ONE
VIVIENNE
The man in the casket was my husband, butIfelt nothing whenIlooked at him.
CarterJamisonhad been a cold man, andImean that literally.Everytime he touched me his hands were like ice.Justthinking about it made me shiver.
But he was cold in other ways too—cold and aloof, never interested in anythingIhad to say.Ihad been sold to him whenIwas barely twenty—a virgin who had been sequestered for years to keep me that way—and he’d never shown me a single spark of warmth or affection.
I was so innocent on our wedding night,Ihad no idea what was coming.Iwas only toldImust hold still and submit to my husband and do whatever he told me.
That might not have been a problem if my husband had been a kind man—one who cared about his wife’s pain or the terrorIfelt whenIfirst saw the crooked shaft of his manhood with its ugly, bloated knot coming towards me.
Closing my eyes,Iremembered the sharp feeling inside me—like someone stabbing with a knife—and the way my eyes had filled with tears.Myeyes with theRoyalGoldenRim—the thin ring of gold around each iris that proclaimedIhad someRoyalWereblood in me.Theyhad marked me as special—as a woman who would bear the man who was lucky enough to mate with her many strong sons.
It was a promiseInever fulfilled forCarter, despite the prophecy.
Not that he didn’t try to get me pregnant.Everymonth during myHeatCycle—which was never very strong—he tried.Aftera time,Istopped dreading the encounters and got used to the grunting and thrusting on top of me.Forall its ugliness, his shaft wasn’t very big.Afterthose first few times, it didn’t hurt anymore.Anda year or so after that,Ibarely noticed it in me.Iwas able to close my eyes and imagine myself someplace much more pleasant—the beach maybe, or the mountains.
I have always wanted to travel, butCarterpreferred to stay put.Heruled theBlackridgePackwith an iron fist, and he didn’t like leaving his territory in case someone might get out of line.Thefew times he went to multi-Packmeetings in other states, he refused to take me.
“You’ll only get into trouble,” he’d grunt, whenIbegged to go with him soIcould see someplace new.Hecalled me ungrateful for pleading to go away.Afterall, hadn’t he given me a mansion to live in?
WolvertonManorwas a grand home,Ihad to admit.Ithas turrets and towers and battlements—just like a castle.It’snot a “McMansion” asCarterscornfully called the other grand houses in our small town.Partsof it were brought over fromEngland—they used to be the walls of a monastery beforeCarterbought them and brought them here.
But theManorwas built long beforeIwas born—back when he was still in his “exploring phase” as he put it, the few times he talked about his adventures inEuropeand theFarEast.Bythe time we wed, he was nearly sixty and had had his fill of traveling.
“I just want to stay home by my own fire,” he would growl, whenImentioned how nice it might be to go for a vacation somewhere.“Stopyour prattling, girl!Idon’t have time for your nonsense!”
Carter had never had time for my “nonsense” or any other part of me, except what was between my legs.Astime went on, though, and he failed to get me pregnant, he grew bitter and angry.
He would complain about it often though and curse me for not giving him an heir.Hesaid the soothsayer who had made the prophecy about the “girl with gold-ringed eyes who would bear many strong heirs to a male of theJamisonline” was nothing but a liar and a thief who had taken his money when he asked for aTruthSaying.
Of course, he sent me to a fertility clinic—though he refused to go himself.Theypoked and prodded and studied me and though they admitted that myHeatCyclewas extremely mild, there was nothing actually wrong with my womb.Sothere was nothing to be done but bring me home again and try some more.
They even gave me fertility drugs to take—not that they did any good.Ijust couldn’t seem to conceive, no matter howItried.EventuallyCartercursed me and called me “barren.”
I didn’t dare to suggest that he get tested too—even though the forbidden internet searchesIdid explained that the failure to get pregnant might not be my fault.Aman his age might have a low sperm count, after all, butCarterwould hear none of that.Hewas anAlpha—who ever heard of anAlphawith a low sperm count?
As strange as it might seem,Ilonged to get pregnant, despite how distastefulIfound sex.Iwould watch the young mothers of thePackholding their babies and my own arms felt so emptyIwanted to weep.
Ididweep often, alone in my room at night.Exceptfor the nights of myHeatCycle,Ididn’t sleep withCarter.HesaidI“bothered him.”He’dbeen used to sleeping alone long before he acquired me as his wife—he wasn’t about to change for the foolish young girl he’d married.
Not thatIwas a girl anymore.
I opened my eyes and looked down into the casket again.Thatugly, wrinkled old man had stolen twenty years of my life.Iwas forty now and whileIstill had curves in the right places,Icould see faint lines around the corners of my eyes and mouth.Therewere a few silver strands in my long, dark hair as well.Nothingtoo dramatic—Icould pluck them out easily enough.Butthere always seemed to be more later.
“Ah, you must be missing him so much.Poorlass.”
I jerked my head up and saw thePackChaplain,FatherMacKaity, standing at my side.
Quickly,Ilowered my head, hiding my tearless eyes behind the black mourning veilIwas wearing.
“Yes,Father,”Isaid softly.Ihad spent most of my life pretending to be a good and dutiful wife—Icould pretend a little more now.IfthePackand the surrounding town knew howIreally felt aboutCarter’sdeath, they would be shocked and scandalized.
“Such a good husband he was to you, my girl,”FatherMacKaitysaid solemnly.“Alwaysmaking sure you were well fed and dressed in the finest clothes—no one could doubt you were the wife of thePackLeaderwhen they saw you.”
No, of course not—Carteralways kept up appearances,Ialmost said.Ikept the words behind my teeth, though.Itwouldn’t do to let people know that my whole marriage had been nothing but a well-rehearsed performance and that even nowIwas still performing.
