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25
Karma
I stay there, poised at the threshold of the church. At the far end of the aisle, he turns to glance at me, then freezes. Even across the distance, there’s no mistaking the tension that radiates off every inch of his powerful body.
Next to him, a man who is, clearly, his brother, and Seb, as well as several other men, who also look like brothers—I wonder how many he has—turn toward me, and a collective ripple of shock seems to run through them. I take a step forward, then another.
The cool interior of the church wraps around me like a shroud. I shiver, tighten my grasp around the bouquet of white zagara flowers from the orange trees, that Cassandra had managed to rustle up for me this morning.
My large train drags behind me, the weight of it tugging at my shoulders so it feels like I am physically dragging along at least three times my body weight as I place one foot in front of the other. My footsteps echo through the completely silent church. It seems I have struck my audience dumb. A giggle bubbles up and I swallow it back. It won’t do to get hysterical. Not now, not after I’ve come this far.
With Cassandra’s help, I’d managed to don my wedding gown… And when I had seen myself in the mirror… The contrast of my red hair with the black silk and lace and my pale creamy skin, all set off with the white roses…ah! Let’s just say, I knew I had outdone myself.
I begin to move forward, when the church door snicks shut behind me. I resist the urge to turn, shove open the door and tear out of there.
Firstly, I am not going to drown myself… The last time really had been an accident, but either way, I am not going to risk running over the edge of a cliff again. Besides if I did that, it would show him that I am afraid. That I had lost my nerve. And no way, can I allow that.
My heart begins to race and my pulse pounds at my temples. A bead of sweat trickles down my back and another shiver grips me. Shit, I will not give in to my fear. Not now. I set my jaw, square my shoulders, then continue to walk down the aisle.
With every step, the rustle of my gown, the swish of my skirt against my skin, the susurration of the train against the stone floor… All of the sounds seem to grow louder, more amplified.
There's no music. Why the hell isn't there any music? Don’t weddings typically play the wedding march, or whatever shit tune that accompanies a bride walking up the aisle to meet her end? I mean, her husband-to-be.
Maybe Sicilians do it differently? Bloody hell, maybe I should have specified that he play music for the ceremony. A chuckle bubbles up and I swallow it down. As if he would listen to anything I have to say, huh?
My blood begins to thud in my ears. My throat goes dry. All of their gazes are fixed on me, on my black wedding gown, that I had fashioned as an amalgamation of the most grotesque designs that I had come across. The sleeves are made of lace and encase my arms, so the cream of my skin is visible through the gaps. The actual gown is cut deep at the bosom, so the curves of my breasts are on display, almost until the nipples. The waist cinches in, before flowing into a full princess skirt, except it’s ripped and hung with black pearls and hooks which jingle as I walk. My feet are clad in red velvet shoes, the only accessory that I had chosen from the clothes I had tried in the boutique the other day.
My nails are painted red, as are my lips, the color set off by the red of my hair. The overall effect, I know, is over-the-top, almost steam-punkish in presentation. I resemble a twisted goth princess… Exactly what I am inside. In many ways, this dress is also the truest I have been to myself. A no-holds-barred representation of the rebel that I truly am. It’s the culmination of my emotions, my feelings, all the designs I had studied over the past many years… From the time I had realized that being a fashion designer was my calling. I have invested all of it into this dress. This is me. This is what I am. Outrageous, audacious, scandalous, and borderline offensive. This is what he gets for daring to seize me from my life and try to turn me into a pawn in his game.
He thinks I am simply going to turn the other cheek and allow him to walk over me? Well, he’s wrong. This is me—unvarnished, unhidden, uncensored. This is me being truthful to myself, to what I truly am. A feisty girl on the cusp of womanhood, on the verge of making the world her bitch, who will never give in to anyone. Certainly not, to my captor, who thought he could make me pay for the sins of a parent I’d been sure was dead until not too long ago.
I square my shoulders, tip my chin up, then stride up the aisle. Closer, closer to the devil waiting at the end of my journey. With every step I take, I sense the tension that vibrates off of him. The way his shoulders bunch, how he widens his stance, how he tilts his head, stalking me as I draw nearer. His jaw flexes, a vein drums at his temple, yet his gaze is clear. Brooding, deep enough to lose myself in again.
I grab hold of that nothingness inside of him which seems to mirror the worry coiling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow, that lack of feeling in his eyes grounds me. What’s the worst that he can do, eh? Kill me? I have already resigned myself to the fact that I may not get out of here alive. And somehow, that gives me the courage to close the distance between us. To pause in front of him. Even in my six-inch heels, I barely come up to his shoulder.
I tilt my head back, all the way back, making sure not to sever the connection between us. He drags his gaze down my face, to my mouth, to my breasts, down to where my skirt grazes the floor. When he lifts his chin and claps his gaze back on mine, his eyes are alight with an emotion I can’t place. Anger? Hate? A combination of the two, maybe? Then his lips curl and I know it’s neither. He’s amused with me. Asshole, is laughing at me? I grit my teeth and his grin widens. He holds out his hand.
I stare at his proffered palm, then ignoring it, I step up to stand next to him.
I hear a slight gasp… Probably from the older woman I had spotted seated in the pew. Who is she? His grandmother? Like I care.
I stare straight ahead at the priest who begins to speak. His mouth moves, I am sure he is saying something, but I can’t hear him. The blood thuds in my ears; my heart beats so loudly in my chest that I am sure it’s going to break through my rib cage. Spots of back flicker at the corners of my eyes, and I must sway, for a grip on my arm brings me back into my body. I blink, become aware that the priest is staring at me.
I swallow and my throat is so dry that I can’t form the words that tremble at the tip of my tongue.
The priest looks at me with a resigned air. He seems to be waiting for me to say something. What? What the hell am I supposed to say?
"Ask her again." Michael growls.
The priest draws in a breath, "Do you Karma West take Michael Byron Domenico Sovrano to be your husband, and promise to be faithful to him always, in joy and in pain, in health and in sickness, and to love him and honor him and obey him every day for the rest of your life?"
His voice slices through the nothingness in my head. Anger thrums through my veins. Be faithful to him? Obey him? Love him? Are you freakin’ kidding me?
I firm my lips as I stare back at him.
The priest glances from me to Michael who turns to me. He steps in front of me, then lowers his knees and thrusts his face into mine. "Answer the question," he growls.
"Fuck you," I say in a low voice, and his features brighten. His eyes gleam. Fuck, how sick is this man that when I insult him in front of everyone, he positively seems to relish it?
