That was why she’d had her body hair lasered off, but she’d never had more than the dead ends carefully trimmed from her head. She painted her face and hands, but she couldn’t dream of a tattoo or even glittery eyeshadow. She wore her gowns, but never dared to ask if she might try a color other than white.
One reason so many brides looked forward to their bride price being paid was the relative freedom it came with. The matron liked to remind them all the time that if they were chosen, they could dress however their spouses liked. They might get to own a pair of sneakers, or lip gloss, or even cut their hair.
Carmine longed to try those things, but she didn’t account for how nude she would feel without her costume, the mask she’d worn for so long.
And the way Atticus looked at her… it definitely felt like she was nude.
He said something too low for her to hear, pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, and then muttered, “That was fast. Was everything okay? Do you need something?”
The bathroom had been fully stocked. The soaps and things weren’t quite as good of a quality as she was used to — a bridemusthave soft skin — but everything was there. In fact, she’d taken the luxury of a whole extra minute in the shower, just to see if she could.
“I’m okay,” she answered, because he kept waiting for her to say something.
Atticus dropped his hand and fixed her with alook.“Why’d you go so fast? You didn’t have to hurry. My sister takesagesin the shower. She says it’s a woman’s right.”
He has a sister?Yes, that seemed right. She didn’t know what it was like having siblings, but she thought she could see Atticus fitting into a big brother mold very easily.
Must be nice to have someone looking out for you.
“I took an extra minute,” she reminded him as she shuffled her way out of the bathroom. There were really only a few feet between the bathroom and the bed, but the journey felt like it took ages. Probably because Atticus watched her so closely.
“Extra minute?”
Carmine tried very hard not to look guilty. “Yes. I was in the shower for five minutes. Didn’t you notice?”
He seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting down to the shirt she’d borrowed, then back up, like he was trying not to look and failing. Maybe that was why it took him a second to ask, “What are you talking about?”
She wasn’t sure where she was supposed to sleep or even sit, but there wasn’t exactly a bevy of options, so she settled back on the edge of the bed and tucked her bare legs under her. Carefully arranging her long rope of wet hair over her shoulder, she began to braid it so it would be more manageable.
“In the crypt, we’re only allowed four minutes of shower time. Two minutes of water with a minute break in between.”
Atticus looked at her like she’d just plucked something from inside a corpse and waved it around. “Why would they do that?”
“Longer showers encourage vanity and sloth,” she replied, by rote. After a heartbeat, she took a risk by adding, “Also, I think they didn’t want us to be alone together for any longer than that. The showers were communal and they couldn’t risk any of us being defiled.”
A couple tried it once and things went very, very badly for them. Personally, Carmine didn’t understand the appeal. It was a good way to get out of being a bride, certainly, but only if yousucceeded. If you didn’t, the punishment would be endless. Not to mention the fact that the act itself seemed awful.
Atticus’s expression didn’t ease up. If anything, he looked more disgusted than when she started.
“Okay, new rule,” he rumbled, standing up slowly from his seat. He planted his hands on the tiny tabletop and a muscle in his jaw ticced. “No more five minute showers.”
Her stomach sank, but before it could go too far, he continued, “You take as long as you fucking want. Ten minutes. Twenty. Fuck, anhourif that’s what you need. Look at all that hair. No way five minutes is enough. There’s a fancy water recycler in this thing, so take as long as you need to.”
Ten-minute showers?Her stomach exploded with excited butterflies. She hadn’t experienced a luxury like that since she was little and her mother used to give her baths in the plastic tub of their one-bedroom apartment.
“And another thing— This isn’t the crypt anymore. You don’t have to ask me permission for shit. You don’t have to watch what you say. You can’t run because you could get hurt, but everything else… You’re your own person. All that stuff was bullshit, okay? Whoever taught you that— that shit aboutdefilementwas a piece of garbage and if they were here, I’d shoot them.”
Carmine was only halfway done with her braid, but her fingers refused to move. She could only stare, wide-eyed, as Atticus stalked over to his backpack and snatched it up. He looked so angry, but it wasn’t directed at her. She felt it, though, like a furnace getting hotter and hotter.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was making rules for her if she wasn’t supposed to ask for permission for things, but she didn’t. Instead, she found herself saying, “My groom might not like that.”
He stopped by the bed and turned his head to lash her with a glare. “What part?”
“Any of it.” She licked her lips and looked away, afraid that if she held his gaze for a moment longer, she’d catch fire. “I’m not supposed to listen to anyone but my groom. If he wants?—”
A tug on the loose end of her braid stopped her mid-sentence. Atticus held the dripping ends of her hair in his tattooed fist, but he didn’t yank it. He wrapped it once, twice, around his knuckles before he gently pulled her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.
He looked much calmer when he told her, “Your groom is a dead man, doll. Stop thinking about him.”
