Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Vicky
“He’s not like I thought he would be,” Kirsten muses as she buttons up the back of my wedding dress.
“How so?”
I think Alex has changed—or mellowed, perhaps. Yes, that’s the better word. He’s still Alex, just less intense.
These last few weeks have been carefully normal. Normal routine, normal conversations, normal sex. Alex working very hard to be normal, and not even working very hard. He’s spent hours with me, being normal.
“He’s…” Kirsten pauses, and I check in the mirror before me. Her expression is thoughtful, but whether the source is a particularly fiddly button or the loss of the right word to describe Alex, I can’t be sure. “…kind,” she says at last.
Her choice of word surprises me. Not because it’s wrong—I suppose—but because it’s how she sees him.
Prior to her and Chris’s arrival in Spain, Kirsten had met Alex the grand total of once: on her doorstep, when he came to Miami. To retrieve me. Which wasn’t Alex being ‘kind.’
“Is that good?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. Kind is always good.” She tugs the sides again. “Three more. Breathe out.”
The dress is tight, the bodice tighter, but I like its lacy finish and the way the skirts fall loose from the waist. My hair and makeup are already done, courtesy of a professional Alex hired, and the woman in my mirror looks very beautiful, slightly ethereal, and thoughtful.
I’m not sure kind is always good. “Is kind boring?”
“Kind is neither boring nor interesting,” Kirsten replies. “Kind is kind.”
Difficult to argue with. “And Alex?”
Her fingers pause. “Are you asking me if your fiancé is boring eighteen minutes before you marry him?”
Possibly.
“Just interested in your first impressions.”
“He’s…” Her frown reappears in the mirror, deeper than before. I don’t think she knows I can see it. “…steady.”
That means boring.
It’s worse than I thought.
Alex hasn’t mellowed, he’s shaped himself to what he thinks I want him to be. He’s given me everything I’ve always wanted—his presence, a safe place, his love. And he’s taking nothing of what he wants.
Why is he still here?
This isn’t a relationship, it’s a service contract. Not of me to him—hell, at some level, I’d probably accept that. No, of him to me.
Why would that satisfy him?
And as usual, now that I’ve asked the right questions, the answer comes easily.
He’s here because he doesn’t have a choice. Fournier made it clear: if he leaves, if we’re not together, Van Wyk gets to come for me. And there’s nothing Alex will be able to do without endangering himself, too.
This wonderful new house, the wedding, this damn dress… it’s all for me, not for him.
How long will we stay happy with that hanging over us?
“All finished,” Kirsten says.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, distracted.
“And with twelve minutes left. Can’t be early to your own wedding. What do you want to do? Have a drink?”
What do I want to do?
“Would you mind very much if I had a little time to myself?”
She smiles at me. “Of course, honey. It’s your day.”
Yes, it is. My day. Not our day, not his day, my day.
“Thank you.” It’s easy to make the words sound sincere; my brain’s working overtime.
Kirsten walks out, leaving me alone, with ten-minutes-and-change to do whatever it is I’m going to do.
I have no fucking clue what that is, only that I can’t go through with this wedding.
We need to talk. No, I need to run—he won’t accept my reasons. He’s spent the last few weeks being perfect—sickeningly, so unlike-Alex perfect. He’ll only claim it’s the right thing for me, for both of us. Something like that.
Money. A change of clothes.
They’re all in our room, where Alex got ready; I’m in one of the spare ones. But I’m betting he’s not there anymore, I’m betting he’s already on the veranda, waiting for me.
I open the door quietly, and the hallway is empty. Everyone is outside, save for Kirsten who will be by the door. I can’t get to the other doors without her seeing me, and she’ll tell Alex. Because he’s ‘kind.’
The window, then. Get to my car that Alex bought me, then drive and drive.
I slip to our bedroom, pull out a case from beneath the bed, and stuff it with clothes at random.
My credit card on Alex’s account. It’ll do for now.
My passport. I need that too. It’s in the desk in his study.
But that’s perfect, because that’s where my car keys are because I use it so rarely, and the window overlooks the guest wing, where the roof’s lower.
His study is empty, his desk immaculate. In seconds I have my passport and the keys to my car. Should I leave him a note?
No. We’re past that, and I’m out of time.
A ring, on a blank piece of paper, left on his desk?
No. This time, I’m going to keep it. A memento. Proof that he does love me, and now I’m going to show I love him.
By setting him free.
The window is stuck. It won’t open. I push, and it doesn’t move. I shove harder, and it flies back, hits the shutter, and both crash into the wall outside.
I freeze, listening. But there’s no noise, nothing.
The house is quiet, everyone on the far side.
It’s difficult to maneuver my heavy case through the window and balance it on the roof, but far harder still to climb out in this ridiculous dress.
The roof slopes, my wedding shoes giving me little traction, and the drop is higher than I thought. Twelve feet, easily.
But ahead, the roof meets a low wall, barely six feet down, then another six feet to the ground. That I can do. I just have to get there.
My shoes have no grip on the tiles, and the sharp angle of the roof doesn’t help.
I inch along, trying to balance my heavy case while making no noise.
I put a foot down, and a tile dislodges, sliding from under me.
My balance goes, the weight of the case pulling me.
There’s no choice but to let go of it, and it slides down the tiles and off the edge, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
But that’s the least of my worries. It’s not one tile that’s gone, it’s a line of them, falling like dominos from the roof, one after the other. And I’m sliding too, nothing to grip onto, the edge coming awfully fast.
Twelve feet up. Enough to twist or break an ankle, if not a leg. Then how will I escape?
My dress snags on something and tears, but it doesn’t slow me. Then I’m at the edge, sliding too fast to stop myself, and I know I’m going over.
This is going to hurt.
There’s a rush of air, the sudden drop of my stomach, and I hit. But it’s not the ground and the shooting pain of a broken bone, it’s a pair of arms, a strong chest, and we both go down together.
The air leaves Alex in a sharp grunt as he takes my full weight against the stone.
Shit. Anyone but him.
He’s lying on the stone paving, and I’m lying on him. My dress is a mess, my case has split open on the ground nearby.
But I’m not hurt.
I scramble off him, crawling back.
His hand closes on my ankle. “Where are you running off to, Tink?”
Why is he calling me that?
I kick my leg, but his grip is like iron. His face is expressionless, eyes not reflecting hurt or even any emotion. They’re just watching me.
“Get off me.” I kick again, and he rises to a knee, catching my other leg.
“Nice choice of underwear.”
My dress has risen up, giving him flashes of my wedding lingerie. Lacy boy shorts in a midnight blue.
I stop fighting, smoothing my dress down. Take a breath, let it out, find my reasonable voice. “Alex, let go.”
“No.”
“Let go, please. I’m leaving… we both know it’s the right thing.”
He regards me for a long moment, still gripping both my ankles, then his mouth curls wryly. “I’m guessing from your attire that this is an ill-thought-out spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“It’s not ill thought out,” I protest. It might be ill thought out, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
“I’m getting married today,” he confides. “What were you planning on doing?”
“Going for a drive,” I mutter.
“Excellent suggestion!” He seems delighted by it. “Shall we get married first, then go together?”
I sigh. “I’m not getting married to you, Alex. We both know you’re only doing this to keep me safe. You’ll be bored in months, away after that, and we’ll be miserable. So instead, I’m going to leave.”
He doesn’t say a word. Just releases my legs, pushes himself up, then offers me a hand.
I take it guardedly, letting him pull me to my feet.
“You tore your dress,” he says, gesturing to the seam on one side. He hasn’t let go of my hand.
The bodice is noticeably less tight. That must’ve been the ripping sound I heard. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Quite right, it doesn’t.” He bends, faster than I can react, pulls me forward with the hand he’s holding, and his other arm goes around my thighs.
I’m over his shoulder before I know what’s happened, and he hoists me into the air.
Only then does he release my hand, but his other arm is around the back of my legs.
“Fuck’s sake, Alex, put me down.”
“No.” His free hand slaps into my ass, and he doesn’t hold back. It hurts.
He’s walking off around the house, and I know he’s heading for the veranda, where our guests are waiting. My brother. Kirsten. Alex’s parents, who I’ve met only once.
“Don’t carry me there like this.” I pound on his back, but it’s like hitting a wall.
“Stop that.” His hand spanks my ass again, so conveniently presented over his shoulder.
I gasp. My dress isn’t thick enough to offer any protection. “Put me down.”
“I would if I could trust you, but I can’t.” Another slap, and that one wasn’t earned.
“It’s bad luck for a groom to see his bride before the wedding.”
What the hell did I say that for?
“That’s nothing but superstition, and I don’t care.”
“What will your parents say if you carry me in like this?”
“Not much. My father’s quite traditional.”
Shit.
“Carrying your bride in against her will isn’t traditional,” I argue.
“I suppose that depends how far back you go,” he says. He passes the corner of the house. “I found her,” he calls out. “Slight misunderstanding on the correct door to use, but it’s all resolved now.”
I can’t see any of the guests. All they can see of me is my ass in the air, my legs pinned by Alex. Surely the notary won’t marry us like this?
Alex carries me to the veranda and sets me gently on my feet. And somewhere, I’ve lost a shoe.
The first face I see is my brother’s, his eyebrows raised, consternation warring with amusement. Kirsten comes out of the house, staring at me in shock. Thank God they didn’t bring their kids; I would’ve felt a hundred times worse.
Alex’s parents seem to be taking it in stride. His father smirks and slides his arm around his wife.
My face is flushed. Partly from being thrown over Alex’s shoulder, partly from abject mortification.
The notary clears his throat. “?Desea que proceda?”
“Yes, proceed,” Alex replies, tugging me against him. His fingers find the slit on my bodice and slide within, resting against bare skin. I know it’s not an accident.
The notary gives me a look, clears his throat again with more than a hint of disapproval, then speaks in Spanish. But these are words I know; I’ve had plenty of time to learn them before today.
“In accordance with the provisions of the Civil Code, we will now proceed with the celebration of the marriage.”
Celebration. Is that what this is?
“Marriage grants the same rights and obligations to both spouses.”
“Good point,” Alex murmurs.
“Don Alexander Reyes, do you consent to marry Dona Victoria Callahan?”
“I certainly do.” His voice is clear, his words strong.
The notary turns to me, suspicion in his eyes. “Dona Victoria Callahan, do you consent to marry Don Alexander Reyes?”
This is the moment.
All I have to do is say no.
The notary watches me. Alex’s arm tightens around my waist. Behind me, my brother and his wife watch, and Alex’s parents.
Before us, our brand new house, in all its sun-sparkled beauty.
I’m standing here, face flustered, my carefully coiffed hair in disarray, my wedding dress torn. One foot bare.
I look at Alex. His eyes are stunning golden-flecked hazel, but devoid of emotion. He’s doing this only because he must, whatever lie he’s just uttered to the contrary.
“No,” I say, the word clear and strong.
Alex raises one finger. “Un momento, por favor.”
He leans into me, his lips by my ear. “You have two choices,” he says, voice cold. “You can change your mind, right now, and very clearly state your consent to being my wife for ever and ever, because I love you and I’m not going to let you go… ever.”
I swallow hard. “Or?”
“Or I put you over my knee, spank the hell out of you, and we repeat as necessary until the answer’s the first choice.”
“We’re not alone,” I hiss in reply.
Yeah, because that’s the most important thing.
Alex draws back, smiles, and says with everyone listening, “I really don’t care.”
The notary looks from me to Alex and back again. “?Desea cambiar su respuesta?”
It’s not Spanish I know. I look at Alex.
“He’d like to know if you want to change your answer,” he murmurs helpfully.
He hasn’t looked away from me since he made his threat. And I was wrong earlier; he has mellowed, but he is still intense. Just in other ways.
“Oh, what the hell,” I mutter. “Sí, consiento.”
The notary raises an eyebrow. “Madam,” he says in stilted English, “I need a clear answer. Do you freely consent to marry?”
“Excellent question,” Alex says. “Do you, Tink?”
I laugh. It’s all so ridiculous. The coercion, the threat, the public act… it’s just so… us.
But Alex is waiting, his gaze fixed on me, jaw tight, eyes so intense. There’s only one answer he’ll accept.
“I do.”
“Very well,” the notary says, then resumes in Spanish. “You are now united in marriage. Let us proceed to the signing of the marriage record.”
The document lies ready on a table nearby, and Alex hands me the pen, his arm still around me. I sign my name, pass it to him, the whole moment surreal.
He scrawls his signature on the line, drops the pen on the table, and sweeps me into his arms. “Thank you for coming,” he says to our guests, and without another word, carries me into the house.
“Alex!” I whisper. “That was rude.”
“Still don’t care.”
He takes the stairs two at a time despite my weight, and kicks open the door to our bedroom. “You know what I like about wedding dresses?”
My answer’s lost as he throws me onto the bed, and I land with my breath knocked out of me.
His weight pins me before I have a chance to move, one knee on my ass, his hand on the back of my neck. With his other hand, he opens the drawer of his bedside table, and pulls out a knife.
A frigging knife. In the drawer.
How long has it been there?
He leans down, until his lips are by my ear, then answers his own question. “You only need to wear it once.”
The blade brushes cold against my back.
“Keep still, now, Tink.”