Unholy Intent (Unholy Union 2)

What a strange gathering we make.

I feel a little sick when the march begins anew, but when I take a step back toward the door, Damian catches my arm.

This is wrong.

This place.

These people.

This house of God?

All I feel is hostility alongside my own fear.

I make a sound, a small whimper.

Damian pulls me forward, and I don’t know why I resist. I said I would do this. I made up my mind. But I don’t want it. And the closer we get to that altar, all I can think is—this isn’t a funeral dress at all, but one for a sacrifice.

And I’m already bleeding.

I know there’s no getting away, but still, I struggle.

He must have known I would. He just keeps on walking, hand like a vise around my arm. I’ll have bruises in the shape of his grip tomorrow.

Does he care? Would he?

We walk toward the two kneelers set side-by-side before the priest. Damian forces me down to my knees, then follows. I’m surprised he kneels. Maybe he does believe in God. His left hand engulfs mine, and with the right, he makes the sign of the cross.

The priest begins.

I’m shaking and I feel faint. Maybe Damian was right. I should have eaten something.

I turn to look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, his beautiful face set and hard as if carved from stone.

I look beyond him to his father whose face is openly hostile. Turning to see Michela, I try to avoid looking at Lucas, whose eyes I feel burning into my back.

The priest prattles on and on. I only hear one word, obey, as my heart races until everything goes quiet. He and Damian and everyone stare at me. Waiting for me.

It’s my turn to speak.

“Say I do,” Damian instructs.

I look back at him through the veil. I think about my uncle and Liam and Simona and my life before. My life now.

I think of that line of demarcation I felt like a physical thing the moment I closed the apartment door behind me on the night I tried to escape my destiny.

That’s not when my life’s course was determined, though. That was almost a decade earlier when I was just a little girl. When he was already a man.

The shaking grows worse.

Damian wraps a hand around the back of my neck and squeezes. He leans toward me and through the lace I feel his breath at my ear.

“Don’t make me take it. Remember what I told you.”

I have no doubt he will take it. I look from him to the priest, and I say the words.

“I do.”

I say them, and I seal my fate. Not that it was ever up to me.

A moment later, it’s Damian’s turn and then come the rings. He reaches into his pocket and slides mine onto my finger. This one doesn’t hurt, at least. It settles against the engagement ring, the thorns locking into the holes on the thick band, the set complete. Thorns hidden but there. Always there.

He holds his hand out to me, and in his palm, I see a black band.

My turn again.

With a trembling hand, I take the ring. I look up at him, at his wolf-eyes. He’s waiting for me, but this part doesn’t matter. It’s already done. I said the words.

I slide the ring onto his finger, and strangely, it’s like I’m sealing his fate too.

The priest pronounces us husband and wife, and Damian lifts my veil to kiss me.

I don’t close my eyes and neither does he. I still taste myself on him. And then we’re on our feet, Damian pulling me up by my wrist. No one is smiling or throwing rice as the pianist plays a happy tune that doesn’t belong in this place or to these people or even to me. We walk out of the chapel and when Damian lifts me in his arms and carries me back to the house, I don’t fight him. I don’t do anything.

I’m in shock, I guess.

Trembling with cold.

This changes things.

This changes everything.

How did it get to this point? How did we?

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t register the warmth of the house. I barely notice when Damian whips the covers off the bed and sits me down. I blink, looking around.

This isn’t my room.

Damian pulls my veil off. It hurts because he doesn’t undo the pins first but drags them off along with the veil tugging at my hair. He’s not smiling anymore. Not even grinning his wicked grin.

He walks away from me to pour two glasses of whiskey. He hands me one and swallows his completely before I’ve even lifted the glass.

I don’t like whiskey, but tonight, I’ll drink it like water.

Damian does, too. And he doesn’t seem any happier than me. Any more victorious. He sits on a chair across from the bed and watches me like he’s done before.