“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
I strip quickly to my underwear, handing the items to a nearby guard, the men around me doing the same. Clara, meanwhile, waits in the center of her protective circle, staring down the man in charge.
“You too, my dear,” he says, the endearment too genuine to be comfortable. Trips steps forward, beating me to the task this time, and slips the buttons on the back of the dress free.He should be the one to help her, but all I want to do is touch her.
The dress pools at her feet, leaving her in heels and a set of virginal white panties and corset.
My heart pounds, torn between desire and fear. This isn’t something for a crowd of guards to see, let alone her father- and brother-in-law. The officiant has the good sense to face away from her, but except for a handful of guards, the rest of the crowd isn’t as circumspect.
Trips’ father is clinical, though, when he makes his next command. “The corset as well, please. We both know how much can hide in such a garment.”
Trips’ brother isn’t as polite; his eyes glaze in avarice as Clara holds her arms out, letting Trips undo the back of the garment. I step in front of her, using my body to block as much of her as I can, but I know it won’t be enough.
It isn’t—and I can tell by the lack of reaction from Clara and Trips that this isn’t the first such situation they’ve found themselves in. It probably isn’t even the worst. And I suppress a shiver at all the unknowns they’ve had to deal with, the two of them alone. The damage they’ve taken that we haven’t been able to see written across their skin from across a room. And I couldn’t protect her. None of us could; we knew that—she knew it.
But I hate it, more now that I can taste it, feel it, live it.
The corset swings, brushing against my back as it falls free. Trips rolls it up like parchment in his fist, his glare darker than any I’ve seen before.
The monster gestures for Trips’ brother to retrieve the garments, the guards around us getting to work digging through pockets and feeling seams.
Trevor wears a smile as I step between him and Clara, keeping him from seeing all of her. “You assume this is a new view, lover boy. But your girl is fond of sharing. We all know that.”
I lunge forward, and Trips doesn’t stop me, letting me deck his brother in the nose, blood bursting, tainting the air with the metallic scent of old change. Guards rush forward, hauling me back before I can take another swing.
Trips snags the garments from his brother, handing them to another guard. “Don’t get blood on her dress. Fucking idiot.”
Trevor yanks out his pocket square and covers his nose. “Your wife’s boyfriend broke my nose,” he shouts, the sound nasally and choked with blood and snot.
“Then you shouldn’t be looking at my wife like you want her,” he says simply, the guard bringing the dress and corset to their father to be looked over.
“Boys, that’s enough,” the head of the family says, the brothers left glaring at each other. “Jakobi, if you could see to Trevor’s nose? I don’t want his wife whining to me all night about a trip to the hospital.”
The guards continue with their various tasks, Clara’s dad silently joining us in the ring around his daughter, giving her whatever privacy we can.
There are crunching sounds and some cursing when Trevor’s nose gets fixed, but otherwise, we wait quietly as Trips’ father gathers everything they found from our clothesonto the table, the boring wedding band I switched out for a nicer one earning me only a stern look. Trips’ father takes a few more calls, sending groups of guards out of the room after every one, his frustration growing as time passes.
I smile on the inside, happy the plan is still on the right track.
They don’t find any art, of course. We knew he’d be suspicious of us tonight, which is why we smuggled the forgeries in long before now. They’re too unruly for a quick drop with this level of security.
What the evil mandoesfind, though, turns out to be nearly as bad.
“Archie?” he asks, his voice ice.
“Yes, Father?”
“Can you explain what I’m looking at here?” He holds up the marriage license, and something about his calm tone has fear rippling through me.
But Trips doesn’t panic, not like I am. “It’s our marriage license.”
“Then who exactly married this woman this evening? Because I don’t know any ‘Trips Bergan McElroy.’ Although, the memorial to your mother is a nice touch.”
Trips shrugs. “I didn’t get to go shopping for a wedding gift. This seemed like an acceptable substitute.”
I can hear the angry teenager in his voice, and my fists clench in sympathy.
The man at the table sighs, folding the document and tucking it into his interior jacket pocket. “We will discuss this another time.”
