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“I don’t want to leave you,” I croak painfully, my throat muscles aching.
Shay hauls me to her chest.
If I was a braver woman, I would run away, but I would never survive the wrath of my father, let alone Connor Brayford. His name is as feared here as my own surname. That fear extends to his enforcer, too.
“Are you worried about your scars?” Shay’s lips twist sympathetically.
When I broached the subject last night, my father snapped and dragged me to my room. He assured me it didn’t matter what my back looked like; I'd be lying on it most of the time, anyway.
“They’ll kill me, Shay.” The Brayfords will need little excuse to dispose of me. I’m signing my own death certificate.
The wedding march begins, and Shay grips my hands and pecks my cheek. “You look incredible.”
Her slim fingers brush over the high neckline. My fingers clutch the deep maroon bouquet. They are the only barrier between me and my future husband.
“As she should.” My mother leans in to dust her cheek against mine. No words of wisdom are passed and no reassurance is shared. She walks away, taking Shay with her, and my father holds his arm out for me.
The only good thing to come out of this is this place.
The Brayford Estate is beautiful. It’s not Ireland by any means, but the grounds are full and lush, if not a little haunting. I grip tightly to my father’s elbow and blink back the tears burning my eyes.
“Don’t let me down.” The blunt words hit like a hefty rock.
My heart cries for someone to come in and rescue me, but when my father’s hand grips my chin through my veil, I hold my tears at bay. “Grow up and be the woman this family needs you to be, Cara,” he admonishes and walks us out of the large library and towards the guests seated outside.
I can’t meet their eyes. I want to seek my sister, but the only eyes I find are the deep browns glaring back at me as I shakily begin my way down the aisle.
Ronan.
He’s not unattractive, but he’s too severe, too intense. His mouth is set in a grim line. His light brown hair is cropped short. He looks like a killer, even in his wedding attire. I’d hoped to meet him last night when we arrived to dampen the awkwardness, but he hadn’t shown up. Connor had simply excused his absence with a lie, proclaiming a work matter had taken him away for the evening.
I don’t believe for a second he was working. Spending his last night as a single man with some faceless woman—now that I can believe.
He looks ready to kill me as I reach him with each unsteady step. Anger rolls off him in heavy waves. He is as abhorred about our union as I am.
My father plants a chaste kiss on my cheek, and reluctantly, I let the flowers go. They’d never stop a man like my future husband, but without them, I’m at a loss for what to do with my shaky hands. Eventually, I turn to face Ronan. Up close, his eyes have flecks of gold and thick, dark lashes. The corner of his mouth dimpled by a scar, and the black band of ink around his neck looks ugly. It’s another thing I dislike about him. That and the fact he has shown little to no respect for me since I arrived. My father was furious that Ronan wasn’t there to greet me. I sneer at the unsightly tattoo, finding it unappealing, finding him unappealing. His hand snakes out and grabs onto my windpipe, forcing air to rush out with a pained huff. He grips my throat and steps in to crowd me. “Am I not to your liking, Miss Murphy?”
I gasp, clutching at his paw of a hand, and stare fearfully into his eyes as several people stand, unsure of his next move. I drop to my knees, wheezing harshly and become lightheaded. Ronan looms over me, face glowering, as he holds me to the ground. It’s a power play, and he is winning by a long shot. Guns load, murmurs rumble, and my soon-to-be husband unsheathes his weapon and points it at the nearest man who has a firearm aimed our way. All the while, his eyes never leave mine. Unnerved. Calm. It's terrifying to witness such indifference to the loss of his life. He grins slowly, and I shrink even further into the ground. A tall man walks to pat Ronan’s shoulder. “Save your playtime until later, Ro.” Connor. His sinister smile lands on me, and I silently beg him to help me. He won’t. It’s because of him I'm in this mess. Connor has orchestrated this arrangement, and Ronan and I are his puppets.
The pressure eases, and I gasp loudly. Ronan straightens his jacket and rolls his eyes at my theatrics. “Save your breath for your vows. Stand up.” His voice is rich and smooth. Everything else about him is bleak and disturbing.
I can’t cry. Showing weakness is forbidden.
I look for my baby sister and find her worried face through the crowd, and she shakes her head, warning me to keep my cool. Anger vibrates through me, the humiliation leaking into fury. I envision catapulting upwards and slapping him hard, but Shay glares a warning at me. She mouths, Up, and I stagger to my feet, uncoordinated and in shock, inwardly livid.
He choked me at the altar.
I dare to look at her again, and her hand is shaking against her lips, eyes brimming with tears. It’s then that I understand the danger I am in. My father’s insistence that we lie rings like a warning bell throughout my shaking body. When they discover the truth, when they learn of our deceit, it will be too late. Tonight will define the rest of my life if I’m lucky enough to live it out under the rule of the Brayfords.
If Ronan is anything like his boss, he will find a way to get rid of me. Connor had no qualms about throwing Gabriela aside. The acute fear bends into detached acceptance. I will likely die tonight.
I stiffen, lifting my chin and staring past Ronan. My fists clench at my sides.
The priest’s words echo around me, and I repeat robotically, but it all happens in a blur, with blood rushing through my ears, hooves stamping my heart into submission, and acid bubbling in my stomach.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
My lip trembles, but I flatten it as Ronan lifts the heavy veil and our hateful gazes clash. Surprise litters his expression. His eyes sweep across my face, and something worse stares back at me. Desire. Slow satisfaction glints at me as he gives me a lazy smile. His hand comes to my throat again, and I grip it with my much smaller one. He squeezes, reminding me who is in control here. Fear replaces the air.
