Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

Cristiano squatted in front of me and looped the rope around my neck, letting his fingers brush my throat and collarbone.

My back ached from holding it so straight, but I couldn’t loosen if I wanted to. I avoided his gaze by looking at his suit. I’d never seen such fine tailoring in all my life, even though my father had benefited from my mother’s good taste.

Cristiano pulled the lasso taut enough that I could feel it when I swallowed. He lifted my face by my chin. With a rough touch, he used his whole hand to palm away my tears. “I wish my bride not to cry on our wedding day.” He kneeled beside me and handed me the remaining cord. “Now you.”

Finally, something I could happily agree to. I twisted toward him and coiled the lazo around his neck to form an infinity between us. To leash me to him. I gave the rope a tug and he arched a dark, scolding eyebrow at me.

If I’d had the guts, I would’ve asked why he’d bothered with this charade at all. As “willing” as Cristiano demanded I be, summoning tradition didn’t make this anything more than an extravagant kidnapping.

As fresh flowers perfumed the space around us, and tall candles warmed it, the priest recited a prayer with a shaky voice and obvious trepidation. I had to keep myself from looking back at Diego.

Cristiano’s shoulder touched mine, and only then did I realize I’d been shivering. Despite the way he bullied and intimidated, he had that kind of soothing touch, one that would still you, if not with serenity, then out of dread. It confused me now the way it had when he’d frisked me at the club, or when he’d bandaged me up after the warehouse fire.

The way he’d slid his hands up under my dress and then robe . . . and I hadn’t run away either time.

And his touch wouldn’t end there. As Father Rios married us, my wifely duties were placed upon me. Cristiano hadn’t hesitated to put his hands on me before, even knowing I was spoken for. That I was opposed to it. There was no question he would demand everything from me.

My trembling started anew, and he turned his head. I kept my gaze forward, even as the priest’s speech slurred, or perhaps it was my mind that blended and muffled words to protect me from what I was hearing.

Father Rios went quiet, breaking me from my stupor.

After a moment, Cristiano said, “I do.”

“Natalia,” the priest said, “do you take Cristiano to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey till death do part you . . .”

Obey. I hadn’t heard a word of his vows, but somehow, I doubted he was under any obligation to obey me.

They both stared.

My chest was tight from holding my breath. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I looked to the guards on each side of the priest. One had a face tattoo, an untucked shirt, and stood unevenly, but was dressed in the finest artillery. He gave me a close-lipped smile that made wrinkles around his eyes. The other wore a matching gun and restrained grin, with deep dimples and scars that peeked out from his t-shirt.

I returned my eyes to Father Rios, who seemed to be whispering his own prayer while waiting for my answer.

Cristiano turned to me, laced our fingers together, and raised my hand between us. “He has asked if you’ll take me as your husband, Natalia.”

I can’t. I can’t say it.

After a moment, one of Cristiano’s men said, “She does.”

“I heard it too,” the ugly guard said.

“Por favor,” the priest pleaded. “I can’t proceed without her consent.”

“Nor can I,” said Cristiano. My palm perspired in his rough one. He squeezed it gently. “Tell him, Natalia Lourdes.”

Father Rios’ fallen expression took my heart down with it. He was as trapped as I was. I straightened my shoulders and looked at Cristiano. His dark eyes danced. The sharp lines of his angular face almost softened with something like happiness. “I do,” I said to him.

Cristiano stood and helped me up. He reached for my left hand. “I don’t have your ring yet.”

“I don’t need one.”

He removed a considerable but simple diamond in a gold setting and slipped it on me. “For the sake of the ceremony,” he said. Next, he undid the rosary. “What do you think?”

I looked between the chain and him. “This is from you?” I asked. “But how did you know?”

“It’s not a replica. It was your mother’s.”

I could clearly remember my mother turning these beads through her slender fingers in this very church. The memory brought tears to my eyes. Now, I truly had a piece of her, but under such dire circumstances.