Chapter 4
Jolie—present day
Isat on a hard folding chair, in front of a floor-length mirror, taking in my image.
I’d been made up to perfection. . . well, as perfect as a damaged woman could be.
Hell had organized a makeup artist. She’d arrived at the room a little over an hour ago, and that was how long it had taken to make me look presentable.
I wanted to tell the pretty blonde of my situation. I wanted to tell her everything and beg for her help.
But I couldn’t.
I’d already been threatened by the weight of her death, of her blood on my battered hands. And I knew Hell would see his promise through. He had the knife that would guarantee her death in his hand when his lips evacuated the threat.
As the lady brushed pink onto my cheeks and flicked up my eyelashes with a coating of black mascara, all I saw was a warped version of her—a version with holes in her pretty pink blouse, crimson blood staining the satin as it leaked through each one.
When she’d moved behind me, guiding me to my feet to get a better look at my painted image in the mirror, she smiled, proud of her work.
But I didn’t see her skills in makeup art.
All I saw was her. . . but not her happy face. I saw the death I hadn’t caused. I saw her eyes on mine, sad and tearful, black smudges of her perfect makeup trailing down her face as she stared at me through our reflections.
I breathed easier when she collected her stuff and finally left the room, her professional smile still on her face.
I stayed near the mirror, not enjoying the heaviness of my dress now that I was standing. I smoothed over the black satin. I hated satin, as of this very moment. The soft feel beneath my fingers gave static shocks, trying to reverberate me closer to my senses.
A flower sat in my hair, lost to the volume.
I didn’t get a tiara. I wasn’t his princess, never his queen.
I pulled my hair forward, disrupting the flower because I didn’t like the exposure of my face staring back when my eyes found my face in the mirror.
Its petals bounced, appearing to fall in slow motion as it fell to the carpet.
I bent, turning to pick it up. His fingers brushed mine as he clutched the daisy from the ground. I hadn’t even heard his silent feet step up behind me; he moved like a ghost—an entity from my past that I was desperate to expel from my life.
He smiled at me. His pretty eyes narrowed as he took in my made-up look.
“You look nice, almost perfect.”
Almost. . . the jibe hurt because the look on his perfect face told me why he said it. Because my scars made me less-than.
My fingers weaved through my hair, making sure it covered my mottled skin. I reached for the flower, planning on stealing it back to secure my hairs position, ready for the event I didn’t want to attend.
But he retracted his hand, creating a bigger distance between the large daisy and me. I stared at the petals. . . daisies were always his favorite. Mine, too. They reminded me of freedom; the kind of freedom I longed for as I’d watch them blow in the wind from the house he called home.
He moved forward, guiding the flower back into my hair. I cringed, trying to pull back, as his fingers twirled in my hair. His other hand latched around my bicep; he wasn’t letting me go.
“Don’t spoil things. . . constantly. We have the potential to have a nice evening together.
Neither of us really want a repeat of earlier.
There are so many other things we could do.
. .” Hell’s hand dropped from my arm to my knee, shimmying up my leg, snaking beyond the layers of my dress. “Things you could enjoy as well as me.”
His hand crept further up my thigh. Angry fingers rubbed over my satin knickers. My body proved its disloyalty to me, enjoying his touch. He moaned, his teeth sinking into the fullness of his bottom lip.
“Already excited, doll?” He closed his eyes, pulling his hand away, and acting like it was the hardest thing he ever had to do.
He took his fingers to his nose and inhaled. My wetness had seeped through the fabric, my scent was all over him, and he couldn’t deny how much he liked that, as he moaned again, loud and obnoxiously.
My nostrils flexed in fury. . . in hatred.
“You look so cute when you’re mad.” He laughed. And the action hurt him.
I wanted to smile at his pain, but I kept my expression passive and my joy muted.
Maybe the reason he wanted to suck the enjoyment out of my life was because that was the only way he’d ever feel any.
I shifted onto my feet, moving from his touch, and he followed.
He found me in the bathroom as I dwelled over the sink, still feeling repulsed by my own messed-up feelings. He leaned back against the doorframe, blocking me in. His suit crinkled where his knee bent, one leg tucked behind the other.
“I know you don’t want this. You’ve never wanted any of the things I’ve done to you. I know that.”
“Then why do you do them?” I regretted my words almost instantly, fearing the repercussions they may cause.
I stared at myself in the mirror, adjusting my hair some more.
“Because at least one of us should get what we want.” He kicked off the door frame, his feet carrying him to me in three strides. His fingers moved to my face as I turned.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t avoid his touch, but I could avoid his image. I had to. . . he looked too close to perfect. . . too much like my dream man, in a new suit and an open shirt. His pale skin glowed like the moon. . . his eyes, too. His look was hypnotic. His taste, sweet but poisonous.
His lips landed on mine. . . soft and gentle.
In the past, a softer version of him often kissed me in such a way.
But their motives didn’t match. Hell had no interest in love and intimacy.
He wanted access into my broken mind, and he knew he wouldn’t gain access to my deepest secrets, my harbored thoughts, if he rushed the process of digging into me.
“Why does it have to be you?” I whispered, breaking away. My words danced along his lips, still so close to mine. They tingled in the wetness of his stolen kiss.
“Because it can never be you.”
I pulled back, yanking myself free of his painful fingers. “I won’t marry you. I won’t.” My courage was false, like the smile on his face. . . sweet and angelic.
“You will. I guarantee it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m not wrong.” He loomed above me, stretching to his full height. “In time, you’ll want me. Just like last time.”
“You’re deluded!”
“Don’t do that. Don’t try to convince me something isn’t real when I know it is.
My father did enough of that.” Hell swallowed, directly in my view.
“I take pills now to help with my anxiety and the confusion. I’m more aware of reality; you on the other hand, you don’t know what the fuck is real and what isn’t.
You need me. But you won't admit to that.”
“What I need, is you gone. . .”
“Then make it happen.”
I froze, staring at the blade in his hand, picturing how each jagged edge would feel as it forced its way into my skin.
“I didn’t think so.” My procrastinating tweaked Hell’s lips into a smirk.
“I’m going to give you one chance to change your mind.
Make your decision wisely, Jolie. You will marry me today, or you won't live until tomorrow. If I can’t have you in life, no one will.
But in death, you’ll be mine.” Hell tapped the blade against the smallest part of my stomach, gifting another warning.
My final warning.
I tried to breathe out my fury but there was only room for air.
My dress was too tight; the dress he had forced me into for this fucking pathetic charade.
. . it was a nice frock, but I still fucking hated it.
It didn't look like a wedding dress. . .
it was black, just like his heart. And it thrived on my discomfort in the exact same way.
He backed off with a smile on his pretty-boy face and something unusual twinkling in his eyes. . . excitement.
He knew that my desire to live outweighed his threat of death.
He knew it from my past and he knew it from my present. . . I'd never allow him to end my life. . . I’d just allow him to ruin it. Because ruining it was better than racing through my afterlife with him in my shadow, because after driving the blade into my flesh, he'd drag it across his own throat.
He wouldn't live without me, that was clear.
He didn't know how.
I’d been cooperative, all the way from the hotel and in the taxi, the entire journey here. I stepped inside this small white chapel, willingly. I didn’t kick or scream. I didn’t fight for the freedom we both knew I desperately wanted.
The space was lined with flowers, all pretty and pink. Pink, like the stain of excitement blushing his cheeks. He was thrilled over the idea of spending his entire life with me. Thrilled over the idea he’d get to torment me for all eternity.
I recited my vows. “I vow to love. . .” I tasted the hate laced in the lie, but I swallowed it down. “I vow to honor and obey you, as long as we both shall live.”
The rise and fall of my chest, the tightening of my bodice, it all caught the officiant’s attention. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than they should have.
Hell took my hand in his, maneuvering it to his mouth.
My bones were in agony, probably broken, and untreated, hidden by a satin glove.
They vibrated with my nerves, only steadied by Hell’s death grip.
My nails beneath had been painted red. Red, like the blood staining my underwear from the ruptures his brutality had caused earlier today.
He placed a gentle kiss on my knuckles. A false promise. A false smile on his lips.
“Don’t be nervous, my love.” Another kiss burned me.
I took a deep breath, exhaling sharply, trying to expel the dank and depressing energy from inside me. I lifted my eyes, focusing on my trembling hand.
“Shall I go on?” the officiant asked, unsure of the next step.