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Santos
Madelena is white as a ghost, almost translucent. She looks like she’s lost a few pounds that she honestly couldn’t afford to lose. She’s shaking, and her hand is icy.
Once we reach the altar and the priest instructs our guests to be seated, I draw her veil up to see her face. I told the woman doing her makeup that I wanted minimal. This is the opposite, but it’s the look inside her honey-colored eyes that has me frowning.
“Are you all right?” I ask her in a low voice as we kneel before the priest at the altar. “Have you eaten?” She looks like she might pass out.
It’s like she hears me only moments after I’ve spoken, and I watch her as her expression goes from sad and worried to one of disbelief.
Of bitterness.
I smooth out my forehead, remembering our last meeting on the night I’d buried my father. How she’d welcomed me, how she comforted me—not.
Color me foolish for wanting something more than hate and rejection from her.
Without waiting for her response, I close my hand over the back of her neck. I don’t need her permission. She’s mine. To onlookers who do not know us, it may look like an endearment. To those who do know, they will understand what it truly is.
Madelena turns to the priest, and I’m not sure what I expect. She won’t make a scene. She knows the consequence of disobedience. We suffer through the hour-long ceremony and come out on the other side of it. I keep hold of her hand, hers a fist inside mine, and lead her out to the waiting limousine. Our guests will go ahead to the club for an elaborate evening of excess, but I plan on sealing this union before I let my bride partake.
Once inside the limousine, I release her and notice her lean to rub her ankle. I see how it’s red and a little swollen.
“What happened?” I ask.
She looks up at me, the calla lilies discarded on the floor of the car, one of the flowers crushed under her shoe. She searches my face, and I want to know what the fuck is going on in her head.
“Your ankle,” I say.
She looks at it, as if that was the furthest thing from her mind. “I twisted it. It’s fine.”
“I’ll have a look once we’re at the club.”
“It’s fine. Don’t pretend you care.”
“What’s the problem, Madelena?”
She snorts. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
She looks like she has a hundred things to say, but she just shakes her head. The brief ride to the club is silent. Once we arrive, I take her hand and lead her out of the limousine. It’s best to finish the conversation in private anyway. Snow is coming down harder now and I have to admit, as much as I hate the cold, it is fucking beautiful.
Several guests who arrived ahead of us stop us to offer their congratulations. I smile, nod my thanks, and take my bride to the penthouse.
Once we reach the door, the soldier standing guard opens it. I sweep Madelena up into my arms. Surprised, she resists, but I hold tight.
“Do you know why they do this?” I ask her as I carry her directly toward my bedroom.
“Put me down!”
I grip her tighter. “It’s the sign of the cross.” I push open my bedroom door. The room is twice the size of the one she slept in and has a view of the sea and the lighthouse on Avarice Point, or as I’ve heard it called, Suicide Rock. “Our bodies make the sign of the cross as we enter our marital home.”
She shoves at my chest just as I set her on her feet, then give her a small nudge so she drops onto a seat at the foot of the bed.
I take off my jacket and toss it over the back of a nearby chair. My eyes on her, I pull off my tie and undo the top buttons of my shirt. She doesn’t move. Carefully, I unpin the veil from her hair and lift it off, setting it behind her on the bed.
She still doesn’t move, doesn’t fight me, and I’m reminded of her inexperience. She’s only twenty years old, and she’s led a very sheltered life. I’ve made sure of that.
I close my hands over her shoulders, squeezing once before I crouch down and slide my hands under the hem of her dress to slip off both her shoes at once.
