9. Azrael
Ikeep hold of her as we walk in silence down the stairs of the Tribunal building and out into the courtyard. The witnesses are gathered at the far end, near the canopy. I stop and turn Willow toward me.
“Do you need a minute?”
She glares up at me. Her eyeliner is smeared where she wiped it with the backs of her hands and her skin is flushed.
“I don’t need you to stand up for me. I can take care of myself. You’re not some fucking hero for telling that asshole off on my behalf, if that’s what you think.”
“Hero?” I’m taken aback.
“I neither need nor want anything from you, Azrael Delacroix. I may be your wife, but it’s only because I had no choice. Remember that. Remember that if I had any choice at all, if my family’s safety didn’t depend wholly on my submitting to you, I wouldn’t be here. I would never choose this. And I certainly would never choose you!”
I feel my expression hardening along with my hand on her arm. She winces and tries to tug free. I loosen my grip. Her words cut in a way that is unexpected, although why would it be? She’s only telling the truth.
“But I do agree with you on one thing,” she continues. “Let’s get this over and done with. So go ahead and put your fucking mark on me. Do your worst. You’ve already taken everything from me. What more can you do? What more can you take?”
At that, I laugh outright. “What more?” I pull her to me, our bodies touching, and bend down so my face is an inch from hers. “You should be very careful what you say because there is always more that can be done. More that can be taken.” She tries to tug free, but I keep her close. “Now here’s what’s going to happen next. I’m going to give you some choices since you seem to want those. Ready?”
“Fuck you.”
“You”re going to choose to keep your eyes on the ground and walk at my side to the canopy there, and when I say kneel, you are going to choose to kneel.”
“Never!”
“Then you’re going to choose to submit to having your wrists bound. Hell, maybe I’ll even collar you, and you’re going to choose to bow your head low when I do.”
“I will never bow to you!”
“I’m going to take my time putting my mark on your pretty little neck, and when I’m finished, you’re going to choose to thank me, your Lord and your God.”
She snorts.
“And if you don’t choose to do all of those things, well, then I’m going to assume you’ve chosen to take the consequences instead.”
“What consequences?” she spits at me. She sounds defiant as hell, but I hear the sliver of fear there too.
“I’ll surprise you. I can be creative too. Now let’s go. Get this done, like you said. It’s time to make your choices.”
A hush falls over the crowd as we cross the courtyard. I’m sure the men gathered are hard at the thought of what they get to witness tonight. I get it. The thought of Willow Wildblood on her knees before me gets me hard, too. Even knowing the little I know of her, I have a feeling she’ll make poor choices tonight, so I’m not surprised when she gives every man we pass a glare as we take our place beneath the canopy.
I leave my wife to face the witnesses and move behind her. On the small table beside the tattoo equipment is a pair of leather cuffs. I take them. Apart from making fists of her hands, she doesn’t resist as I bind her wrists together. I take the second set of cuffs, and when I draw her elbows together and wrap the leather restraints around them, she turns her head to look back at me. Her breath is ragged, and her eyes are wide as I lock her arms behind her back. The position forces her tits out.
Lifting her hair, I set it over one shoulder and pick up the collar next. It’s a thin, silver collar with a fine chain hanging from the small loop at the front. She gasps when I set it against her throat and trembles as I close the clasp before moving to stand in front of her.
I take my time to look at the sight. She is fucking beautiful. Hell, maybe I’ll keep her bound and collared all night long.
I meet her gaze and, true to her word, I can read her curses in her eyes.
“Kneel,” I say, my back to the witnesses.
“Never,” she says only for my ears.
I grin and lean closer. “Are you sure about that?”
“As sure as a heart attack.”
I get the feeling she’s wishing one on me now. I set my hands on her shoulders to lower her to her knees, crouching with her. Taking hold of the chain dangling from her collar, I draw her down, down, down until I can hook it into the ring in the ground. She’s bent so low I have to tilt my head down to see her eyes.
“Ready, Little Witch?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, I will fuck you. But what I meant was, are you ready to take my mark?”
Someone chuckles. I guess I’m not as quiet as I think.
“I hate you.”
“How you feel about me makes no difference.”
Her eyes betray her fear as she scans the shoes of the men all around us.
I get up to take my place behind her. She kneels bound before me, her back already bared as if just for this. Just for me.
I touch the vertebrae at the back of her neck. She shivers as I trace the line of her spine to where the corset stops me, and I realize how much I want more. I want to see all of that soft, smooth skin. To touch it. Taste it. Lose myself in her wet heat when I take her. I want to feel her body open for me the way her lips did in the church—because it will. She may want to hate me, but her body will betray her.
And I will relish it.
But first, before we can get to all of that, it’s time to place my mark on her skin.
Instead of taking the throne-like seat prepared for me, I push it away and instead, set my knees on either side of my wife to be closer to her, to touch her. I listen to her inhalation of breath as my thighs close around her small frame. I bend my head to the curve of her neck to draw in a deep breath of my own, feeling the quickening of hers when my lips brush skin before my teeth do, my cock hard at her back.
When I draw away to clean the skin where I’ll place the tattoo, her body tenses at the touch of the cool cloth, the scent of alcohol sharp. For all her bluster, my wayward bride is readying herself. Once the skin is cleaned, I press the stencil into her skin and peel back the sheet. Already I like the look of my mark on her.
The needle buzzes to life and I begin my work. It takes time but it will be worth it. First, the circle encapsulating a triangle representing strength. Within it is the sword of Shemhazai, flames like the black feathers of the angel’s wings pulsing with power. Beneath it is the symbol Isaiah Delacroix added once Elizabeth Wildblood had muttered the words that laid the Wildblood curse upon us: the crescent moon turned upside down and split by the sharp blade of our sword.
At the foot, I place the letters IVI as required by The Society and draw back to look at my work. At the seal completed, like that circle, ensnaring her and me both. Branding her as mine.
When it’s finished and I draw back, setting the tattoo gun aside, Willow exhales, her muscles relaxing at last. I hear her shaky breath, and I wish I knew the thoughts that went through her mind as the needle bled its ink into her skin.
I undo her bonds and she stretches her arms, turning her hands then rubbing her wrists. I get to my feet and move around her to undo the chain, then the collar. I remain crouched before her, and her eyes meet mine. The skin around them is pink, a little damp. I wipe the residue of tears away, my gaze never leaving hers. The blue hue is so vivid, so full of emotions I can neither put words to nor look away from. This binding ritual has a strange power. I understand better now why this is the custom of IVI.
“All right?” I ask because what I see in her eyes makes me forget what happened before. Forget the words she spoke before the ceremony.
Her eyes narrow, all those emotions sharpening, turning to shards of ice. “Fuck you.”
I draw a deep breath in then exhale slowly, feeling weary. My own gaze narrows on her, and I force one corner of my mouth upward. “I suppose I forgot myself.”
“I suppose you did.”
“You know what comes next. You have one last choice to make.”
She leans backward on her heels as I straighten to stand, her eyes never leaving mine. The witnesses come to look at the mark, commenting on this or that. Not a single one of them touches her. They know better.
All the while, my bride and I hold the lock of our gazes.
When the witnesses move away and it’s time, I know she won’t do it. She won’t say the words she must, as required for every bride of The Society.
Dominus et Deus.
My Lord and my God.
Silence descends.
I give her a full minute, but I am tired. Exhausted. So I move behind her once more, covering the tattoo gently. Without another word, I raise her to her feet and lead her out of the compound to take her home.