But there’s more there. I glimpse it in his eyes, too, when it edges out the rage. The hate.
I see pain.
“Keep up,” he commands as he pulls the door open, and I wonder why he married me. Why he chose me when it’s apparent he hates me. So why choose to tie yourself to someone you hate?
Or does he think no one else would have him with his deformity? He’s a Sovereign Son. No matter what he looks like, any father would hand over his daughter should he demand it.
Demand.
That is what he’s done with me. Demanded me. And here I am. Married to the beast.
We step into the dark corridor, and I stumble as I try to keep up. The air grows cooler as we head toward the courtyard.
The Society’s seat in New Orleans is in the French Quarter, the main building a massive and ancient mansion three floors tall with a huge courtyard at the heart open to the sky. A fountain stands off-center. The building was expanded over time, but at one point, it must have been the centerpiece. Water trickles softly, the sound almost lost beneath the haunting melody playing over speakers hidden throughout the property inside and out. Something dark and gothic and modern. I recognize it, but I can’t name the artist. I’m too distracted.
I hear voices too, a low hum of men talking. The clanking of glasses and the smell of whiskey and melting wax again, like at church. Because the place is lit by a thousand candles. The only electric lights are those antique lampposts that only cast the softest yellow light set here and there in patches of trees, near the half dozen sitting areas.
I have an idea of what will happen next although the ceremony is secret. Only founding family members and, of those, only men are invited to be present. But there were always rumors at school. Girls who would claim to have seen the mark on their mother or on a new bride. The stories were always grotesque, and I guessed them to be dramatized. But when I smell the burning wood of fire, all those stories come crashing back in vivid detail, and I instinctively pull back.
He wouldn’t do that to me, would he?
Santiago turns to me, clearly annoyed. I take another step, trying to pull free, but he holds fast.
“What’s going to happen?” My voice is a broken whisper. I’m scared, and I can’t hide the fact.
He comes closer maybe to better study me in the dim light. He pushes the hair back from my face to make a point of looking at my strange eye. Maybe we have something in common. He is not repulsed by me as I am not repulsed by him.
I lick my lips, remembering his kiss. His lips on mine. His taste. Lace scratches my hardened nipples. My dress did not come with a bra. With each small movement, I feel the remnants of hardened wax on my skin, and I take a deep breath in at the memory of his punishment.
And of my arousal.
I swallow, goose bumps covering every inch of exposed skin.
Santiago steps to within an inch of me, the toes of his shoes against my bare ones.
I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. I wonder if others look or if they cringe away? What is he used to?
“What’s going to happen is you will do as you’re told,” he says.
“Will it hurt?” I ask stupidly. It’s what I’m afraid of. Not that I’ll bear his mark, that will come later, but the method of putting that mark upon me.
He cocks his head, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “Are you afraid of a little pain?”
I see the scars beneath the ink again and wonder how much those hurt.
“Are you?” he prods.
“Just tell me.”
His mouth moves into a smirk as his gaze moves over my face, hovering at my lips before returning to my eyes. “Your answer is written all over your face, Ivy. So easy to read.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed, but a moment later, that smirk is gone. “I like you scared, actually. You’re very pretty when you’re scared.” He wipes his thumb across my cheekbone, and we both look down at the smear of black. Mascara. I must look a mess. “I like your tears too, and I’ll have more of those.”
He wraps his hand around the back of my neck. The intricate twist his sister forced my hair into is tight enough to give me the beginnings of a headache.
I gasp when he jerks me to him, fingers rough on the bare skin there like he’s testing it. They mark the back of a woman’s neck. It’s how the stories went at school, at least. I imagine a barcode there so male members can scan to see who they can touch and who they can’t.