“My son! That is not acceptable!” Father Barclay’s voice is like thunder.
“Forgive me, Father. But this is between Miss Ivanova and me. Lass, make your choice.”
I’ve already noticed that when she’s angry, her eyes turn a deeper shade of violet, more like thunderstorm clouds. “It guarantees nothing. When he comes, Vadick will torture and kill me, too.” Giving a short, bitter laugh, she stood up. “But why not? I’m dressed for the occasion, after all.”
Morana’s expression changes, it’s not just rage. Malice and something I can’t fully interpret take over.
Still, I nod. “Good girl.”
The ceremony is quick, Father Barclay is not pleased with me, but the argument that she’s safer with me won him over. Without her heels, Morana barely reaches my shoulder, I can still smell the scent of crushed lilies and roses in her hair.
“...you may kiss the bride.”
Looking down at her beautiful, wary face, all I can remember is the sight of Ferr’s broken, bloody body. The screams from his mother and sisters when I went to tell them the news.
Taking her jaw between my fingers and thumb, I kiss her harshly, feeling her stiffen. But damn it all, her lips are pillowy soft and sweet, and suddenly, I want to take her lower one and bite it, thrust my tongue in her mouth, and play with hers… My hand slides around to the back of her neck to hold her in place while I push her lips apart with my tongue, pressing harder. A little noise escapes her throat and I pull back abruptly. She looks just as shocked as I feel.
Walking Father Barclay to the door is a chilly experience. “Thank you for your blessing, Father.” I pull a thick envelope out of my jacket. “A small contribution to the parish.”
He is not impressed.
“I am disappointed in you, my son,” he says coldly. “Giving God’s blessing to this union was… complicated.”
“You have saved her from a far worse fate than me, Father,” I sigh. It doesn’t matter what I say. The man is planted firmly in the doorway.
“The parish ladies have been raising money for a new roof and organ for the church,” he says, eyeing me keenly.
“I believe there is enough in that envelope for one or the other, Father.”
He shrugs under his cassock. “One… or the other. A problem, you see. If we purchase the organ and the roof leaks and destroys it, it would be a tragedy. Should we repair the roof but there is no music to lift the spirit, well…”
There’s no getting out of this, and I’m going to punish Morana for kicking up such a fuss about marrying me. Father Barclay is clear that he wants both the roof and the organ to assuage his conscience. I’ve known this man since birth and I don’t believe he has a conscience, but… “I understand. I will have a matching sum delivered to you tomorrow.”
“Go with God, son.” He smiles serenely.
My new bride is standing exactly where I left her in the library, the glass of champagne Miss Kevin insisted on pouring for her still clutched in her hand after we’d signed the marriage license.
“What the hell just happened?” Morana blurts.
Taking her left hand, I hold it up to eye level, the enormous diamond ring on her finger glittering in the firelight. “We got married. You are legally mine.”
“Legally?” She shakes her head. “That- he wasn’t a real priest, was he? This is some sick joke that’s part of your genuinely insane master plan.”
Bypassing the flute of Dom Perignon left for me, I pour three fingers of O’Rourke, drinking it faster than a good whiskey deserves. “It is part of my master plan, but no. Not a joke. It’s real.” I smile at her malevolently, enjoying her fury. “We were bound before God and it is completely legal. Iron-clad, in fact. It was quite expensive, thanks to your dramatic flair with the kidnapping speech, but we are married.”
“I have to get out of this dress.” She’s pulling at the lace and chiffon at the neckline, breathing hard. “This is choking me, I have to get it off me-”
“Hey now, hey lass, you’re having a panic attack.”
Morana is pale and shaking, still pulling at the material and I quickly seat her on my lap. “Tell me three things you can see.”
Her panicked gasps are turning to wheezing and I yank apart the back of the gown. “I can’t…”
“Aye, you can, tell me three things.”
“The… the desk,” she rasps, “your drink. The window.”
“Good girl, such a good lass,” I murmur, “now, two things you can hear.” Rubbing her back, I avoid looking at her heaving breasts. God, I’m a sick fuck.
