He climbs out of bed, wearing nothing but his boxers and an obvious erection. God, he’s human trash. He pads to the walk-in closet. “I picked this out while I was in Paris for you to wear on our honeymoon. It wouldn’t be appropriate for a formal affair, but for this it will please me.”
Paris. Did he buy this while he was there to murder Lucy? I swallow down bile and take the hanger from him before hurrying into the bathroom and shutting the door between us. Tears flood my face as I crumple to the floor with the dress in my hands.Help. Help. Help me! Connor, if you can hear me, you have to come for me. Please come for me.I project the words down our bond as forcefully as I can, sobbing silently.
I remember the poisoned bolts in his wings, in his chest, the way he dropped out of the sky. I flash back to Roman showing me his crossbow last night, the bolts magically enchanted to kill dragons, fueled, he said, by something made from dragon’s blood. Not for the first time, I wonder how badly Connor was injured. Is he even in any shape to challenge Roman? If he comes for me, is it possible that Roman might finish him off this time?
I shake my head. I refuse to believe it. Connor’s a fucking dragon, a god of a man who made me laugh, woke my creative light again, and stole my heart. I choose to believe he’s invincible. And he’s mine. He’ll never give up on me.
I close my eyes on a silent sob. He’ll come for me. He will. I just need to survive until he does. Only I’m not sure I want to live through what Roman has in store for me. But then I remember something else. I have toendure, because if I die, it’s Connor’s life too. If I die, his fever will return. His greatest fear was living a half-life like his sister, pining for a lost mate. I can’t do that to him. I close my eyes again and clutch for my crucifix, but it’s gone. I haven’t had it since Esther removed it from my neck before the wedding. Still I pray; I pray for deliverance. I pray for a miracle.
At one point, I do think I feel something down the bond, but it’s barely a whisper. Still, I cling to it.Survive. All I need to do is survive.
After a long shower,I face the dress again. I know I’m running out of time. I’ve been in here close to an hour. Roman won’t wait forever, and the last thing I want is him coming in after me. The dress is hideous. It’s white and lace, but those are the only similarities to a wedding dress. The spaghetti straps give way to a deep vee that reaches halfway to my navel, and the skirt lands midthigh. The lace is positioned over a nude slip to give the illusion you’re seeing flesh peeking through the fabric. I pull it over my head and go look in the mirror, hoping it’s not as bad as it seems on the hanger. It’s worse. It looks like a negligee.
I close my eyes.Hold it together,Alex barks in my head. A scene I wrote in book three,Devil’s Wrath, plays in my head. Alex was captured by a Russian spy, tortured for twenty-one days, and beaten senseless and still managed to survive. Survive, I tell myself.Just survive.
Slowly I open the door to find Roman standing there in his wedding tux. His eyes drift over me.
“Almost done.” He grabs a pair of silver-white shoes from behind him.
Again, they’re stilettos, uncomfortable as hell and no doubt meant to hinder my ability to move quickly. I slide my feet into them. He grabs my chin, turns my face this way and that, inspecting my hair and makeup. I’ve done the bare minimum, not wanting to please him but also not wanting to invite his wrath. He frowns a little but says nothing.
“Sign,” he orders, pointing to the marriage license on the bureau. I do, and he tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
I take a step away from him, toward the door, but he stops me with a hand on my elbow.
“Wait. You need jewelry.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a diamond-encrusted collar. It looks like something a billionaire would buy for his dog. He fastens it around my neck, tight enough to be uncomfortable but not cut off my air. “There,” he says, as if this ensemble could possibly look anything but gaudy.
“They took my ring,” I say, remembering with some internal relish how Connor had melted the gold and hurled the diamond into the woods. I picture it buried beneath a pile of bear shit.
He scoffs. “We’ll get you another. For today you can use this one.”
He reaches into the same box and pulls out a diamond band. The engagement ring I’d once worn was part of a set. On our wedding day, Roman carried theband but never had the chance to slide it on my finger. I stare at it, again praying for Connor to come. He saved me that day. I never fully appreciated it before, what he knew, the level of the mistake I was making or the personal risk Connor took when he abducted me. I never fully appreciated the kindness and patience he showed me while I worked it all out.
“What were you thinking about just then?” Roman asks.
I blink away the memories and plaster on an insipid smile. “Our future.”
He chucks me under the chin. “Judge Burk just passed through security. We’re very lucky to have him. Not only is he a judge, but he’s also trusted by the Saint’s Order. He’s not a member yet but has applied to be, and he understands Order business. He can marry us properly.”
I have no idea what he means by that, but I don’t fight as Roman takes my elbow and leads me out of the bedroom and through the hall to the back of the house. We descend a staircase and then walk down a long corridor. I worry that he’s taking me to the dungeon again.
“What about Vivian?” I ask nervously.
“I’ve already had security escort her to the chapel.”
“You have a chapel here?”
He glances at me. “Every Order member maintains a chapel in their residence. It’s part of the vows we take.”
What sort of medieval society is the Order to have their own chapels? I’m finally seeing it on the level of the Illuminati or the Knights Templar. I think back to the hours I spent researching secret societies throughouthistory, and my author’s curiosity piques. I can’t stop my voice from shaking when I ask, “Do you think killing dragons is your mission from God?”
We ascend another set of stairs and arrive at stained-glass doors. He pulls one open for me. “It’s our mission from our god and the god of those who came before us.” Our eyes meet, and his are darker than I’ve ever seen them. And then he ushers me inside.
The chapel is paneled in dark wood and lit only by candlelight and the ambient light filtering through the mostly red stained glass. My breath catches at a stained-glass representation of Saint George mounted on a horse. The saint is holding a spear stabbed through a dragon’s head. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this depiction, but it’s the first time I’ve noticed the look of pride on Saint George’s face and the way the dragon is at his mercy. The dragon isn’t fighting back. George hasn’t a scratch on him. He might as well have a spear through a dog.
Dragons were sent to inspire humans, I remember Connor saying. The Order slaughtered them for greed, to maintain their status and position. I’ll never look at art like this the same way again, not as long as I live.
Roman tugs me toward the front of the chapel, his grip almost painful. There’s an altar, but the cross hanging over it is strange. It’s flanked by dozens of ivory candles, their dripping wax collecting on the wrought iron scrollwork of the candelabra. Vivian is waiting in the front pew, her traumatized eyes catching mine.
