Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy 1)

I gasp when I feel the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck. The rumors were true, then. I realize this is why his sister twisted my hair so tightly. Did she know? Would she herself be submitted to such a degradation one day? Has she already?

But all thoughts vanish as he caresses my skin. He’s gentle as though he’s getting to know the texture of the canvas. Then, abruptly, he grips the already-torn lace top of my gown and rips it farther, making me gasp. The men, our audience, make an appreciative sound as Santiago bares my back, the dress falling to the tops of my breasts, exposing one nipple. I’m hunched over enough that I don’t think the men can see it.

I wonder what a sight we make, the half-monster husband at his kneeling bride’s back, her dress torn, a supplicant to him.

I wonder if he’s aroused.

I close my eyes when I feel something cold and wet touch the back of my neck. I smell alcohol. He’s cleaning the area.

This is really happening. I’m being marked like cattle.

The chair creaks as he drags it forward on the stone bringing his knees to hug my arms tightly, securing me even more before I hear the buzzing of a machine and feel the first prick of the needle.

He’ll tattoo me.

It hurts, and I whimper. But it doesn’t deter him.

It takes about five minutes before the men lose interest, some standing, some talking, only a few remain watching. I fist my hands at my back as the pain intensifies. A branding iron would hurt more, I tell myself. I can manage this.

I know he’ll tattoo the initials of The Society onto my skin. I’m their property as much as I am his. Alongside it, I’ll wear his mark. I don’t know what it is, I realize. Not that it matters. All I can think about is the buzzing of the machine, all I can feel is the warmth of his thighs at my arms. Does he realize it gives me comfort? I’m sure he’s only ensuring I remain in position.

I don’t know how much time passes. The buzzing lulls me, the pricks of the needles somehow grounding me. And all the while Santiago works quietly at my back, thighs strong on either side of me, breath warm on the back of my neck when he leans close to inspect his work. I think about the chapel. About what happened there. How merciless he was.

I think about his hands on me, his fingers inside me. I think about his lips at my neck. His teeth.

My belly flips.

He’ll take me tonight. Consummate our marriage. And there is a part of me that is curious. That wants it. Even knowing he will be as merciless when I lie in his bed.

The buzzing stops abruptly. The back of my neck throbs. It takes me a minute to realize it’s over. I almost panic with the realization.

The bonds at my wrists are first to go. He works without ceremony, freeing me of those and the ones on my upper arms. I bring my hands to the floor on either side of me, my head still down, the chain at my throat still fastening me to the stone. I look at the rings on my finger. The salt and pepper diamond. Strange and beautiful. Another symbol of his ownership of me.

“It’s finished,” he says, voice deep and low and still commanding the attention of everyone in the place.

I exhale. Finished. No branding iron for me. I would count myself lucky, but I know this thing between us has only just begun.

A few of the men come to look at his handiwork and compliment it. No one touches me, but Santiago remains close. I get the feeling no one would dare incur his wrath.

When I next feel his touch, I gasp, muscles tightening with anxiety.

“Don’t move,” he commands.

I still. I don’t expect him to touch me. Not like he is, at least. But then I realize what he must be doing. Applying a salve.

I close my eyes, my breath leveling, my body relaxing at least a little. He’s being careful. Gentle. When he’s finished, I feel something cover the tattoo. I open my eyes and berate myself because he’s not being gentle or careful with me or for me. He’s protecting his work. It wouldn’t do if it got infected.

Santiago stands and walks around me. I remain in position, head still bowed by the chain, back of my neck feeling warm, my arms and shoulders sore. He takes his time as someone brings him a drink. It’s somehow more humiliating when they mingle among themselves. When they ignore me altogether, the collared bride kneeling head bowed at their feet.

But I don’t care. Let them ignore me. Let them forget me.