Desmond’s eyes meet mine. The agony of the decision contorts his expression, and I feel dumb. There’s no choice here. No choice at all.
This is my responsibility. My mess.
I refuse to be the one who consigns the Hartsons to death.
Even if it means doing something unthinkable and abhorrent to the soul.
I take a step forward. All eyes turn to me. I feel like a witch from the old days, walking to her own pyre. Walking to a miserable fate, but far preferable to the alternative.
“I’ll do it,” I say, proud that my voice is clear, and strong, though inside, everything’s a mess, and I want to sink into the floor. Desmond continues to stare at me, before he gives a tiny, stiff nod, and steps forward as well.
“As will I.”
My stomach twists, knowing that I’d be conjoined with the man who has led raids against my own kin. Knowing that one day he would be leader, to make such decisions, and order more death. But at least, I suppose, we’re of one mind about this.
Ronald claps loudly. “Well done, kids, for making the right choice,” he says, and I bristle at the fact he’s called me a kid. I’m twenty years old. Nothing near a child anymore.
I dread turning to look at my parents, but I do so anyway, because I have to see their faces. Strangely, my father looks pleased more than disgusted. Same with my mother.
“You brave darling,” mother whispers. “Lord knows what kind of choice you have to make.”
Lord knows indeed. I’m stepping up and taking responsibility for the mess I made in the first place. Go team.
I suppose it’s better than pretending I had nothing to do with it, like before. That my actions are not my fault, that it’s all because of him driving me to distraction. I can't wriggle out of the blame forever.
“Son, you don’t have to do this,” Desmond’s father, Rysin says.
“Don’t I, father? We have fifty guns pointed at us, and our destruction is all but assured.” Desmond snorts, bitterness in his expression. I won’t risk the lives of good men and women out of selfishness.” I note that he’s clearly not referring to my side of the room.
“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen,” Matin rasps. “Here’s more for this brave new world we’re forging. The Hartson will end up in her husband’s household. It is up to her husband’s family and vassals to protect her. Should she end up dead, or severely abused, then I will consider the oath we’re making here null and void, and I’ll move in to clear out the infestation. If there are any extensive raids like the one we just put a stop to as well, the same terms will apply. We outnumber you, always. The bandits are getting bolder, encroaching into our territories. This is no time for squabbling.” He glares at all of us, the menace in his eyes, his voice clear. “Remember what happened to the Rothchilds.” My uncle nods, backing his words.
I shiver at what Matin says. The Rothchilds were a prominent family west of Graves territory. At least, until their entire clan was annihilated. They sought to expand into other territories, and the other clans took offense. Fatal offense. They left the bones, destroyed buildings, poisoned wells and water sources, and scorched the land as a warning to others.
“Excellent,” Matin says, when no one raises any protests. The snakes squirm in my stomach, as the full weight of the decision I’ve made settles in. “We have a priest out back. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
I stand opposite my husband to be, and hatred seethes through the both of us. His nose is upturned as if I smell like a sewer, and our families and vassals watch on as the most reluctant audience ever to have graced a wedding. I doubt traditional weddings have a heavy armed guard threatening to kill dissenters, either. The Graves are finally flexing their muscles, as my father and grandfather always feared. The Graves had been quietly consolidating power for the best part of twenty years, until their patrols had become commonplace.
We’re set to be wiped out, just like the Rothchilds, so I have to swallow every sliver of nausea in my body and somehow go through with this – somehow let him touch me again, let his family have dominance over me. They want me to give up my name for this travesty of a clan.
Matin’s priest burbles through the vows, though they’re shorter than I remember them being from other marriages I’ve witnessed. Desmond and I mumble through each word, barely able to look at one another. When it comes to do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, I practically have to choke down bile to say it. Desmond fares little better.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest happily tells Desmond. He pales, but leans towards me, and gives me a peck on the cheek. The heat of his breath lingers, and I’m glad he wanted to get it over with as fast as possible. Our wedding hosts no cheers, no smiles.
It’s a miserable affair, and the Claymores are escorted back to their home by the Graves, with me as the prisoner of honor. The night has not yet come, but I know what follows after the vows.
It’s going to take every last inch of willpower within me to endure it.
5
Desmond
She’s in my bedroom, standing awkwardly by the bed. And I have no plans whatsoever to touch her. I see the anger and fear in her eyes. She thinks me a brute, a monster, which is laughable, because of the blood on her family’s hands.
However, I refuse to meet her expectations. The Claymores are better people than a Hartson will ever be. She still wears her clan sash as if it’s a shield, and I’m tempted to tear at the fabric until it becomes scraps. How dare she wear such a thing in my home. Just as quickly as I think it, the anger dissipates.
How would I feel, if I was removed from my home, and placed in the camp of the enemy? Perhaps I’d be clinging onto my own sash. Perhaps I'd be waiting until the wolves fell on me.
My eyes travel over her medium-length blonde hair, the pixie shape of her cheeks, and the frosty blue eyes that once arrested my attention. Before I found out who she was. To think I played golf with her. Bought drinks. Conversed with her. Found attraction in her.
“There are two Graves vassals in our house waiting nearby for proof of our union,” I say, gauging her reaction. Will she flinch? Will she imagine me pinning her to the bed and having my way with her like the brute she thinks I am? Or will she show that backbone again she displayed in the assembly house, when she took that step forward and chose her own life to sacrifice over her people.
Hard not to feel even a grudging amount of respect for a choice like that.
“I don’t want to do this,” she says, eyes darting to the door, as if concerned the Graves vassals are standing by it with their ears to the wood. “But I assume you don’t want to, either.”
“Not really,” I agree. “But here we are.” I steel my stomach, and take a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.” I walk over to the bed, and order her to lay in it. She does so with obvious reluctance, perhaps chafing at the notion of needing to obey me. Though she’ll have to. I’m her husband, now. I clench my jaw, then pointedly turn my back on her when I clamber in the bed as well, and, after a moment, I use my palm and body to rock the mattress until it creaks. The two Graves retainers are listening outside, so there has to be a show made out of this.