Page 25

A dark chuckle echoes in the stoney chamber. It was me.

She may have the audacity to feel sorry for me, but I will not return the favor. I’m going to remember every single one of their faces when I get out of here.

I stand while Olga and her maidens dress me. The room smells of iron and incense, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. Hands circle me, efficient and detached, binding me into the ceremonial garments: two narrow bands of pale fabric, one across my chest, one at my hips, tied tightly so there is no room to breathe deeply. The cloth is cool, almost cold, as if it has never known a body before mine.

They paint symbols along my arms in dark red paste. It flakes when I flex my fingers. I want to wipe it away, but I let my hands hang loose at my sides. Resistance now would be wasted. I need to conserve as much energy as possible.

Someone combs my hair back, pulling it into a severe knot at the base of my skull, each tug a reminder of what I am to them. A cow, measured and marked.

A bronze mirror is set before me. I barely recognize the woman staring back. My eyes look too large, my skin too bare beneath the ceremonial paint and bands. The bruises have faded, and so too the pallor of my complexion.

“There,” Olga says as she admires me, finished with her work. “Now, follow me, my lady.”

She leads me down the corridors to what appears to be a main central hall centered around an entrance covered in red blooms.

The doors open. The sound rolls in first—chanting, low and rhythmic, like a pulse. I step forward, feeling every eye on me like spiders on my skin. The hall is carved from stone, its walls etched with old victories and even older threats. At the center stands the altar, black and glossy, a shallow basin set into its surface.

Lord Rollo waits on the far side. He does not smile. His gaze passes over me as if he is inspecting a purchase. No ounce of pity for these weeks of torment he just put me through. I keep my face smooth despite the inferno within.

A priest stands next to Rollo in robes the darkest shade of red, face obstructed by a mask with a long horizontal strip for the eyes and a grid pattern over the mouth and nose. I hadn’t learned much about the religious beliefs of the Jord Territory during my time here, and I’m glad for it. There is something truly sinister about the way the priest stands at the head of the room.

Actually, all around the edges of the room are observers in similar masks. From her gangly form, I can make out Lawrie. Uttert stands next to here. The whole court must be hiding under those masks.

“Come forward,” the priest says, hood turning my direction.

Against my instincts screaming to run, run run—I walk to the altar. Masks turn as I pass, drinking in my exposed skin and painted markings. With one last glance back to the door, I spot Ragnar next to Olga. Is that… concern in his stare?

I don’t have time to consider any further as the priest raises a blade from within the folds of his robe. It is thin and curved, ceremonial, its edge catching the torchlight. My stomach tightens, but I do not step back. Fear is a language they understand; I refuse to speak it aloud.

“Blood to seal,” the priest intones.

He takes my hand. The cut is quick, a sharp kiss of pain, more startling than agonizing. A line of red wells up and drips into the basin. I watch it fall, each drop a second ticking by. When they cut Lord Rollo’s palm, he does not flinch. His blood joins mine, darkening the pool.

A murmur of approval ripples through the hall. Drums pound and the court starts to chant.

I feel something in me harden. Pure, unrelenting focus. This ceremony is a cage, but even cages have doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the guards’ positions, the weight of the blade, the way the priest’s attention wavers when the chant crescendos.

They bind my bleeding hand to Lord Rollo’s with a strip of cloth. Our blood smears together. The contact makes my skin crawl, but I do not pull away. I lift my chin and stare straight ahead at the spot right between his eyebrows where a little line is forming as he assesses my lack of reaction.

Perhaps he expected dramatics—wanted it even—but I’m saving all of that for the Telling I’ll create about all of this.

Because there is no fucking way I’ll be trapped here to this horrible male creature for the rest of eternity.

I will get out.

And I will have one Hel of a sun-licking Telling to share.

After sitting on a throne high above all of the celebrations in a grand room for hours, Lord Rollo finally decides to turn in for the final part of the marriage ceremony.

To consummate the marriage with a few selected court members to observe its legitimacy. I can’t—I won’t—let myself think about that part just yet.

Ragnar marches ahead of us through the crowd, parting as easily as wheat to a scythe. Hungry eyes follow my exposed skin. Not a single smudge of paint has been disrupted. Lord Rollo made sure of that by placing me high above the crowd during the festivities on a chair that was chained to the ceiling like a fucking bird cage.

He leans close to my ear, the ale lingering on his breath. “Did I say how”—his eyes trail wantonly along my curves—“beautiful you look tonight, pet?”

I choke on my spit, almost losing my nerve. “Do I?” I try to put a little sweetness into my voice.

He grumbles his agreement.