Page 98 of The Devil

Amal.

It’s her. I know without having to see her face because I can’t see her face. No one can. It’s bound up forcefully by lace to match the red of the dress, her dark hair pulled back, tamed for the first time ever in what I guess is a painful knot.

Hands close over my arms again. I realize I’ve taken a step forward, my body physically drawn to her, pulled to protect her as if by some invisible force. But I can’t get to her. Of course I can’t. The soldiers holding me back see to that.

“Now, Jethro, your Amal,” Senna says, moving his arm in a grand gesture as if to present her, as if he’s just drawn the curtain aside. Although his face is directed toward Amal, I can hear the satisfied grin I know he’s wearing beneath that mask. I don’t need to see it to know.

The men who are holding onto Amal release her and she sways a little. She takes two steps to stand at the top of the stairs and looks down into the room of two-hundred masked strangers. I can imagine from here how her heart must be pounding. How terrified she must be because she is what this whole thing is about.

She is the one to watch, not us.

We were mistaken, arrogant to think this ball was to parade Severin and me, to make an example to the members of The Society and remind them what happens when you disobey.

In my mind, I see that wall of vines interlaced throughout all those coats of arms, touching every family, every life. The name, Fairbairn. I’d seen it in her notes. She thought she was looking for her father but all along, that name belonged to her. I see it now. I understand it now. Does she know? Does she understand?

She takes another step, wobbly this one, and I think of a lamb walking to the slaughter. She is that lamb. The sacrifice dressed in bloody red.

My hands fist, rage burning inside me.

I will her to look at me. To see me. Only me.

And a moment later, as if fate will grant me this one wish, she does.

She sees me.

The instant she does, I swear I see that fierce, impossible blue of her eyes as her gaze locks on me even over the distance and through her prison of lace. I swear I see the eyes of the woman I will raze hell to protect and I will my strength onto her.

But I don’t need to.

I underestimate my wife. Have I learned nothing?

Because she straightens, growing inches taller before my eyes. When she takes hold of the banister, I tug free of one set of hands only to have two more grab me.

Amal begins to walk down the stairs. She’s unsteady and I think they drugged her, too. They must have. Even so, as she pauses to steady herself, to steel herself, her eyes never once leave mine. Not for a second.

She’s barefoot. I notice it immediately, each careful step exposing a glimpse of pale skin beneath the crimson silk. My gaze travels higher and my jaw tightens. The fabric has been wound tightly around her chest. It’s not to hide her, but to display her, deliberate and calculated. And yet, she holds her head high. If they wanted to humiliate her, they failed.

She’s wearing enough lace to circle the island three times over. I imagine hanging Senna with a length of it and it satisfies something dark and cold inside me.

But Senna barely registers. All I see is Amal.

I watch her descend the seemingly endless staircase, watch the crowd part as the sea did for Moses, and there is only her. I think of all the times I’ve pressed her hand to my chest, my heart, and I feel her there now.

In my heart.

My wild bride.

My fearless bride.

The woman I will lay my own life down to protect.

The men holding me back release me and I hurry across the space to her, reaching her in a few long strides. Once we’re in the middle of the room, guests create a circle around us and that screeching, hideous music grows louder, heavier.

This ritual, whatever it is, it has begun.

I wrap my arms around Amal as she throws her weight against me. I hear her breath catch as she lays her cheek against my chest and for a long moment, I hold her tight to me, feeling the frantic beating of her heart, breathing in the scent of her, needing to be certain this is real. She’s real. And I have her now. She’s safe now.

“All may join,” a man says. Robertson.