One contract.
I’d already signed, taking up half the page below.
Nila looked up, completely horrified. “You can’t be serious. You—you—”
I tensed. “Careful what you say. Think about how painful it will be for you if you insult my mental health again.”
She swallowed back the words dying to spew forth. “I’m not signing this, you bastard.”
I tilted my head. “Bastard? Interesting choice of words.”
“Don't like that one? How about fuckwit? Murderer? Rapist?”
I slapped her again, revelling in the equal burn we shared.
Pain to deliver pain. Pleasure to deliver pleasure.
Funny how the two were correlated.
“I’ll accept ‘bastard’ and ‘fuckwit,’ but under no circumstances will I accept ‘rapist.’ Have I tried to take you? Have I forced you? And, I’m no murderer.”
Her eyes glittered, fingers rubbing her cheek. “Are you deliberately blocking out what happened after the First Debt was repaid, or are you that much of a lunatic to remember only the things convenient to you?”
Lunatic.
I ran a hand infinitely slowly through my hair. I had full grounds to punish her. I’d warned her time and time again.
“Tell me, Jethro, you say you’re not a murderer—yet. But it will be you who delivers the killing blow, won’t it? You admitted as much in the past. Unless you’re too chicken and make your father do it. Or even maybe poor Kes. Will he kill me? Is he the bigger man than you? To kill off the family pet when it’s no longer wanted?”
My jaw ached from clenching so hard. “You really want to know?”
You’ve already guessed the truth.
The thought blazed bright, almost as bright as her cheek.
“No need, I already know. What will you use? A butchers block? A sharp blade or dull?” The strength and fight in her voice suddenly dissolved into sobs. “How will you live with yourself when my blood pours over your perfect shoes?”
The room shattered with sadness; the walls trampled us with appalling futures.
With a horrified wail, she curled into herself, holding her stomach as if her very soul tried to claw its way out. “Tell me, Jethro, if I only have a limited amount of time left, why go through the charade of making me sign this?!” She shook the parchment in front of my face. “What is this anyway? Does it have a name? ‘Weaver Vexation,’ perhaps?”
Her sanity quickly unravelled with every syllable.
I stood stiff, frantically clutching at my beloved ice. But in that moment, I felt her pain. I tasted her tears. I lived her grief.
My hands balled. The title I’d given it had been flippant at the time, but now I could see how it could shatter her.
Don’t say it.
The air in the office turned stagnant, waiting for me to speak.
Finally, I admitted, “Sacramental Pledge.”
She half-cackled, half-giggled, before everything seemed to fold in and crush her. “You made this our vows?! Sacramental, holy matrimonyvows?”
Before I could answer, she shook her head and collapsed to her knees before me. Rocking, hot tears splashed onto the contract, mixing with ink and staining it with large swirls of black.
She was the one who gave me the idea. After all, weweretechnically married. Groomed for one another, destined to drive each other to insanity. This was our fate. Our motherfuckingdestiny.
