Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I’m not certain how long we stand there like that. I don’t even realize I’ve reached for her wrist, anchoring her to me, until my thumb grazes over the warm pulse beating wildly there. Perhaps that is why she hasn’t moved. Her eyes drift to the large fingers wrapped around her, examining them as if they are a weapon. It’s tempting to release her, to see if she might still consider running, but I find that I don’t want to.
Regardless, there isn’t time to consider it. The music draws to an end, and we are both forced to focus on the priest. He instructs us to sit in the designated chairs on the platform, and so begins the traditional ceremony.
We open with a hymn, followed by readings from the Old Testament and the New. The priest speaks at length about marriage, gospel, and reflection, but I hear very little of it. When Ivy and I are united in front of the altar and asked to join hands, she offers them to me stiffly.
My fingers wrap around hers, noting she has grown cold and pale as if her reality is finally settling over her. She swallows and looks up at me from beneath her lashes, and I catch a glimpse of her oddly shaped pupil. Something she often tries to hide with her hair. That pupil was the source of much torment when she was a child, and the humiliation from her school days still lingers with her. When she is my wife, she will come to understand that I will not permit her to hide it from me or anyone else.
The priest begins the vow ceremony as I requested, opting to skip the formalities about coming into this marriage free of coercion and promising to love each other until we turn to dust. I don’t miss the uncomfortable glance he casts in my direction, but I choose to focus on my bride instead of whatever opinions he may have on the subject.
Ivy and I start by declaring our intent, and then I repeat the sacred words that include the only promise I can keep. I will take her as my wife. I will be faithful to her in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. The intensity in my declaration burns my voice and heats my gaze, seeming to unnerve my bride as she casts her eyes to the floor several times before returning them to me.
Her voice is a mere whisper when she repeats the same vows, yet she promises herself to me with a resignation I find equally frustrating and fascinating.
The priest acknowledges our consent and proceeds to bless us before we move onto the ring ceremony. Ivy receives my ring with my repeated promise of fidelity in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. When I slide the matching band to her salt and pepper diamond ring onto her trembling finger, I feel a sick sense of satisfaction. That feeling only amplifies when she does the same to me.
Following my requests, the priest does not direct me to kiss her before he pronounces her as mine. That is something to be saved for the privacy of another time, where her disgust cannot be so visible to all my brethren.
We are united in prayer and then greet the witnesses to exchange a sign of peace, followed by communion. After our last nuptial blessing, we are dismissed with the intentions of meeting our guests back at the compound.
When I reach for Ivy’s arm, wrapping my cold fingers around her skin again, she shivers. She keeps her gaze forward, but it is impossible not to notice how slight she feels in my grasp. As we walk down the aisle and out to the street where a driver is waiting with a car for us, I can feel the unsteadiness in her gait once more. It is only when she climbs into the car that I see she is still barefoot.
Marco shuts the door after I’m securely seated next to my bride. The privacy divider is already up, sealing us into a tomb-like silence.
Ivy wrings her hands together in her lap as the car lurches forward. She appears nervous, as she should be, but her fear does not satisfy me quite as much as I’d hoped.
“Where are the shoes I bought you?” My voice booms through the space between us.
She peeks up at me from beneath her lashes and begins to study the artwork on my face again. I watch her carefully for signs of her true feelings, but I only see her curiosity. It perplexes me beyond measure, and it irritates me more than I could have anticipated. She is supposed to be disgusted by me. She is supposed to hate me. This is the natural order of things.