“Good. Come, Elena.” He tows me along by my arm, the sensation of spiders crawling up my spine at his touch.
Mother follows behind as we step into the aisle. A solo pianist plays a wedding march. The only other people in the church are the priest, the groom, and his best man. Everyone is wearing black except for me, sticking out like a sore thumb in brilliant white, which is a harsh color against my warm skin tone.
I’m a virginal sacrifice to finalize a contract between two powerful men. I’ve never felt more like an object, to be traded, bought, or sold, in my entire life.
My gaze flicks between the men at the altar, and I immediately know which one is the groom, because only he could be calledThe Beast.
Huge, built like a Celtic warrior, he has shoulder-length blond hair with a hint of auburn, and pale blue eyes. A scar runs from his forehead straight down to his chin, crossing one eye—the largest blemish among several smaller ones that crisscross his face.
Not only does he have massive shoulders, he’s also tall. I’m not short at five foot seven, yet as I climb the stairs to where hestands, I realize he must be at least ten inches taller than me. At nearly six foot six, his presence commands the entire space.
My pulse stutters. What have I gotten myself into?
Father takes my hand and puts it in this stranger’s enormous palm. Rough calluses and dry heat engulf my fingers. His touch makes my heart race. The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat.
Suddenly all of this is real, too real.
It’s not too late, I can reveal my identity and watch months of peace negotiations fall apart. It will be all my fault when the streets run red with blood, again. Father will take out his rage on me, and then on Elena if we ever find her.
None of that can happen.
So I don’t say anything. I remain mute as the priest speaks his words.
At one point, I realize I’m supposed to repeat after him.
My voice emerges strong but soft, “I, R-ElenaPontrelli, take thee, Cian O’Rourke, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part. I pledge thee my loyalty and honesty.” I cringe on that last vow–honesty–the one I’ve already broken. How many more will I have to break in my lifetime?
The huge stranger mumbles his own version of our vows, we slide plain gold bands onto each other’s fingers, then the priest is suddenly pronouncing us husband and wife.
There are no cheers. My parents, and Cian’s best man, remain quiet as this ceremony comes to its conclusion. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I feel slightly dizzy, realizing what I’ve just done.
I’m married. To a stranger. To the enemy.
The Irishman reaches out and slowly lifts my veil. I can only imagine he’s terrified of what he’ll find beneath this semi-sheerfabric. When his gaze falls upon my face, he frowns, and I’m hit with a sense of outrage.
What? Am I notprettyenough for him?
Who the hell does he think he is to look at me like that? It’s not like he’s especially handsome with all those scars.What a jerk.
Usually, this is where the groom kisses the bride. Instead, he lets my veil fall back into place, adding insult to my injured pride. Then he takes my arm and marches me out of the church. My mother hands me my purse and waves goodbye, while Father is already on his phone and onto the next order of business for the day. He’s a don after all, a very busy man.
I’m taken outside and shoved into a waiting car. The behemoth slides in after me and the vehicle pulls away from the curb.
Facing forward, he speaks. “There, your father has gotten his wish to saddle me with his daughter and try to govern me through you. Or perhaps you’re meant to be a spy. But listen carefully, you’ll stay out of my business. If I catch you poking around, I’ll kill you. Are we clear?”
What a charmer.Apparently God isn’t listening to my prayers today.
“Yes. Crystal clear.”
“Good. Now after this ridiculous honeymoon we have to go on, you’ll get your own room. We won’t need to bother each other at all. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay away from you.” The asshole finally angles his head to look in my direction. Pale blue eyes assessing me. “You won’t take any lovers. You’ll do as you’re told. And above all else, if I ask you a question, you’ll tell me the truth. I don’t tolerateliars.”
My stomach swims with nausea. God what have I done?
The Irish brute studies me for several thundering heartbeats. I’m not sure why, because he can’t see me clearly through myveil. Even so, his gaze seems to sink beneath my skin and I do my best not to squirm.
“Did you want to marry me?” he asks, his deep, gravelly voice the only sound in the quiet limo.
How, exactly, am I supposed to answer a question like that?
