I think about the look in his eyes—that strange dark flash—and I shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold.
The night before the wedding, I can't sleep.
I lie in my bed, Fluff curled at my feet, and stare at the ceiling. The house is quiet except for the usual settling noises and the distant sound of the grandfather clock in the hallway, marking each agonizing minute.
Tomorrow, I'll put on the dress I chose, a dream gown for a nightmare of a wedding. Tomorrow, Mrs. Brady will help me with my hair and makeup, since there’s no one else to do it. Tomorrow, I'll walk down the aisle of the Holy Cross Cathedral on my own because there's no one left to give me away.
Tomorrow, I'll marry Sean Flannery, the Wolf of Dublin, and become his wife.
His property, a nasty voice in my head whispers.
I can’t stop myself from thinking about the wedding night. About what he'll expect. About the white lace chemise hanging in my closet, about the bed I'll have to share with him, about his hands on my body and his weight pressing me into the mattress.
I’ve never been kissed. Never been touched. If there was a stronger word thanvirginal, that would describe me. I’m barely eighteen. I’ve been sheltered my whole life from men,from romance, from any experience that might prepare me for this. My only knowledge comes from bodice rippers and Gothic novels about creaky houses and waifish brides haunted by ghosts of first wives—hardly educational fare. I don't know what to expect, not really. I know the mechanics, but I don't know what it will be like with him. With a man who looks at me with such coldness, sometimes anger, and sometimes indifference. With a killer.
Will he be gentle? Will he care that I'm frightened? Or will he just take what he wants, because I'm his wife and he has the right?
I roll onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest. Fluff meows in protest at being disturbed, then settles back down with a sigh.
"I'm scared," I whisper to the darkness. "I'm so scared."
But there’s no answer. No comfort. Just the tick of the clock and the weight of tomorrow pressing down on me.
I think about my father's office, about the files I searched through. I went back a couple of times over the past two weeks, going through any drawer that wasn’t locked and any file or paperwork left out, hoping to find some scrap of information about Sean, some hint as to whyhe’sthe one they chose. I hoped I’d find something indicating that at least he was a consideration on my father's or Desmond’s part, something to tell me more about this man that I’m marrying. But there was nothing. If my family did know anything about him, it’s locked away in the filing cabinets or in my father’s computer.
He's a ghost. A phantom. And tomorrow he'll be my husband.
Tomorrow, Father McCleary will marry us. I think of that disastrous “counseling” session, about how Father McCleary stopped me after Mass last Sunday and spoke with me, briefly, alone. I’d wondered if Connor—who I saw in a back pew—would have dragged Sean to the church, but he’d remained absent.
Father McCleary had taken my hand. "Maeve, marriage is a sacrament. It's meant to be a reflection of God's love. I pray that you and Mr. Flannery will find a way to build something real, something good, from these difficult circumstances."
I'd nodded, but I didn't believe him. How could something good come from a marriage neither of us wanted? How could love grow from resentment and fear?
I never expected love out of a marriage. I knew better than that. But I had hoped that my father or Desmond would pick someone who… liked me, at the very least. Who I could maybe like in return. I’d hoped I might find companionship in a marriage, and if not that, then just not cruelty.
Sean could be cruel. I’ve seen nothing in him to give me a reason not to fear it.
Now, lying in the dark, I try to imagine my life after tomorrow. Waking up next to Sean every morning. Sharing meals with him. Making conversation. Letting him touch me.
The images won't come. It's like my mind refuses to picture it, refuses to accept it as reality.
But it is reality. In less than twelve hours, I'll walk down that aisle. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be in Sean's bed, wearing that white lace chemise, trembling as he?—
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the thought away. I can't think about that. Not now. Not when I'm already barely holding myself together.
The clock downstairs chimes two in the morning. Four hours until dawn. Eight hours until the wedding. Ten hours until?—
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
I get out of bed, wrapping my thick robe around myself against the chill. The house is dark and silent as I pad downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Brady has left tea in the pot, still slightly warm. I feel a pang in my chest, realizing she must have stayedup late fretting over me, and I pour myself a cup with shaking hands.
The kitchen windows look out over the back garden, illuminated by security lights. The rain from earlier has stopped, leaving everything wet and gleaming. It's beautiful in a stark, lonely way.
This is my last night as just Maeve Connelly. My last night of being alone, of being free—or as free as I can be in this situation. Tomorrow I'll be Maeve Flannery, wife of the Wolf, bound to a man who sees me as a burden. I sip the tea, letting the warmth spread through me, and try to find some kernel of courage—some strength to face what's coming.
"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection in the dark window. "You have to do this. There's no other choice."
My reflection stares back at me, pale and frightened and young. A reflection I’ve stared at a thousand times, probably, over the years, but I look like a ghost to myself in the dark, rain-slicked window. Like I’m no longer real.
