Broken Hearts (Hearts 2)

He will never show me anything again, I thought, and felt such grief I nearly cried.

“Take her right hand in yours,” Father Patrick said, and Ronan pulled my icy fingers into his warm palm. The priest then wrapped the black shirt around our hands. “Repeat after me.” He then said a long stream of things in Irish.

Ronan repeated them.

“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I stammered when it was my turn.

“It’s all right, lass. Repeat after me: ‘Ye are blood of my blood.’”

“Ye are blood of my blood,” I murmured to our clasped hands, unable to look at Ronan.

“Ye are bone of my bone.”

“Ye are bone of my bone,” I repeated. These vows were savage and so fitting for this unholy union we were making.

“Do you have any rings?” Father Patrick asked, and Ronan and I both shook our heads.

“Oh, wait!” Eden cried, coming up the three steps to stand with us beside the whalebone altar. She twisted a ring off her finger and put it in Ronan’s hand. It was a dark blue stone as big as my thumbnail surrounded by a starburst of gold. It was ostentatious and not at all my style. “A Morelli heirloom,” she said. “Wear it in good health.” She snapped another picture on her phone and stepped back.

“Repeat after me,” Father Patrick said. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Ronan said and slipped the ring on my left hand. It was a bit too big and very heavy.

“Is there a ring for Ronan?” Father Patrick asked.

“I don’t need a fucking ring,” Ronan muttered. “Skip it.”

He wasn’t mine. I knew that. This ceremony was a terrible sham, but I wore this monstrosity, marking me as his. As Morelli. He remained unchanged. Unburdened. His own person still.

“With my body, I thee worship,” Father Patrick said.

“With my body, I thee worship,” Ronan repeated, and my eyes flew to his, startled by the carnal words.

“You say the words as well, Poppy,” Father Patrick urged.

“With my body, I thee worship,” I said right to Ronan, feeling my cheeks get hot. My body taking all my adrenaline and turning it into something else.

We said other things. Promises we didn’t mean. Oaths we would break the second we could.

I never thought it was possible, but this wedding felt worse than my first.

“For better or worse,” Ronan repeated.

“For better or worse,” I also repeated, the words throwing into terrifying relief just how bad worse could be.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Father Patrick said. “You may kiss—”

Ronan didn’t even wait for Father Patrick to finish. He kissed me with violence. With intent. He marked me down to my blood and bone. His. Always his. Forever his.

When he stepped back, I wobbled, off-balance, caught only by our hands bound together. Which he unbound, tucking the torn cloth in his pocket. I felt precarious.

Terrified.

“Can we have a second?” I asked my husband. My voice was low and broken. “I just . . . need a second.” Some kindness. Some reassurance. I needed the man who’d saved my life and scratched Rascal under the chin and made fires and held me close to show himself. For just a second.

“No time for that,” Ronan said, turning to Eden. “Is this enough proof for the Morellis?”

“Get me someplace with a signal, and I’ll send it all to Bryant. But he’ll want to know when he can expect you in New York.” Eden looked at me. “Both of you.”

“I have a flight booked tomorrow morning.”

Ronan grabbed his bag of guns and money and walked away. Without a second look for Father Patrick or his wife.

Twisting the ring around my finger, I thought of all the times I’d had to find the strength to face the day. The morning after my first wedding night. When Zilla burned down our house. When Dad died.

I’d done this before—pulled myself together and carried on. This, perhaps because things had happened so fast, seemed harder.

“Poppy?” Father Patrick whispered, his hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just fine,” I said, and with my blinding false smile, I followed my husband.

To have and to hold.

For better and worse.

I wasn’t sure how, but I knew things were going to get much worse.

* * *