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Because what comes next will be more humiliating than any of it. And again, I know it is only the beginning.
I wonder once more why he chose me. Why he wanted me.
As if my thought reminds him it’s not finished yet, not until I speak the words, he returns to me, crouches down to unlock the chain, then straightens to his full height. At well over six feet tall, he towers over my five-and-a-half-foot frame when I’m standing, so when I’m on my knees, he’s a giant.
Chairs creak as the men take their seats to witness this next scene. I wonder if they go home to fuck their wives with the image of me submitting to my husband on their minds.
But when Santiago touches the underside of my chin to raise me to kneel up, I stare up at him standing in the shadowy, dim light of the candles. I feel more his, strangely. More so than after the wedding.
And I realize I’ve given him more of what he wants when he wipes his thumb across my cheek. He closes his hand over the top of my head, that same thumb coming to my forehead, tracing a symbol there with my own tear as if blessing me. As if he’s some god. His lips move, and I think he’s saying a silent prayer, and again, I wonder what we look like, me kneeling at his feet, his mark fresh on my bloodied neck.
He closes his eyes, bows his head momentarily, then opens them again, and the look inside them is dark.
“Say the words,” he tells me with his hand still on the top of my head.
I know this part. The words. The act. I know exactly what I must do. Every daughter of The Society knows because every one of us will be made to submit no matter how high ranking.
And I know there’s no way around it. There never was, even when I believed for those short six months that I’d somehow escaped and was in charge of my own destiny. I never was.
I hold his gaze a moment longer than is proper or than he’s used to. I see a flicker of anger. Good.
He thinks I’ll be easy to break. He thinks I’m weak. He thinks my tears are weak. I see it. But I’m stronger than he knows. I almost got away. And I’ll survive him. I have to.
I empty my eyes of any emotion. I lock myself off from him, and I tell myself the words mean nothing. This is not an oath I choose.
“Dominus et Deuce.”
But when I say them, it’s as if the act is sealed, and again, I wonder if God truly is on their side.
Dominus et Deuce. My lord and my god.
I take his offered hand with both of mine, the one with which he marked me, and I press my lips to it. Raising my gaze to his, I watch him from beneath my lashes.
I think of my little sister. I think of what I have to do. How I have to play this game to which I don’t even know the rules. Because even if I could run away and I managed to do it, like Hazel did, what would happen to Evangeline? I won’t abandon her like Hazel abandoned us.
My lips pressed to his cool hand, I keep my eyes locked on his as the beginnings of a plan form in my mind.
When Santiago swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple work. He’s impacted. I’m not sure if it’s me kneeling for him or the act of the marking itself. It has to be heady stuff. I get it. But he is affected.
I’ll use that.
And I keep my eyes on his as long as I can as I bend, bringing my forehead to his shoe. I am to kiss it, but I won’t do that. The men won’t see. If my husband knows, he will punish me for it. It’s a small rebellion, but it’s mine, and it’s something, and I’ll submit to his punishment. At least he’ll know where I stand.
When he grips my arm and hauls me to my feet, I know he hasn’t missed my deviation from the rules. My dress slips as I fall into him, then stumble backward. He looks down at me, and I follow his gaze to my exposed breast. He roughly tugs the lace up, and the look in his eyes is darker than I’ve yet seen.
And for a moment, the weaker part of me, the scared part thinks maybe I should have kissed his shoe.
But then he’s reined himself in, and I think this side of my husband is more frightening than the outwardly angry side. This quiet is more terrifying.
Because his eyes hold a promise inside them.
I’ll deal with you later.
