Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
FIONA
A hand runs down my spine and over my ass, dragging me from sleep. I turn my head, the events of yesterday coming back to me in a series of images and memories when I see Roman watching me from the pillow beside mine. I yawn to hide the way my body bristles at his touch.
“I’m going to enjoy taking you apart and putting you back together,” he says, those soulless eyes drifting over my bare shoulder before his fingers follow the trail over my skin.
“Wh-what does that mean?” My voice shakes, and the corner of his mouth curls.
“I’ve waited for you.” His finger traces down the side of my silky nightgown. “Waited to sample the pleasures of your body. It’s right to be married first. You’re not a toy. I’ve had toys before, but they’re so easy to break. You, on the other hand, you’re indestructible. That mind of yours won’t shatter like the others. All the ways you’ve written characters being tortured, we’ll play out those scenes and so many more. Together we’ll find your limits.”
“Limits?”
He slides his hand to the hem of the nightgown, then drags the edge of his ring across the skin of my thigh. It hurts, and I gasp and jerk away from him. I glance down to see he’s drawn blood.
He wipes the cut, then sucks the bead of blood from his finger. The way he watches me, it’s like he’s reveling in the small reaction he’s elicited. “I can’t wait to see what you look like when I make you scream.” He doesn’t mean in pleasure.
“And how long will I have to wait for that?” I scissor my legs and force myself to sound enthusiastic, but I’m trembling now, unable to hide my reaction as I did yesterday.
His gaze turns molten. He loves that I’m shaking. The sadist takes pleasure in my fear. He scoots closer on the bed. “I swear, Fiona, it’s like God made you just for me.” He kisses my shoulder. “The judge is on his way right now. You’ll sign the license, he’ll perform the ceremony, and he’ll file the papers for us when it’s finished. We’ll be legally married by the end of the day.” His hand smooths over my ass again. “Which means this will all be mine by tonight.”
I flutter my lashes and press two fingers to his lips. “He’s on his way now? I should get ready.” I use the excuse to slide away from his touch and hop out of bed. “What would you like me to wear? ”
He climbs out of bed, wearing nothing but his boxers and an obvious erection. God, he’s human trash. He pads to the walk-in closet. “I picked this out while I was in Paris for you to wear on our honeymoon. It wouldn’t be appropriate for a formal affair, but for this it will please me.”
Paris. Did he buy this while he was there to murder Lucy? I swallow down bile and take the hanger from him before hurrying into the bathroom and shutting the door between us. Tears flood my face as I crumple to the floor with the dress in my hands. Help. Help. Help me! Connor, if you can hear me, you have to come for me. Please come for me. I project the words down our bond as forcefully as I can, sobbing silently.
I remember the poisoned bolts in his wings, in his chest, the way he dropped out of the sky. I flash back to Roman showing me his crossbow last night, the bolts magically enchanted to kill dragons, fueled, he said, by something made from dragon’s blood. Not for the first time, I wonder how badly Connor was injured. Is he even in any shape to challenge Roman? If he comes for me, is it possible that Roman might finish him off this time?
I shake my head. I refuse to believe it. Connor’s a fucking dragon, a god of a man who made me laugh, woke my creative light again, and stole my heart. I choose to believe he’s invincible. And he’s mine. He’ll never give up on me.
I close my eyes on a silent sob. He’ll come for me. He will. I just need to survive until he does. Only I’m not sure I want to live through what Roman has in store for me. But then I remember something else. I have to endure, because if I die, it’s Connor’s life too. If I die, his fever will return. His greatest fear was living a half-life like his sister, pining for a lost mate. I can’t do that to him. I close my eyes again and clutch for my crucifix, but it’s gone. I haven’t had it since Esther removed it from my neck before the wedding. Still I pray; I pray for deliverance. I pray for a miracle.
At one point, I do think I feel something down the bond, but it’s barely a whisper. Still, I cling to it. Survive. All I need to do is survive .
After a long shower, I face the dress again. I know I’m running out of time. I’ve been in here close to an hour. Roman won’t wait forever, and the last thing I want is him coming in after me. The dress is hideous. It’s white and lace, but those are the only similarities to a wedding dress. The spaghetti straps give way to a deep vee that reaches halfway to my navel, and the skirt lands midthigh. The lace is positioned over a nude slip to give the illusion you’re seeing flesh peeking through the fabric. I pull it over my head and go look in the mirror, hoping it’s not as bad as it seems on the hanger. It’s worse. It looks like a negligee.
I close my eyes. Hold it together, Alex barks in my head. A scene I wrote in book three, Devil’s Wrath , plays in my head. Alex was captured by a Russian spy, tortured for twenty-one days, and beaten senseless and still managed to survive. Survive, I tell myself. Just survive .
Slowly I open the door to find Roman standing there in his wedding tux. His eyes drift over me.
“Almost done.” He grabs a pair of silver-white shoes from behind him.
Again, they’re stilettos, uncomfortable as hell and no doubt meant to hinder my ability to move quickly. I slide my feet into them. He grabs my chin, turns my face this way and that, inspecting my hair and makeup. I’ve done the bare minimum, not wanting to please him but also not wanting to invite his wrath. He frowns a little but says nothing.
“Sign,” he orders, pointing to the marriage license on the bureau. I do, and he tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
I take a step away from him, toward the door, but he stops me with a hand on my elbow.
“Wait. You need jewelry.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a diamond-encrusted collar. It looks like something a billionaire would buy for his dog. He fastens it around my neck, tight enough to be uncomfortable but not cut off my air. “There,” he says, as if this ensemble could possibly look anything but gaudy.
“They took my ring,” I say, remembering with some internal relish how Connor had melted the gold and hurled the diamond into the woods. I picture it buried beneath a pile of bear shit.
He scoffs. “We’ll get you another. For today you can use this one.”
He reaches into the same box and pulls out a diamond band. The engagement ring I’d once worn was part of a set. On our wedding day, Roman carried the band but never had the chance to slide it on my finger. I stare at it, again praying for Connor to come. He saved me that day. I never fully appreciated it before, what he knew, the level of the mistake I was making or the personal risk Connor took when he abducted me. I never fully appreciated the kindness and patience he showed me while I worked it all out.
“What were you thinking about just then?” Roman asks.
I blink away the memories and plaster on an insipid smile. “Our future.”
He chucks me under the chin. “Judge Burk just passed through security. We’re very lucky to have him. Not only is he a judge, but he’s also trusted by the Saint’s Order. He’s not a member yet but has applied to be, and he understands Order business. He can marry us properly.”
I have no idea what he means by that, but I don’t fight as Roman takes my elbow and leads me out of the bedroom and through the hall to the back of the house. We descend a staircase and then walk down a long corridor. I worry that he’s taking me to the dungeon again.
“What about Vivian?” I ask nervously.
“I’ve already had security escort her to the chapel.”
“You have a chapel here?”
He glances at me. “Every Order member maintains a chapel in their residence. It’s part of the vows we take.”
What sort of medieval society is the Order to have their own chapels? I’m finally seeing it on the level of the Illuminati or the Knights Templar. I think back to the hours I spent researching secret societies throughout history, and my author’s curiosity piques. I can’t stop my voice from shaking when I ask, “Do you think killing dragons is your mission from God?”
We ascend another set of stairs and arrive at stained-glass doors. He pulls one open for me. “It’s our mission from our god and the god of those who came before us.” Our eyes meet, and his are darker than I’ve ever seen them. And then he ushers me inside.
The chapel is paneled in dark wood and lit only by candlelight and the ambient light filtering through the mostly red stained glass. My breath catches at a stained-glass representation of Saint George mounted on a horse. The saint is holding a spear stabbed through a dragon’s head. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this depiction, but it’s the first time I’ve noticed the look of pride on Saint George’s face and the way the dragon is at his mercy. The dragon isn’t fighting back. George hasn’t a scratch on him. He might as well have a spear through a dog.
Dragons were sent to inspire humans , I remember Connor saying. The Order slaughtered them for greed, to maintain their status and position. I’ll never look at art like this the same way again, not as long as I live.
Roman tugs me toward the front of the chapel, his grip almost painful. There’s an altar, but the cross hanging over it is strange. It’s flanked by dozens of ivory candles, their dripping wax collecting on the wrought iron scrollwork of the candelabra. Vivian is waiting in the front pew, her traumatized eyes catching mine.
Physically, she looks a tiny bit better. She’s clean and there’s more color in her cheeks. She’s eaten and rested. But her eyes are haunted. And she recoils when she sees Roman. She’s terrified of him, as well she should be. I am too.
Her gaze falls on the place Roman’s hand grips the back of my upper arm. She frowns, her eye catching mine as she squeezes the back of the pew until her knuckles turn white. I know she wants to help me but I try to tell her silently not to try. It will only end badly for both of us.
Roman leads me up the aisle where a kneeler has been placed in front of the altar table. It’s so quiet I can hear the candles burning. On either side of the altar, suits of armor stand guard, swords and shields in their hollow hands. It’s an odd choice. Marion and I were raised attending churches with light-filled pews and candlelit statues of the blessed mother and Saint Joseph. The cross was always a crucifix. The symbol hanging above us now is strange—a cross with two bars instead of one and an infinity symbol at the bottom. I vaguely remember coming across the symbology before while researching one of my novels, but I can’t remember what it’s called or the historical significance.
“What type of cross is that?” I ask softly.
“A leviathan cross. It symbolizes the Order’s role in maintaining the balance between the divine and the wicked.” He still has me by the arm as if he fears I’ll bolt if he lets me go, when the side door opens and an elderly man walks in. He’s balding with a nose that’s both crooked and hooked, but I can’t take my eyes off him. The closer he gets, the safer I feel.
“We want the full sacramental rite,” Roman commands. He pulls the marriage license from the interior pocket of his tux and hands it to the judge.
I frown and bow my head, staring at my tangled fingers. There was no getting around using my real signature this time. Roman watched me carefully, even made sure it was legible.
Roman drags me to the kneelers and yanks me down with him. I fall hard and catch myself on the rail. Easy , I hear in my head. That’s Connor’s voice!
I raise my chin and stare at the officiant again. He’s surveying the room like he’s never been in here before.
“Now, Burk!” Roman orders. “I want it done and filed by end of day.”
Duck, I hear in my head.
Faster than my eyes can track, Burk lunges for one of the swords in the suit of armor, draws the weapon, and swings it toward Roman’s head. I drop to my belly, and the steel whistles right over me as the entire being of Judge Burk flies apart like scattered sand and leaves Connor in his place.
Just when I think Roman’s going to lose his head, his ring transforms into a glowing blue sword of his own. The blade extends just in time to block, even before Roman seems to register the attack, as if the ring’s magic is sentient and acts of its own volition. He’s not entirely fast enough.
Connor’s blow is so powerful the momentum carries around Roman’s sword and the tip slices the back of Roman’s head. Blood drenches his hair, but Roman is on his feet, attacking with all the psychotic rage I’ve seen brewing under his skin the past few days .
Connor’s answering energy is death’s swift vengeance. Swords clang again and again. Connor is stronger, and I can’t understand why he doesn’t have the clear advantage until I see his wing is bleeding. Oh my God. He’s still injured from the bolts. And if his wing hasn’t fully healed, his chest is probably bleeding too beneath the leather armor.
A hand lands on my back and I almost scream, but it’s just Vivian, pulling me away from the skirmish. We back behind a pew just as the flat of Roman’s sword slaps Connor’s shoulder. He roars, the place of contact smoking like it burns, but he doesn’t retreat. He moves closer to Roman, into the pain, and sends a sharp elbow into Roman’s chin. Roman goes flying like he’s been hit by a car. He crashes into the wall, his head thunking hard against the wood. He crumples to the stone, but then he’s on his feet again, the sword transforming into a crossbow.
He levels it at Connor.
I race forward, positioning myself between the two of them, my hands raised. I lock eyes with Roman.
“Move out of the way, Fiona,” Roman demands, lowering the bolt a quarter of an inch.
“No.” I won’t let him shoot Connor again. I won’t.
His lips peel back from his teeth, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I had such high hopes for you. So disappointing.” He fires.
A paw the size of a paddle knocks me aside, and I turn my head to see Connor throwing the sword in his hands like a javelin. Roman’s bolt whistles between us, missing its mark, but the sword flies true. It impales Roman through the chest and embeds in the wall behind him. I scramble to my feet, trying to reach Connor. He’s bleeding, and I can’t tell if it’s from old wounds or new.
“Look out!” Vivian screams.
I whirl back toward Roman. Despite being pinned to the wall like a mounted beetle, he raises his crossbow and a second bolt flies. Connor dodges it, leaps over a pew, and slashes Roman’s throat with one partially shifted hand. Blood sprays across wood and stone, the light shining through the stained glass washing my entire world in red.
“Fiona!” Vivian cries. She’s suddenly hysterical.
I’m not sure why until I look down and see the fletching of a blue bolt protruding from the biceps of my left arm. Oddly, I feel no pain. No weakness. I reach around and yank it through my flesh, dropping it on the stone. Blood spurts from the wound, and I clap a hand over it.
“Oh my God! Fiona!” Vivian helps me into a pew as Connor’s roar fills the chapel.