Page 61 of Marrying Bluebeard

“What a naughty little dolly, you are,” Celeste purrs, and I tense as I hear her approach. I keep my gaze fixed firmly on the floor, and when her icy fingers wrap around my chin and tilt my face upward, I squeeze my eyes shut. I may very well die here, but I refuse to let her control me. Not again.

“Don’t be shy, love.” Her thumb strokes my skin. “It’ll all be so much more pleasant if you simply let me in. Otherwise, I’m afraid things might get a bit… painful.”

I grit my teeth. “Go to hell.”

The smack of Celeste’s hand whips my head to the side. It leaves my cheek with a blistering sting, but at least she’s released my chin. Bertrand’s grip on my arm tightens, and I can feel his heart pounding as he takes a step closer, his chest flush against my back.

“Bad dolly.” Celeste frowns. “Now I’m going to have to make your beloved Bertrand drain you himself. Just think how devastated he’ll be when he realizes.” Her giggle scrapes at my raw nerves, and I drive my leg up, slamming my knee into her gut. The resulting screech brings a smile to my face, and I kick my leg out again, my booted heel grazing her side.

“Do it, husband,” she shrieks. “Suck every last drop of the bitch’s blood.”

“Yes, my love,” Bertrand intones, his voice devoid of emotion. I tense as his lips brush my neck, the tips of his fangs pressing against my skin.

“You don’t want to do this, Bertrand,” I whisper. “You love me—” My words morph into a cry of pain as his teeth break the surface. “Bertrand, please…” My voice cracks as I feel him drawing blood, consuming what little I have left. He’s too deep under Celeste’s thrall to hear me. This is the end. I’m going to die in this cursed tower, and Bertrand will remain enslaved for eternity. Celeste will not allow him to slip away again.

Something warm drips onto my neck and runs down my breast. I raise my trembling hand and wipe a finger through the wet trail. It doesn’t feel like blood. It’s almost like…tears?

Bertrand is crying.

And I’m just standing here, letting him.

No more.

I grasp the back of his head, clutching his thick hair as I level him with my most commanding tone. “Enough, Bertrand. You’re not to listen to her anymore, do you hear me? You belong to me. Your Adelaide. Your wife.”

The pull of blood slows, Bertrand’s hold on my arm loosening, but it tightens at the sound of Celeste’s voice. “Drain the insolent doll. I demand it.”

“Damn it, Bertrand.” I tug at his hair, but my strength is dwindling along with the blood loss. So much loss in such a short amount of time, I can barely stand. My voice is little more than a whimper. “Don’t listen to her.”

“He can’t hear you,” Celeste sings. “He can only hear⁠—”

Her words are lost in a howl of pain, and a feline hisses somewhere in the background. White light radiates through the back of my eyelids, and I dare to crack one open enough to see a wall of ghostly figures standing between us and Celeste.

“Hurry, Adelaide,” Anne says as she links shimmering arms with two of the other wives. “We won’t be able to block her out for long.”

I draw up every ounce of energy left in my body and use it to extricate Bertrand’s hand from my arm. Lacing my fingers through his, I lift them to my lips. “Please, Bertrand. I need you to come back to me.” My voice wavers as the edges of the room turn black, the ceiling spinning as my eyes roll heavenward. “You’re stronger than this, Bertrand. You’re…” My voice trails off as my hand falls to my side, and I slump into his chest. My eyes flutter closed.

I almost miss the moment his mouth retreats, his arms slipping around my waist to hold me up rather than hold me back. But the sound of his voice as he gasps my name is as clear as a summer’s day.

“Adelaide.”

41

BERTRAND

What have I done? Adelaide, she… she’s…

A sigh slips through her pale lips. It’s soft, barely more than a whisper, but it fills me with a fire so fierce it scorches my insides. I may have done this, but it was the viper at my back who gave the order. My penance can wait.

A flurry of white surrounds me, and five pairs of ghostly arms reach for Adelaide. I tighten my hold as I glare at them. “Your vendetta is with me, not her. She’s innocent.”

“Foolish man,” Genevieve scoffs, glasses slipping perilously low despite her spectral form. “You think we don’t know who pulls your strings? If you desire forgiveness, then I suggest you release Adelaide to us and skewer that devil wife of yours to the wall.”

“Celeste is not my wife,” I snap, but the slight stirring of limbs draws my attention to Adelaide’s face. Relief floods my veins when I see her open eyes.

“The bed,” she rasps, pointing listlessly to the side. I follow her gesture and spy the mangled iron post sticking oddly out to the side of the bed. No, not a post—a spear.

I meet Genevieve’s eyes. “Take care of my bride.”