Page 51 of Marrying the Savage

Then he gets in beside me, and the door shuts. The world outside becomes muffled behind tinted glass. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.

I look down at myself. My dress is ruined. Not dramatically ruined, not yet, but enough. The hem is dirty from the church floor. One sleeve has a faint smear of blood on it, though I can’t tell whose. My veil hangs unevenly over one shoulder. My bouquet is gone. My left shoe is missing.

My mouth still feels swollen. My neck still burns.

And on my throat, beneath the lace, Damir’s bite feels like a second pulse. I lift my fingers toward it before I can stop myself.

Damir’s gaze drops to the movement, and I snatch my hand away. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I say.

“I am very pleased with myself.”

“At least pretend shame.”

“No.”

“Do you know how exhausting you are?”

“Already?”

“We’ve been married for twenty minutes.”

“Sixteen.”

I stare at him.

He glances at his watch. Of course he does.

“You are timing the marriage?”

“I like precision.”

“I should have married the bullet.”

This time, his mouth definitely moves.

I hate that I see it.

I hate more that I want to see it again.

The car pulls away from the church. Through the tinted window, I catch one last glimpse of the steps, the armed men, the guests spilling out in clusters, my uncle standing at the entrance like a statue carved out of rage.

For one second, his warning comes back so sharply I almost hear it in the car.

Do you know he killed his wife?

My stomach tightens.

I look at Damir. He’s sitting beside me in calm silence, one bloodstained hand resting against his thigh, the cut across his palm hastily wrapped in a strip of white cloth. He looks less like a groom than a man who has just conquered a small country and is considering whether to have lunch.

Killed his wife.

The words don’t fit with the heat of his mouth or the way he shielded me in the church or the careful way he placed me in the car.

That’s the problem with monsters. In stories, they are supposed to look like monsters. In real life, apparently, they wear beautiful suits and kiss like they are trying to ruin your ability to think.

I turn toward the window. The city thins gradually as we drive. Stone buildings give way to wider roads, guarded gates, stretches of old trees bare against the cold sky. The silence in the car becomes too full, so naturally I fill it with the first foolish thing that comes to mind.

“So,” I say, “do you regularly attend weddings and leave with the bride, or was I special?”