Pyromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 1)

His brow climbed another inch, impatience emanating from his imposing frame.

She turned, glancing back at him from over her shoulder with her hands propped on her hips.

For a moment he looked surprised, maybe that he could’ve overlooked such an obvious detail, but he quickly schooled his features. “Of course.”

Her stance was defiant. It was a small victory, inconsequential, yet one she was fully set on rubbing in his face. A step fell on the stone floor, echoing in the space, and then his hands were on her waist, just below hers. She dropped her arms, letting them hang uncomfortably at her sides. When he cupped her hips to pull her closer however, she couldn’t pretend she still had any standing or pride. She looked away. She didn’t want him to witness the defeat on her face.

His fingers brushed her skin as he pulled the back of the dress together to fasten the first button. Warmth tingled where his touch lingered, the pads of his fingers abrasive as he worked his way up her spine.

When the last button was done, he pulled away. “There.”

There.

That one little word said so many things—he was done, she was dressed, they were ready, and now they could start. Sometimes, the word meant to soothe, to convey that everything was all right. So many meanings, and she wasn’t ready for any of them.

She lifted a foot, still wearing her boots under the wedding dress, but instead of turning to him, she took a step toward the open door. It was instinctive, her urge to flee taking over since there wouldn’t be a fair fight.

This time, he didn’t lead the way or send her ahead. He turned her gently, took her hand, placed it on his arm, and walked her to the waiting priest. The freezing night seeped through the walls, chilling her to the bone. The setting was an eerie mixture of gray, dilapidated stones surrounding a crumbling altar and the soft white of flowers in the golden glow of the candlelight. The decoration didn’t match the ruins. It was all wrong.

The thick-set man dressed in a white robe with a black collar and a golden cross on a chain around his neck glanced at his watch as they stopped in front of him.

He picked up a Bible and held it out to Joss. “Your right hand, please.”

Joss placed his palm on the Bible.

“Make your vow,” the priest continued.

Joss looked at her. “I take you as my wife, Clelia d’Ambois, for better or worse. Forever.”

“Your turn,” the priest said to her. She glared at him, but all he said was, “I don’t have all night.”

“She’ll take me as her husband,” Joss said when she didn’t speak.

“Fine.” The priest sighed. “Just say yes. That’ll do.”

Joss hooked an arm around her waist, tightening his fingers on her hip as he bent down and pressed a whisper against her ear. “Think about Erwan. That should make it easier.”

She jerked her face sideways to look at him. “I hate you.”

His jaw hardened. “I know.”

“Come now,” the priest said. “I’d like to get back before midnight.”

She curled her fingers until her nails cut into her palms.

The priest sighed. “Whatever. You’re married. Husband and wife.” He took a piece of paper from the Bible and handed it to Joss. “Here’s your license.”

A muscle ticked in Joss’s temple. “She’ll say it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The priest tapped his foot.

What was the point of refusing? They were already married by law, thanks to Joss’s unscrupulous manipulations. He’d either bribed the priest or the priest owed him a favor.

“Go on, little witch. Say it.”

She clamped her lips together.

“One little word,” Joss coaxed, “and we can all go to our warm fires and soft beds.”

“It’s done,” she gritted out. “What difference does it make what I say?”

“I want to hear it,” Joss said, his gaze turning several degrees colder. “Humor me.”

“Yes,” she hissed, her anger flaring like red-hot coals and heating her insides, “damn you both.”

The priest made the sign of the cross, but Joss only smirked.

“I’m not afraid of your curses,” he said in a low voice.

She jerked from his hold as a flash of heat erupted over her body, making her break out in a sweat. “You should be.”

The heat expanded, making her feel dizzy and nauseous. It made her sick, because it was just like on the yacht, right before she’d produced a ball of fire.

Stumbling a step, she placed a hand over her stomach.

No. No, no, no.

She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t want to be that person.

Joss reached for her. “Cle?”

She held up a hand. “Don’t touch me.”

He took a step closer when she took another back. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She took a breath and blew it out. “I’m fine.”

“Must be the stress,” the priest said, gathering a coat and hat from behind the altar.