"It’s protective," I say. "Black diamonds absorb negative energy. Rubies represent passion... and blood."
I don't ask. I slide the ring onto her finger.
It slides over her knuckle with a satisfying resistance, then settles at the base of her finger.
It fits perfectly. Of course it does. I measured her ring size from a cheap costume ring she left by the sink in her apartment one day. I stole it, measured it, and put it back before she came home.
"It fits," she whispers, sounding defeated.
"It was made for you."
I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to the cold metal of the ring, then to the soft skin of her finger. My eyes never leave hers.
"You belong to me, Ivy. This just makes it official."
She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold it tight.
"When?" she asks. "When is this... ceremony?"
"Tonight," I say.
"Tonight?" Her voice pitches up. "But... I can't... I have nothing to wear. I haven't showered. I—"
"Everything is handled," I interrupt. "The dress is in the guest room. The stylist will be here in an hour. The judge arrives at seven. Dinner will be served at eight."
"You’re insane," she says, tears spilling over her lashes now. "You can't just orchestrate someone’s life like this."
"I can. And I have."
I release her hand, but only to snake my arm around her waist. I pull her flush against me. The contact is electric. I feel the softness of her breasts against my chest, the heat of her belly. She’s so small. So fragile.
"Listen to me," I say, lowering my voice to a growl. I bring my other hand up to cup her jaw, forcing her to look at me. "You can fight me on this. You can cry. You can scream at the judge. But if you do... I can't guarantee your safety. If the Sokolovs find out you’re here and you’renotmy wife... they will take you. And I might have to let them, just to avoid a war I’m not ready to fight yet."
It’s a bluff. I would burn the city to ash before I let anyone touch a hair on her head. But she doesn't know that. She needs to think she’s saving herself. She needs to think she has a choice, even if the choice is illusory.
"Is that what you want?" I ask. "Do you want to go back to the basement of The Altar?"
She shudders violently. "No."
"Then say it."
"Say what?"
"Say 'I will marry you, Silas'."
She bites her lip. She looks at the ring on her hand—the shackle that glitters like a bruise. She looks at the wall of photos behind me, the evidence of my madness. Then she looks at me.
She sees the monster. But she also sees the wall I’ve built around her.
"I will marry you, Silas," she whispers. The words are broken, reluctant.
"Good girl."
I lean down and capture her mouth.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a seal. I press my lips to hers, hard, demanding. I taste the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her breath. She doesn't kiss back, but she doesn't pull away. She stands there, rigid, letting me take what I want.
I pull back after a moment, satisfied. For now.
