Delilah
I’m given a white, floor length dress for the ceremony.
The high neckline is itchy, and I wring my hands together to avoid scratching at my neck.
A sheer veil covers my entire face, so I can barely make out my new husband’s features.
Although I haven’t seen or interacted with many men over the past five years, I can tell he’s older than me.
By how much, I’m not sure, but he is definitely a man; there are no boyish features to be seen on his chiseled face.
The officiant drones on about the importance of marriage, the man’s role and the woman’s role, until it’s time to say the vows. “Do you, Gabriel, take this woman to be your wife? Do you promise to provide for her physical needs, protect her from harm, and give her children?”
“I do,” my new husband—Gabriel, apparently—says. His voice is deeper than I would’ve expected; a bit raspy. Maybe he smokes, I think.
The officiant turns to me. “And do you take Gabriel to be your husband? Do you promise to submit to him, obey without question, serve with eagerness, forsake all others, and bear him children?”
I recognize three of the five tenets we’ve recited every day since I arrived at the Institute, which makes it easy to respond appropriately.
“I do.” Though, I remember seeing a video of my parent’s wedding when I was a child, and that ceremony sounded nothing like this one.
There’s been no mention of love, or caring for each other in sickness and in health.
No til death do us part. I guess people don’t really marry for love these days, considering most couples don’t even meet until their wedding day.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Gabriel reaches forward and lifts the veil off my face before placing a hand on the back of my neck.
He leans down and kisses me on the lips with surprising gentleness, just a quick peck, before he pulls away and looks at the officiant for confirmation.
It all feels very transactional, like a business meeting rather than a wedding.
My first kiss, over in a blink, and absolutely nothing like I thought it would be. “Is it done?”
“The marriage will need to be consummated to be legally binding.”
Gabriel offers his hand, which the officiant shakes. “Thank you, brother.”
I’m afforded no time to say goodbye to Headmistress or the other girls as Gabriel grabs my upper arm and ushers me out of the room.
His grip is firm but not harsh as we exit the building, where a car is waiting for us.
The driver opens the backdoor of the black SUV, so I step up and take a seat.
The door closes behind me, and I’m hit with an odd sensation.
The faint smell of leather and men’s cologne surrounds me, and I realize I haven’t been in a car in half a decade.
The windows are heavily tinted, but I see Gabriel talking with the driver outside my door.
His posture is impeccable, his stance self-assured and confident.
He rounds the back of the vehicle and climbs into the seat opposite mine, attention on the phone in his hand—another thing I haven’t seen since before the Reckoning.
My stomach lurches as the car pulls away, the feeling of a moving vehicle foreign after so long. I look out the window to avoid getting motion sick, watching as the life I’ve grown accustomed to fades and the iron gates close behind us.
Gabriel shifts next to me, sliding his phone into his pocket before turning to look at me. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, studying me. “Delilah.”
I flinch, a deep, gaping wound long-buried opening upon hearing my given name for the first time in five years. “Yes, sir?”
“Look at me,” he commands.
I reluctantly pull my eyes away from the window, meeting his gaze.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks, and while his tone is patient enough, there’s a slight edge to it.
I shake my head no and bring my gaze to my hands in my lap.
He sighs. “There’s nothing you want to ask me?”
I swallow, wondering if this is a test of sorts. Of course I have questions. I just don’t know if it’s appropriate to ask them. “How—” I clear my throat. “How old are you?”
His face remains impassive. “Twenty-three.”
Seems young to be made a lord, I think.
“Anything else?”
“Where are we going?” I can’t help but look back out the window, having been confined to the same few acres of land for the last several years.
“Home. About an hour from here.”
I nod, even though I don’t even know where here is.
The road is paved but forested, huge green trees and lush vegetation as far as the eye can see.
Soft, rhythmic clicks come from the other end of the bench, which tells me Gabriel’s pulled his phone back out, and I silently wonder if this is as awkward for him as it is for me.
But he seems perfectly comfortable in his own skin, if not a little serious.
If anything, he seems disinterested, like gaining a wife is a symbol of status and nothing more, which, maybe it is.
Soon, the dull whir of the wheels on the road and my exhaustion catch up to me, and I drift off with my forehead resting against the window.
A hand squeezes my thigh. “Delilah.”
Hearing my name again jump-starts my heart, and my eyes snap open. I sit up so fast my head spins before I turn to Gabriel with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t accept my apology. “We’re home.”
I look back out the window to find a boxy, contemporary home.
It’s painted white with black trim, and the house is surrounded by a perfectly manicured lawn with beautiful flowers and small trees.
The driver opens my door for me and I step out onto the gravel driveway.
Gabriel leads me up the walkway with a hand on the small of my back.
My jaw practically hits the floor as the oversized wooden door swings open.
The interior is impeccably clean, decorated in a way that I can only describe as opulent.
“You live here?” The words slip past my lips before I slap my hand over my mouth.
He’s unamused. “We live here.”
I take off the one pair of shoes I own—though my stockings keep my bare feet covered, as always—and follow him up the grand staircase, gawking at the chandelier that hangs over the foyer and the massive, abstract paintings that seem to take up entire walls.
I nearly sigh in ecstasy as my feet step onto the plush carpet of the upper level.
The Institute doesn’t have any carpet; only hard, cold flooring throughout the entire building, and the squishy padding beneath my feet automatically makes me feel more at home.
We come to a large bedroom—a suite, I suppose—where Gabriel sits on a cushioned bench at the foot of the king-sized bed, bending over to untie his shoes. When he sits back up, he points at the attached bathroom. “You can shower in there. Don’t bother dressing afterwards.”
My heart starts racing. In all the excitement of the day, I had almost forgotten about my “wifely duties”.
I try to smile and head into the bathroom on shaky legs.
The walk-in shower is just as luxurious as the rest of the house, but I barely notice as I wash my hair and body with trembling hands.
I grab what looks to be an unused towel and dry off, combing through my tangled hair with my fingers.
I do as I was told—partly, at least—and exit the bathroom still wrapped in the towel.
Gabriel sits on the bed in nothing but his underwear. I notice he has a small, white scar on his hairless chest—a B>—and while he looks much younger this way, his nudity only serves to elevate my nerves. “Drop the towel, Delilah.”
I hesitate for the briefest of moments before obeying his command, but still cross my arms over my bare chest, unable to look him in the eyes.
“Come over here.” His voice sounds impatient.
I close the distance between us, still keeping my eyes downcast.
“Arms at your sides. Spin in a circle. Slowly.”
My cheeks flush, but I follow his directions.
He gestures toward my pubic hair. “This will have to go. You can take care of that after your fitting for your new wardrobe tomorrow.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to curb my emotions. Already, I feel as if I’ve disappointed him.
“You’re a virgin, correct?”
My head snaps up and I finally meet his gaze, slightly perturbed. “Of course I am. Sir.”
He stands, and I’m forced to step back. He looks down at me. “They taught you what to expect?”
My cheeks turn what I’m sure is the shade of a tomato. “Yes.”
“Good.” He jerks his chin. “Get on the bed.”
I do as he says, his eyes tracking me the entire time.
He pulls his boxers down to reveal himself, and I find that the diagrams Headmistress used were wildly undetailed.
He opens the drawer in the nightstand and squeezes some kind of clear liquid into his palm before sliding it over his erection.
Crawling up the bed toward me, he uses his knee to spread my legs apart.
I don’t resist.
He is neither caring nor gentle, and the pain is substantial.
My fingernails dig into my palms so hard I’m sure they’ll draw blood, until he finally stops moving and lets out what sounds like a pained groan.
When he rolls off of me and leaves the room with a half-hearted, “Goodnight, Delilah,” I curl into a ball on my side and cry, uncaring that the sheets beneath me are sticky and wet.