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“You will never have him,” she says. “Die a bride, and know he’ll come to me. He will come to me, or by your blood on my tongue, bride after bride will join you in death.”
To my horror, she licked my blood off her finger. As I fall, she takes my wedding ring.
And this act is somehow worse than the pain.
“A marriage isn’t a marriage until it is consummated. Only a bride, forever lost. Be damned to you, Astrid Grandville.”
She leaves me there, dying on the floor near the marriage bed I will never share with my beloved. But my ring, my wedding ring. How can I leave this world without it?
The bloodstain spreads over the white of my wedding dress as that desperate need pushes me to my feet. In agony, I stagger to the door. My hands, slick with my own blood, are barely able to open it.
But I must find Collin. I must have my ring. With this ring I pledge thee. My sight dims; every breath is torment.
Someone screams, but the sound comes from another world. A world I am leaving.
I see him, only him as all else fades—the music, the pretty gowns and waistcoats, the faces blurring, the shouts going quiet.
He rushes to me, calling my name. He catches me in his strong arms as my legs give way.
I want to speak to him. My love, my life. But the circle, the promise of a long, happy life, was stolen.
I feel his tears on my face, and see the fear and the grief in those deep green eyes.
“Astrid, my love. Astrid. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”
As it all fades away, I speak my last words, give him my promise with my last breath.
“I never will.”
And I have not.
Chapter One
PRESENT DAY
Planning a wedding equaled insanity. Sonya decided that once you’d accepted that as incontrovertible fact, you could just get on with it.
If she had her way, she’d ditch the whole crazy circus. She’d buy a fabulous dress she could actually wear again, have family and close friends over for a backyard wedding. A short, sweet ceremony, then bust it all open for the best party ever.
No fancy, no formal, no fraught and fuss. And all the fun.
But Brandon wanted all the fancy and formal and fuss.
So she had a fabulous dress—that had cost the equivalent of two months’ mortgage, and she’d wear it for a matter of hours before she had it cleaned and boxed away.
They’d booked a fancy Back Bay hotel for a guest list that crept over three hundred and might come close to four before the invites went out.
She’d designed the invitations—she earned her living as a graphic designer, after all. Then again, so did Brandon, so he’d had input there. Maybe the invitations had crept up to more formal than she’d envisioned, but they were gorgeous.
They’d done the Save the Date deal months before, and spent the best part of a day with a photographer for engagement photos.
She’d wanted to tap a friend to take some candid shots, casual, fun shots. And had to admit she’d resented his absolute veto there. Still, the photos were lovely.
Sophisticated. A sleek, sophisticated ad for the perfect, happy, upwardly mobile couple.
They’d spent what seemed like days going over the menu—plated and formal, of course. Then cake. She liked cake—she’d go to the ground believing something was intrinsically wrong with anyone who didn’t like cake.
But Jesus, who knew building a wedding cake—flavors, filling, icing, design, tiers, topper—could become a study in frustration?
