“The time has come for you to bear my mark.”
I step on the ruined veil as Santiago closes his hand around my arm and walks me to the chapel door.
I watch his back as I stumble along behind him. I smell him still, his cologne of wood and leather and money. I will forever associate this scent with him. It will forever make my stomach feel like the bottom has dropped out.
He had been there, sitting silent in the confessional as if he were my confessor. And if he didn’t hate me before, he surely does after hearing what I asked.
Don’t let him be a monster.
I hadn’t meant physically, but how do I explain that to him?
Santiago chooses that moment to glance back at me, and I shudder. Maybe I’m a hypocrite after all. It’s the skull side of his face. The tattoo that makes my breath catch, that makes me unable to look away. It’s grotesque and captivating at once.
I see the scars beneath if I look closely. I wish I could take my time and study them, but he doesn’t allow for that. They’re on the other side of his face too, the beautiful side, but not nearly as bad as what I see hints of beneath that ink.
Did he do it to hide them? The scars?
Why a skull? It’s like he’s already dead.
Or did he do it out of shame?
We reach the door, and he grins as he reaches for the doorknob, and I think no, not out of shame. It’s a dare. A challenge. Look at me if you can stand it.
Or a big fuck you to anyone who would otherwise stare at the damage.
The oddest thing is that although I know it’s meant to terrify, that he means to terrify me, I don’t feel that. Not only that, at least. Because I know if I wake in the middle of the night to be greeted by the inked side of his face, he will succeed. I will be terrified.
But there’s more there. I glimpse it in his eyes, too, when it edges out the rage. The hate.
I see pain.
“Keep up,” he commands as he pulls the door open, and I wonder why he married me. Why he chose me when it’s apparent he hates me. So why choose to tie yourself to someone you hate?
Or does he think no one else would have him with his deformity? He’s a Sovereign Son. No matter what he looks like, any father would hand over his daughter should he demand it.
Demand.
That is what he’s done with me. Demanded me. And here I am. Married to the beast.
We step into the dark corridor, and I stumble as I try to keep up. The air grows cooler as we head toward the courtyard.
The Society’s seat in New Orleans is in the French Quarter, the main building a massive and ancient mansion three floors tall with a huge courtyard at the heart open to the sky. A fountain stands off-center. The building was expanded over time, but at one point, it must have been the centerpiece. Water trickles softly, the sound almost lost beneath the haunting melody playing over speakers hidden throughout the property inside and out. Something dark and gothic and modern. I recognize it, but I can’t name the artist. I’m too distracted.
I hear voices too, a low hum of men talking. The clanking of glasses and the smell of whiskey and melting wax again, like at church. Because the place is lit by a thousand candles. The only electric lights are those antique lampposts that only cast the softest yellow light set here and there in patches of trees, near the half dozen sitting areas.
I have an idea of what will happen next although the ceremony is secret. Only founding family members and, of those, only men are invited to be present. But there were always rumors at school. Girls who would claim to have seen the mark on their mother or on a new bride. The stories were always grotesque, and I guessed them to be dramatized. But when I smell the burning wood of fire, all those stories come crashing back in vivid detail, and I instinctively pull back.
He wouldn’t do that to me, would he?
Santiago turns to me, clearly annoyed. I take another step, trying to pull free, but he holds fast.
“What’s going to happen?” My voice is a broken whisper. I’m scared, and I can’t hide the fact.
He comes closer maybe to better study me in the dim light. He pushes the hair back from my face to make a point of looking at my strange eye. Maybe we have something in common. He is not repulsed by me as I am not repulsed by him.
I lick my lips, remembering his kiss. His lips on mine. His taste. Lace scratches my hardened nipples. My dress did not come with a bra. With each small movement, I feel the remnants of hardened wax on my skin, and I take a deep breath in at the memory of his punishment.
And of my arousal.
I swallow, goose bumps covering every inch of exposed skin.
Santiago steps to within an inch of me, the toes of his shoes against my bare ones.
I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. I wonder if others look or if they cringe away? What is he used to?
“What’s going to happen is you will do as you’re told,” he says.
“Will it hurt?” I ask stupidly. It’s what I’m afraid of. Not that I’ll bear his mark, that will come later, but the method of putting that mark upon me.
He cocks his head, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “Are you afraid of a little pain?”
I see the scars beneath the ink again and wonder how much those hurt.
“Are you?” he prods.
“Just tell me.”
His mouth moves into a smirk as his gaze moves over my face, hovering at my lips before returning to my eyes. “Your answer is written all over your face, Ivy. So easy to read.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed, but a moment later, that smirk is gone. “I like you scared, actually. You’re very pretty when you’re scared.” He wipes his thumb across my cheekbone, and we both look down at the smear of black. Mascara. I must look a mess. “I like your tears too, and I’ll have more of those.”
He wraps his hand around the back of my neck. The intricate twist his sister forced my hair into is tight enough to give me the beginnings of a headache.
I gasp when he jerks me to him, fingers rough on the bare skin there like he’s testing it. They mark the back of a woman’s neck. It’s how the stories went at school, at least. I imagine a barcode there so male members can scan to see who they can touch and who they can’t.
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.
That’s the one that scares me.
I don’t back up consciously. I don’t realize I’ve done it until both of Santiago’s hands come to my arms and turn me to face him.
“Wife,” he says, and I drag my gaze from that iron up to him.
“You can’t—”
He leans down toward me, his cheek brushing mine, igniting a spark. “I can,” he whispers against my ear. He holds me like that for a moment, then licks the shell of it, making me shudder as he draws backward and nearly lifts me off my feet to take me to the center of the canopy. He crushes the roses beneath his shoes, and the smell and roar of the fires overwhelm all of my senses. Once I’m standing before the chair and table, he turns me to face the men, and keeping his hands on my shoulders, he gives me a single-word command.
“Kneel.”
I swallow hard. I look up at him, and he looks down at me. Behind him, a sea of faces watches curiously, intently. Will I obey? Will I submit? And what happens if I don’t?
“Please don’t,” I start, but no more words come. Please don’t hurt me. It’s pointless. He enjoys hurting me. Didn’t I just learn that?
His hands tighten on my shoulders, and I go down, the lace of the dress rough between my naked knees and the cold stone. I kneel up, staring at him. My husband. I feel the first tear slide down my cheek. Is this what he wants? He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m already giving him my tears.
But if it is, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His expression is unreadable as he walks behind me.
I don’t move, concentrating on keeping my gaze from roaming to that fire. To the branding iron in the flames. My heart races, a cold sweat covering me as my vision blurs around the edges. I’m not sure I can take that kind of pain. No, I’m sure I can’t.
Santiago draws my wrists behind my back, and I feel cool leather cuff first my right wrist, then my left.
I still don’t move.
Next come the cuffs at my upper arms. These force me to sit up, making my breasts jut out toward the watching men.
I swallow hard as he tightens the bonds, immobilizing me. I can still run, I think. I’d be clumsier than usual bound as I am, but I can still run. Although I know I won’t get far.
Something cold wraps around my neck and I gasp, wanting to reach up but unable to. It’s thin, whatever it is, and it fastens with a click.
I feel him stand and hear him as he walks around me again. I look up at him. At the two sides of his face.
He watches me for a long minute. Only when I drop my gaze does he crouch down to take my face into his hand. His touch is gentle as he studies me, studies the few tears that drop from my eyes.
I want to tell him not to hurt me. I want to beg him not to brand me. But I can’t form words. Can’t make sound.
He lets something drop from his other hand. It makes a clinking noise when it hits the stone, and I shift my gaze to it. It’s a long, thin chain. He lifts my chin higher and hooks it onto the choker he just placed around my neck and runs the other end through a small ring attached to the stone floor that I hadn’t even noticed.
My gaze slides to the fire again, and the only sound I can make is a choked sob.
He tugs the chain, making me bow my head, but holds my gaze as he leans toward me, his cheek against my cheek again, the rough stubble on his jaw scratching my skin.
“Move and I’ll use the branding iron, do you understand?”
He draws back to look at me.
I’m trembling, shaking. It’s a good thing I’m already on the floor, or I’d have fallen by now.
“Do you understand me, Ivy?”
I nod frantically, tears falling wildly, feeling just a hint of relief as I see that iron in my periphery.
He nods once, then continues to shorten the chain, and when my head is bowed far enough forward, he locks it.
One of those tears drops on the stone floor. Then another.
He stands, the space he vacated empty and cold, and I find as he walks behind me that I want him close again. A warm body. Even if he will be my tormentor. Because behind him sit more vultures come to pick at the kill.
I try to move my arms, my head, but I can’t, not even a little, unless I want to set my forehead on the dirty ground. He’s immobilized me. Whatever he chooses to do to me now, I will submit. He has made sure of that. The chair behind me creaks. He sets his feet on either side of my hips. I can just see the tip of his shoe if I shift my gaze.
I gasp when I feel the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck. The rumors were true, then. I realize this is why his sister twisted my hair so tightly. Did she know? Would she herself be submitted to such a degradation one day? Has she already?
But all thoughts vanish as he caresses my skin. He’s gentle as though he’s getting to know the texture of the canvas. Then, abruptly, he grips the already-torn lace top of my gown and rips it farther, making me gasp. The men, our audience, make an appreciative sound as Santiago bares my back, the dress falling to the tops of my breasts, exposing one nipple. I’m hunched over enough that I don’t think the men can see it.
I wonder what a sight we make, the half-monster husband at his kneeling bride’s back, her dress torn, a supplicant to him.
I wonder if he’s aroused.
I close my eyes when I feel something cold and wet touch the back of my neck. I smell alcohol. He’s cleaning the area.
This is really happening. I’m being marked like cattle.
The chair creaks as he drags it forward on the stone bringing his knees to hug my arms tightly, securing me even more before I hear the buzzing of a machine and feel the first prick of the needle.
He’ll tattoo me.
It hurts, and I whimper. But it doesn’t deter him.
It takes about five minutes before the men lose interest, some standing, some talking, only a few remain watching. I fist my hands at my back as the pain intensifies. A branding iron would hurt more, I tell myself. I can manage this.
I know he’ll tattoo the initials of The Society onto my skin. I’m their property as much as I am his. Alongside it, I’ll wear his mark. I don’t know what it is, I realize. Not that it matters. All I can think about is the buzzing of the machine, all I can feel is the warmth of his thighs at my arms. Does he realize it gives me comfort? I’m sure he’s only ensuring I remain in position.
I don’t know how much time passes. The buzzing lulls me, the pricks of the needles somehow grounding me. And all the while Santiago works quietly at my back, thighs strong on either side of me, breath warm on the back of my neck when he leans close to inspect his work. I think about the chapel. About what happened there. How merciless he was.
I think about his hands on me, his fingers inside me. I think about his lips at my neck. His teeth.
My belly flips.
He’ll take me tonight. Consummate our marriage. And there is a part of me that is curious. That wants it. Even knowing he will be as merciless when I lie in his bed.
The buzzing stops abruptly. The back of my neck throbs. It takes me a minute to realize it’s over. I almost panic with the realization.
The bonds at my wrists are first to go. He works without ceremony, freeing me of those and the ones on my upper arms. I bring my hands to the floor on either side of me, my head still down, the chain at my throat still fastening me to the stone. I look at the rings on my finger. The salt and pepper diamond. Strange and beautiful. Another symbol of his ownership of me.
“It’s finished,” he says, voice deep and low and still commanding the attention of everyone in the place.
I exhale. Finished. No branding iron for me. I would count myself lucky, but I know this thing between us has only just begun.
A few of the men come to look at his handiwork and compliment it. No one touches me, but Santiago remains close. I get the feeling no one would dare incur his wrath.
When I next feel his touch, I gasp, muscles tightening with anxiety.
“Don’t move,” he commands.
I still. I don’t expect him to touch me. Not like he is, at least. But then I realize what he must be doing. Applying a salve.
I close my eyes, my breath leveling, my body relaxing at least a little. He’s being careful. Gentle. When he’s finished, I feel something cover the tattoo. I open my eyes and berate myself because he’s not being gentle or careful with me or for me. He’s protecting his work. It wouldn’t do if it got infected.
Santiago stands and walks around me. I remain in position, head still bowed by the chain, back of my neck feeling warm, my arms and shoulders sore. He takes his time as someone brings him a drink. It’s somehow more humiliating when they mingle among themselves. When they ignore me altogether, the collared bride kneeling head bowed at their feet.
But I don’t care. Let them ignore me. Let them forget me.
Because what comes next will be more humiliating than any of it. And again, I know it is only the beginning.
I wonder once more why he chose me. Why he wanted me.
As if my thought reminds him it’s not finished yet, not until I speak the words, he returns to me, crouches down to unlock the chain, then straightens to his full height. At well over six feet tall, he towers over my five-and-a-half-foot frame when I’m standing, so when I’m on my knees, he’s a giant.
Chairs creak as the men take their seats to witness this next scene. I wonder if they go home to fuck their wives with the image of me submitting to my husband on their minds.
But when Santiago touches the underside of my chin to raise me to kneel up, I stare up at him standing in the shadowy, dim light of the candles. I feel more his, strangely. More so than after the wedding.
And I realize I’ve given him more of what he wants when he wipes his thumb across my cheek. He closes his hand over the top of my head, that same thumb coming to my forehead, tracing a symbol there with my own tear as if blessing me. As if he’s some god. His lips move, and I think he’s saying a silent prayer, and again, I wonder what we look like, me kneeling at his feet, his mark fresh on my bloodied neck.
He closes his eyes, bows his head momentarily, then opens them again, and the look inside them is dark.
“Say the words,” he tells me with his hand still on the top of my head.
I know this part. The words. The act. I know exactly what I must do. Every daughter of The Society knows because every one of us will be made to submit no matter how high ranking.
And I know there’s no way around it. There never was, even when I believed for those short six months that I’d somehow escaped and was in charge of my own destiny. I never was.
I hold his gaze a moment longer than is proper or than he’s used to. I see a flicker of anger. Good.
He thinks I’ll be easy to break. He thinks I’m weak. He thinks my tears are weak. I see it. But I’m stronger than he knows. I almost got away. And I’ll survive him. I have to.
I empty my eyes of any emotion. I lock myself off from him, and I tell myself the words mean nothing. This is not an oath I choose.
“Dominus et Deus.”
But when I say them, it’s as if the act is sealed, and again, I wonder if God truly is on their side.
Dominus et Deus. My lord and my god.
I take his offered hand with both of mine, the one with which he marked me, and I press my lips to it. Raising my gaze to his, I watch him from beneath my lashes.
I think of my little sister. I think of what I have to do. How I have to play this game to which I don’t even know the rules. Because even if I could run away and I managed to do it, like Hazel did, what would happen to Evangeline? I won’t abandon her like Hazel abandoned us.
My lips pressed to his cool hand, I keep my eyes locked on his as the beginnings of a plan form in my mind.
When Santiago swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple work. He’s impacted. I’m not sure if it’s me kneeling for him or the act of the marking itself. It has to be heady stuff. I get it. But he is affected.
I’ll use that.
And I keep my eyes on his as long as I can as I bend, bringing my forehead to his shoe. I am to kiss it, but I won’t do that. The men won’t see. If my husband knows, he will punish me for it. It’s a small rebellion, but it’s mine, and it’s something, and I’ll submit to his punishment. At least he’ll know where I stand.
When he grips my arm and hauls me to my feet, I know he hasn’t missed my deviation from the rules. My dress slips as I fall into him, then stumble backward. He looks down at me, and I follow his gaze to my exposed breast. He roughly tugs the lace up, and the look in his eyes is darker than I’ve yet seen.
And for a moment, the weaker part of me, the scared part thinks maybe I should have kissed his shoe.
But then he’s reined himself in, and I think this side of my husband is more frightening than the outwardly angry side. This quiet is more terrifying.
Because his eyes hold a promise inside them.
I’ll deal with you later.
“Close your eyes,” he says, voice low, not a whisper but simply quiet.
I do.
He pulls me close, and I gasp when he kisses me hard on the mouth, my hands coming to his chest as his fingers claw painfully into the ruined twist of my hair, his hard body against mine as I bend over backward to take his kiss. A small taste of what he’ll do tonight.