Page 73 of His Eternal Claim

Mama doesn’t answer. She just pats my hand, her rings clicking together.

I lean closer to the glass, watching my reflection stretch over the moving streets. I reach up and touch the heavy string of pearls resting against my neck. Marriage. We are going to a marriage. Mine.

But why does it feel like I have already been married? Why does the white dress feel like an old story I’ve already read?

I stare deeper into my own eyes in the dark glass, trying to find the girl who lived before the migraine. But the glass doesn’t show me myself. It changes. The shadows in the window grow tall. Broad shoulders. A jacket as black as the night.

Grey eyes. All I can see is grey eyes looking back at me through the veil.

My breath hitches. I lift my hand, pressing my fingers flat against the cold windowpane, trying to touch his face, trying to make the shadow real.

Thump.

The glass shatters in my mind. Flashes of bright red blood spray across a white cloth. Screams bounce off high stone ceilings. The smell of sweet jasmine chokes my throat, mixed with the sharp stink of gunpowder. Church bells are ringing, ringing, ringing so loud it makes my ears bleed—

I shake my head hard, pressing my palms against my ears to make the noise stop. The memories disappear, leaving me gasping for air.

“Selene, pay attention.” Mama’s voice cuts through the fog.

I blink through my veil, forcing the grey eyes away, and turn my head back toward my Mother. Her lips are moving, speaking words I am supposed to understand. The white dress swallows me whole.

The car stops. The giant metal doors of a great big hotel are opened by men in matching gold-trimmed jackets.

My feet hurt. The heels make the ground feel uneven, and every step I take inside the grand lobby makes the pounding behind my eyes grow louder. Thump. Thump. Thump. It feels like someone is hammering a nail straight through the center of my forehead. The bright chandeliers look like exploding stars. My migraine is waking up again, stretching its heavy, ugly arms across my mind.

“Smile, Selene,” Mama whispers, her hand clamping around my forearm. Her fingers press right over the yellowing, finger-shaped bruises on my wrist.

I wince, a small whimper catching in my throat, but I twist my lips upward. I try to be good.

We walk into a private room filled with the scent of expensive wine and too many white lilies.

“There he is,” Mama says, her voice bright and syrupy. “Stina, darling, look.”

She leads me toward a man standing by the fireplace. When I look at him through the white fog of my veil, my heart sinks into my stomach. He is old. His hair is the colour of winter frost, and his skin is lined with hard, deep creases. This is Vane. This is the man Mama said I love.

I don’t know how to feel. I stand frozen, my hands hidden inside the heavy lace folds of my wedding dress, squeezing the little pills I hid there earlier. I look at Vane’s face and try to find a memory. I try to make his face fit into the blurry, empty spaces inside my head. But there is nothing. He is just a stranger dressed in a dark suit. A stranger who looks at me like I am a prize he just bought from a store.

Everything inside me screams that this is wrong. The air is too thick. The walls are too close.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom, Mama,” I say, my voice sounding small and shaky.

Mama looks at me, her eyes narrowing into two sharp slits. She looks at my trembling hands. “Right now? We have guests arriving soon, Selene.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise,” I say, nodding frantically. “Just to fix my face. To wash the cold away.”

She lets go of my wrist, giving me a warning pat. “Be quick. Do not make him wait.”

I turn and walk away, my legs moving faster and faster until I reach the heavy wooden door of the restroom. I push inside and click the lock shut. Click. Just like the cage.

I let out a ragged breath. The air in here is colder. I step up to the mirror, but I don’t look at my face. I look past my reflection to the big glass window on the far wall. It leads out to a low back ledge, only a few feet above a quiet side alley.

I look down at my dress. Then I look at the white veil pinned to my hair—the veil that makes everything look foggy. I reach up with shaking fingers and tear it out, leaving the heavy white lace behind on the marble counter.

I need to run.

I don’t know where the roads go. I don’t know what country this is, or whose house is safe. I just know with a terrible certainty that I cannot stay here. If I stay here, the white dress will swallow me, and the grey eyes will disappear forever.

I scramble toward the window, pushing the glass pane upward with all the strength in my aching arms. The cool outside air hits my face, smelling of rain and car exhaust. I don’t hesitate. I lift the heavy skirt of my wedding dress, swing my legs over the ledge, and jump.