And there are shadows leaking from his hands.
"Who … who are you?" she asks nervously, unable to move away as his hands close around her wrists.
His smile is sharp as a knife, "I think you know already, solntse."
A man of darkness, of temptation, of sin.
Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub. The Lord of Hell. The Prince of Darkness.
"The Devil."
His smile widens, "you, little Alina, can call me Aleksandr. After all, we are to be husband and wife."
She shakes her head, in spite of who exactly it is that she is denying, "no. I told Genya, I won't do it. This is … this is insane. I … no."
He frowns, grip on her wrists tightening, "no?"
She tries not to tremble, "you cannot force me."
He probably can, she knows, but she won't accept that until she's made to.
For a moment, she is sure he is going to lash out, to act upon the fury in his eyes.
Instead, he lets go of her, brings his hands up to cup her face, brushes a thumb over her cheek, leans forward to press his lips to hers.
It is a chaste kiss, but she feels it in a way she never has with any other kiss.
"I do not need to force you, solntse," Aleksandr coos, his gaze almost hypnotising, his eyes full of desire, "we are meant for each other, fated from the very beginning of the universe. You know that, even if you try and deny it."
"No, I –" she tries, even as she leans towards him, even while she relishes in the feel of his hands on her face.
His mouth curves upwards, smugness radiating from his tall form.
"I …" her voice stutters as he kisses her collarbone, his teeth skating gently across her skin.
"Yes, little Alina?"
"This is madness," she whispers, although her body clearly disagrees as she tilts her head so he can kiss up her neck.
"This is destiny," he corrects.
One of his hands encircles her wrists again, and she glows once more. The shadows rise to entwine with the tendrils of light.
"There must be balance," he tells her, "darkness and light."
"But you are the Devil," she protests, "the darkness is your domain."
"The shadows and the darkness are mine to command, and they are typically associated with human perception of me. The light, though, is equally as important. Is it not the Devil's work, after all, to shine a bright light on humanity, to show them clearly all the flaws and sins they try to hide, to expose them for the selfish, grasping creatures they really are?"
He has a point, one she hasn't ever considered.
"Two sides of the same coin, solntse," he continues, "that is what you and I are."
"I'm human, though," she says, "I can't … I can't marry the Devil."
"You were human," Aleksandr corrects, "but now your power has activated, you will shed your mortal life and take your place by my side for eternity."
A gong sounds before Alina can say anything, echoing throughout the room.
"It is time," Aleksandr sounds excited, eyes bright with anticipation, "the ceremony will begin."
"Wait, I –"
"It must be now, my Alina."
"I don't know what to do, what I'm supposed to say, how I –"
"All will be well, solntse. You will see."
And then he twists his hands and the room goes dark once more.
Before Alina has time to ask what is happening, the ornate doors open, the light from the corridor illuminating the room, and a group of people wearing different coloured hooded cloaks file inside, heads bowed.
She thinks she sees Genya's distinctive red hair, and there is one straight-backed figure that she thinks might be Ivan, but the rest of them – about a dozen in total – are a mystery.
They form a circle, with Alina and Aleksandr in the middle, and then the door swings shut once more and leaves them in the pitch black.
"Acolytes," Aleksandr's voice rings out, "welcome. You are here to witness the culmination of millennia of planning – the joining of darkness and light under the infernal banner. Will you bear witness?"
"We will bear witness, my Lord," they reply in unison.
He takes her hand, and the light comes once more, brightening the room.
Then, with just a twist of his hand, tendrils of shadow materialise into a wickedly sharp knife. Aleksander places his hand out, palm up, and slices deeply, his blood coating the knife.
When he hands her the blade, she wonders for just one millisecond what might happen if she drove it right into his heart and ran from this place.
The strange thing is that she does not want to. Despite the circumstances that led her here, and the fact that she has only just met the man in front of her – not even a man, really, but the actual Devil – she finds she wants to stay.
She bites her lip to muffle the hiss of pain as she cuts her own palm, her stomach swooping at the pleased smile he gives as he clasps her bloody hand with his own.
All around them, she can hear the acolytes chanting in a language she does not recognise. The air seems thick with power and her light burns brighter as her blood mingles with Aleksandr's.
He leans down then to kiss her. Nothing hesitant or soft about it, but all-consuming and possessive, his hand on the back of her head pulling her closer.
"I am yours and you are mine," he announces after they break apart.
She repeats the words back to him when he nods at her, still dazed by the force of his kiss.
"Is this it?" she asks breathlessly, "are we wed?"
She sounds a little like a child, she knows, but this is not exactly a typical wedding.
"We have exchanged blood," he says, "but there is one final part of the ceremony before we are fully bound."
"What part?"
His lips widen into a wicked smirk that makes her blush, "the consummation, of course."
Alina expects him to lead her away to a bedchamber, but instead he simply sheds his thick fur cloak, laying it down in the centre of the room, leaving him in only a loose shirt and trousers – black, obviously.
Surely, he cannot mean …
"Here?" she squeaks, cheeks pink, "in front of everyone."
"They must bear witness," he reminds her, "to every part of the ceremony."
"I'm not sure –"
"There is no shame here, my Alina," he gently plucks the veil from her head and sets it to the side, and comes to stand behind her, his breath warm on her neck as he unbuttons the back of her dress, "there is nothing wrong with pleasure and indulging our desires."
When his fingers skate down her bare back, she sighs happily, quite forgetting her previous misgivings. She somehow does not care who is watching, not when he is touching her like this, undressing her with such reverence.
It is not until they are both nude that she thinks to worry about the act itself.
"I … I am not a virgin," she tells him.
He laughs, although not unkindly, "and why should it matter who you have had before, solntse? You are mine now, after all."
"I just wasn't sure," she mutters shyly, "the stories they tell about –"
"Ah, tales of virgin sacrifices," he nods, "it was the fashion for a while to make such offerings in the hopes I would grant a boon. Few gained my favour in such a way, however – I am the Lord of Hell, not so easily won."
He lays her out on the furs and spends so much time just looking – examining every part of her body with his dark eyes – that she begins to feel self-conscious.
"Ah, none of that, my Alina," he chides as her hands start to sneak up to cover her breasts, "I want to see you, solntse, all of you."
As he looks at her, Alina's gaze is drawn to his body and she tenses at the size of what is between his legs. He's not exactly human, after all, no matter his appearance, and she can't see how it's going to fit.
As if he can read her mind (and maybe he can, who knows), one of his acolytes hands a goblet to him that he brings to her lips, "drink this, solntse – it will make things easier this first time."
Perhaps she should ask him what is in the goblet, but she's come this far, has shared blood with him, and so she drinks without hesitation.
It tastes rather like a sweet wine, and she feels the effects almost immediately.
Everything is, not exactly hazy, but different, as if her body has relaxed and her mind has cleared.
His hand finds its way between her legs, two fingers probing her entrance, and he leans down to capture one of her nipples in his mouth, licking and sucking and biting gently until she is a writhing mess beneath him.
Her pleasure is heightened, body humming as Aleksandr plays it like his favourite instrument.
She doesn't feel any discomfort when he eventually rocks into her, only moans – loudly and lewdly, uncaring of the audience watching silently around them – and rolls her hips and digs her nails into his shoulders to try and pull him closer.
Aleksandr moves inside her, murmuring praise all the while, filling her in a way no one ever has before.
Alina can feel him everywhere, cannot think of anything else, unable to say anything but increasingly incoherent babble as he brings her to dizzying heights.
She is on the precipice, the edge of something (un)holy when she senses movement. The acolytes are moving closer, chanting loudly, taking their own knives and slicing into their hands, their blood dripping on top of Alina and Aleksandr just at the moment when they both find their release.
The world goes bright white with light as Alina comes, her orgasm washing over her like a tidal wave. Shadows follow, smothering the light entirely before they fade away and leave the room in semi-darkness.
She is overwrought and overstimulated, with tears drying on her face, Aleksandr still inside her, his movements gentle but deliberate enough to send sparks of pleasure through her as her first explosive orgasm is followed by a few smaller, but still potent, ones.
When Aleksandr kisses her now, it is almost sweet, not at all what she would expect from the Devil.
"My Alina," he murmurs against her lips.
"My Aleksandr," she tells him, hooking her leg over his waist, giving into the urge to keep him as near as possible.
She is tired, though, bleary-eyed and exhausted.
"Sleep," he smiles at her, "sleep, solntse."
And so she does.
Later, when she wakes, Alina finds she has two new marks – a blazing sun on the back of her left hand and an eclipse on the back of her right one – and that Aleksandr has matching marks on his own hands.
I am yours and you are mine.
For now and the rest of eternity.
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.
You can find me on Twitter under the username Keira_63. At the moment I pretty much just post mini prompt fics.