Broken Bride

“He’s not keeping me up,” I interject on Mark’s behalf. I don’t like the way Angelo is looking at Mark. There’s a glittering, dark quality to his stare, and a slight grimness to his tone which leads me to believe Mark may be in trouble for talking to me.

“I’ll take Mark anyway, and we’ll see if you can sleep,” Angelo says. “Come on, Mark.”

They go just outside the door. I can hear them talking in hushed whispers, but I have excellent hearing and their words are clear to me. A life lived in shadows lends itself to being particularly sensitive to soft sounds.

“Babysitting my bride, Mark? I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist our little damsel in distress.”

“You should let her go.”

“She’s my wife, not my captive.”

“I think she would disagree on both those counts. Where was the ceremony?”

“A technicality. I am not one to hold to the laws of men, or their paperwork, Mark.”

“So you haven’t married her at all.”

“I can hardly go to a courthouse, can I, Mark? She’s mine in every way that counts.”

Why isn’t Angelo telling Mark the truth? We are married. I signed the license. I wonder if he’s just fucking with Mark, playing another mind game.

“Not every way. Not yet. You don’t have to take her, you know that. Bobby’s right. She doesn’t belong here. She’s fragile. And she’s practically a baby.”

“Of course she’s not. She’s a grown woman.”

“Tell me you’re not going to defile her.”

“I thoroughly intend to consummate the marriage, Mark. She would be disappointed if I didn’t.”

“Her father died this morning.”

“Yesterday morning,” Angelo corrects him.

Mark sighs audibly. “I know you don’t listen to any of us. I know we’re puppets in your world, Angelo. But for god’s sake, if you have any decency in you, leave that girl alone. It’s not too late for her to have a normal life. She could find a sane man, have a family. She could…”

“You don’t know that girl,” Angelo interrupts him. “You have no idea who she is, or what her capacity for normality is. Go to your room.”

I have to stuff the hem of my dress into my mouth to stop from bursting out laughing at the idea of a full grown man like Mark being sent to his room.

But I don't hear anything else after that. Mark must have walked away. Maybe he actually did go to his room. I don’t know. What I do know is that Angelo is coming back into this one.

I make a mad dash to the bed, and almost get into it before Angelo opens the door. I am half in, half out, one leg on the floor, the other under the blankets, my heart pounding as I freeze and stare at the mature monster of a man who just entered the room.

He cocks his head at me, his dark eyes assessing me to the core of my being. “Like what you heard?”

“Wh…. what?”

There’s no way he knows I was listening. I know how to move softly on stockinged feet, and I’m fast. I've had to be.

He looks at me in a very different way from the way Mark did. There is no inherent pity in his gaze. He does not look at me as though I am small, weak, and pathetic, though he makes me feel all those things.

“We don't know each other well. Or at least, you don’t know me well. I know you a little better, Tilly. So, before you start corrupting my men, let me tell you there is nobody in this house who can save you from me.”

I swallow, the fear returning, that deep, thick, molasses sensation which makes everything, including breathing, harder to do.

He stands there, letting the message sink in, his gaze holding mine. I cannot imagine being romantic with this man who has made himself my husband.

“I wasn’t trying to… he came to me…”

“I’m sure he did,” Angelo replies, his gaze not wavering for a moment. “Get some sleep.”

It is an order, not a suggestion.

He turns to leave the room, and I hear the lock on the door click into place. I should panic, but I have had such a twisted life that the sound makes me feel safe.

I lie down, not knowing what fate awaits me, but knowing I am at the mercy of a man unlike any I have ever known before.

Chapter 8

Angelo

“Is Matilda not coming down to breakfast?” Mark tries to ask the question casually over breakfast.

“No,” I answer Mark. “She’s been told to stay in her room.”

“Why? What did she do?” Mark immediately assumes there has to be wrongdoing, and that her confinement is punishment. He is still a law man; they programmed that rigid sense of right and wrong so deep inside him I don’t think he will ever be free of it.

“He’s keeping her safe from us. I mean me,” Bobby smirks. He has light bruises around his neck which correspond to the shape and location of my fingertips. I like seeing my marks on him.