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 hate everything about The Society from what it’s done to our family to what it requires of women. What it requires of me.
“You’re mine. And tonight, you’ll bear a mark for all to know exactly that,” Santiago says.
Abruptly he lets go of the back of my neck and turns, fingers digging into my arm as he pulls me forward. I stub my toe on a stone, stumble and hear a woman’s gasp. I look in the direction of the sound and see a flash of color, a rustle of leaves, and behind the half-faced sculpture I can’t name, I see a woman. She’s young, my age, I’d guess. It’s just for a moment that I see her, but when I meet her wide eyes, she quickly puts a finger to her lips, urging me not to give her away.
She’s not supposed to be here. The women, if they’re on the property, would be cloistered inside. Is she afraid I’ll tell?
Santiago stops, turns in the direction of the sound. He heard her too.
I mean to take a step away from the sculpture to distract him but he tugs my arm and I end up bumping into his chest. I bounce off and he looks down at me.
“Are you always so clumsy?”
“I—”
“There they are, the bride and groom,” someone calls out from the courtyard. “You’ve kept us waiting, Santiago.”
Men laugh.
I see my husband’s face morph and his expression shift. Something akin to an almost physical discomfort. Jaw tight, he closes his eyes and draws a slow, deep breath in. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s steeling himself. But I do know better. What reason would this man need for steeling himself? He is a king here.
When he opens them again, they’re empty. It’s like he’s just slipped a mask on, another one.
We take the last few steps and we’re in the courtyard.
I gasp when I see the gathering. I remember that night Santiago first came into my bedroom and put his ring on my finger. Because the sight that greets me is a terrifying one. All those men wearing those black robes with the hoods pulled up, white and black masks gleaming underneath.
“I don’t want to,” I say stupidly, sounding like a child.
Santiago laughs. “You think you have a choice?”
I shift my gaze from them to him.
“Besides, it’s not those men you have to worry about,” he adds.
I swallow.
He turns to them, and I understand all those candles. People are curious. I wonder if any have seen him fully. Santiago is careful. I get the feeling only those he allows actually see his face.
“I needed a moment with my new bride,” Santiago says casually to a slew of nods and chuckles. He nudges me ahead of him.
The men shift their attention to me. I shrink back but behind me is the wall of Santiago’s chest.
“Where are you going, sweet Ivy? We haven’t yet begun,” he whispers, arm wrapping around me from behind, fingers on my jaw lifting my face, making me look at all those men. A little more than a dozen. No women. Like at the church.
At least my brother isn’t here to witness this next humiliation. Or is he one of them?
No, only the upper echelon wear the robes. They wouldn’t allow Abel in even if they did allow my father.
Santiago keeps hold of me as we cross the courtyard. The rain has cleared, but the sky remains cloudy. The stone is cold and hard beneath my bare feet with the debris of dried, fallen leaves from the trees.
I have only been here once before. My father brought me when I was little, and he had business here. The babysitter had canceled at the last minute. I remember being awed by it then. I’m as awed now.
Two sets of staircases lead to the upper floors where any glass door or window has been shuttered against curious eyes. Green cascades from the railings, growing lush in the damp Louisiana climate. Even the air in this place is that of money. Of power.
The men fall quiet as Santiago walks me toward them, our steps slowed, him not so much dragging me anymore. No, not toward them. We’re walking toward the ornately carved wooden canopy that looks to be centuries old. It’s draped thickly with cascading red roses woven into vibrant green ivy. The floor beneath the canopy is littered with the flowers too. I can almost smell them there are so many.
The men’s expressions grow more serious as they begin to take their seats in the chairs lined up across from this makeshift stage.
Beneath the canopy are a small table with golden legs and a single chair, large and golden to match the table, the pattern on the upholstered cushions too worn to make out from here.
As we near the table, I see equipment on top. Some of which I can’t place, but others, like the leather restraints, have my stomach falling away. I stumble, catching my toe on a slightly raised stone as my gaze shifts to the firepits scattered throughout the courtyard and to the one closest to the canopy with the iron pressed into the fire.