14
Gabriela
I see the switch flip inside him. It’s the strangest thing. The scariest thing.
Because just like that, he’s the man from that first night again. The crazed one.
There’s a single moment where time feels like it’s suspended over us. Where it’s like we’re both locked in place, and the instant I gain control of my legs, the instant I tell them to move, to run, to carry me away from this monster, he tugs me so hard, I bounce off his chest and I’d fall if he didn’t have me.
He walks me backward to the wall, pushes me roughly against it. Holds me there.
Music swells, opera, a soprano. Marguerite, I think. It’s Faust and Marguerite.
They’re doomed. They were from the start.
I watch Stefan unbuckle his belt as he mutters under his breath. His eyes are fierce, dark, and hard and burning.
With a swoosh, he tugs the belt free and the sound, it fills me with fear.
“Tomorrow,” he says, doubling the belt in his hand, taking the buckle in his palm. He takes both of my wrists into one of his hands and stretches my arms over my head. My dress rises, exposing my thighs.
He raises the belt.
“Stefan don’t!”
He brings it down across the fronts of my legs and I’m shocked by the sudden, searing pain. Silenced by it.
“Tomorrow, you’ll marry me.” He brings it down again and this time, I do scream, and I realize how dark it is in here. How loud the music is. Was it this loud when we were screaming at each other?
The scene reaches its crescendo.
The execution is coming. Marguerite will be beheaded soon.
“You’ll wear what I tell you to wear and you’ll smile and look pretty, and you’ll do exactly as you’re told. And if you don’t, I will strip you naked and lash you from the tops of your shoulders down to your ankles.”
Another lash and another and another. My thighs are on fire.
“Please! God. Please stop. It hurts!”
“And once we’re man and wife, you’ll sign the petition for guardianship. Am I clear?” he asks, punctuating with another stroke.
“It hurts!” I’m crying. Sobbing. Fuck.
He lashes me again, three more strokes before gripping my jaw in his belt hand, fingers digging into me. “Those won’t scar,” he says, his face so close to mine our noses are touching. “I’m sure your father would do much worse. Now do you understand, or do you need me to whip you properly?”
“I hate you,” I manage.
“I don’t care.”
“I will always hate you.” My throat closes up as hot tears streak my cheeks.
He forces me to my knees, keeps me down there. I guess he’s making good on his threat of earlier.
“You sound like a broken record. This is bigger than your hate. Now answer my question. More strokes or do you understand?”
He watches me and I see the blur of him through my tear-filled eyes. “I understand,” I spit. Because what choice do I have?
He nods and the belt clangs to the floor beside me. When he releases me, I sag backward. I guess it’s good I’m already on the floor. My legs wouldn’t hold me upright. I look down at the exposed part of my thighs. See the thick, angry red welts on them.
Stefan looks at me for a moment longer, but I can’t read his eyes and my brain, my stupid brain, goes to the other night. To how he was on Skull Rock. How he talked to me. How he held me. How he kissed me.
I watch him turn, watch him walk away. Pour himself a drink.
With the heel of one hand, I wipe my eyes as he looks back at me down on my knees. He swallows the contents of his glass. And when he stalks toward me, I press my back against the wall, as if I could disappear into it.
He ignores my whimper but leans down to cup my chin and he’s almost gentle when he tilts my face up to his and I watch him watch me for a long moment.
“You’re a sad little thing,” he says.
And I think he’s never been more right.
15
Gabriela
The papers I’m to sign are a petition for Gabe’s guardianship. And it would be a good thing. But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.
How long has Stefan planned on taking guardianship of my brother? While he was lying on that beach with me? While he was kissing me?
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.
“Are you ready?” Miss Millie asks, peering her head into my room.
Does she know what happened last night? Does she know I don’t want this? That I’m being forced to do this?
I shift my gaze back to my reflection. I don’t look like I did the night of the engagement party. Not elegant and sophisticated. I’m wearing minimal make-up. Just some cover up, mascara and lip gloss. My face is pale, and I can’t hide the puffy redness from all the crying.
My hair falls loose to my shoulders, the bangs tucked behind my ear. I’m not wearing the pretty hat that comes with the dress Stefan chose but I am dressed. It was delivered this morning, my replacement wedding dress. And with it came a note:
Remember what will happen if you make me come up there to dress you.
S
No ‘x’ this time.
And I am dressed.
At least it’s not the hideous gown.
“Ready,” I say, standing, the skin of my thighs tight, a painful reminder of last night’s whipping. A taste of what will happen if I disobey.
No women to prepare me today. No need. Today is a decoy. A means to an end. Just like I am a means to an end. If I was forgetting that, he reminded me of it last night.
“You look beautiful,” Miss Millie says.
I don’t want to look beautiful.
I’m wearing a white lace off-the-shoulder dress that comes to my knees. Black would have been more fitting. A thick satin belt cinches my waist and the sleeves come to my elbows. A pair of high satin heels finishes the look.
It’s simple, I guess. At least compared to the other one.
Miss Millie is wearing a pretty navy-blue suit and for the first time since I’ve known her, makeup.
“Stefan is waiting downstairs,” she says and opens the door wider.
I nod, glance back at my reflection but I don’t recognize myself.
What a sham this is. What a sham my life has become.
I straighten my spine and walk out of the bedroom. I can see him waiting with Rafa in the foyer and they both look up at me. Stefan’s face doesn’t change. I don’t know if Rafa’s does because I’m only looking at Stefan.
Stefan.
Satan.
Stefan.
He’s beautiful, just like all fallen angels are. I thought so even that first night. The night he smelled of death. The night he risked death sneaking into my bedroom on my sixteenth birthday to give me that gift. To make me that promise that he would be back for me. That he would steal me away.
He’s dressed in a dark suit with a dark shirt and tie and never takes his eyes off me as I walk down the stairs, remembering last night, remembering his warning. The welts on my thighs burn but it’s good. The pain won’t let me forget what he is. What he’s capable of.