Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Give me the pills,” I tell her.
“Fine.” She opens her clutch and pulls out three packets. Three months’ worth.
I take them, shove them into my breast pocket, and look up to watch Odin approach our table. He’s not smiling. I wouldn’t be either if I were him.
“Where is my sister?” he asks without preamble.
Caius leans back in his seat and wipes his mouth. My mother watches Odin with disdain.
“I thought you’d be coming to offer your congratulations. To present a gift, perhaps,” Mom says.
He doesn’t bother with her, and I find I respect that. “Where is she? She was upset earlier. Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s fine. Just tired. You can see her in the morning.”
“I want to see her now.”
I pick up my knife and fork and slice off a piece of meat. I wonder if she’s eating hers now. I place it into my mouth, seeing Marnix De Léon just beyond Odin’s shoulder with this stupid gloved hand limp on the table as I address his son.
“You’ll see her tomorrow or not at all. Take your seat, Odin. Unless you’d like to give a speech letting us all know how happy you are that our families have finally joined.”
He grits his teeth. “If you hurt her—”
“I have no reason to hurt my own wife.”
His eyes narrow. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
Grinning, I push my chair back and get to my feet. I wipe my mouth before tossing my napkin onto my plate. “I’ve now heard that threat from two members of the De Léon family. I’m trembling.” I signal to the orchestra to begin playing, then walk around the table to face Odin. I get just a little more in his space than I need to. “De Léons no longer give the orders. You take them. Now go sit like a good dog before I have to make you.”
His hands fist at his sides, and his eyes narrow to slits.
“Go on,” I tell him.
Caius gives a little bark from the table.
Odin ignores him. He draws a deep breath in, but he’s not stupid. He exhales, then backs away a step. I nod, not bothering to wait for him to do as he’s told. Instead, I walk out of the banquet hall and through the front room of the mansion, which resembles the lobby of a boutique hotel. I walk out the front doors of the building and around the cleared path toward the cliffs.
16
Madelena
I hear the click of the lock turn, something that has become a common occurrence in my life over the last few years since Santos Augustine entered it.
A warm mixture of blood and come slides out of me when I sit up and push the blanket away. He cleaned me as best as he could, but even though the washcloth was soothing when he’d pressed it to me, I’m no less sore for it.
I force myself to move. I go into the bathroom and lock that door, although I don’t think he’s coming back. Not just yet. He’ll go to the reception. One of us has to. It’s humiliating that they’ll all know what happened here. I can just hear the gossip, how I’m too weak to even carry on and get to my own wedding reception after being fucked by my husband. He’ll probably get several pats on the back knowing the men of Avarice.
Ana will be at the reception. Does she still keep in touch with all her friends from high school who lived to make my life hell? Will she report back my latest humiliation? I’m glad to say that I don’t care much about that. She can’t hurt me anymore. The worst she could have done is done.
I switch on the shower, turn it to the hottest possible temperature, and step under the flow. I close my eyes and just stand there, letting the night’s events circle my mind. The photograph. My uncle’s death. Those scars on Santos’s body. The carved lines. The fact that he knew about my cuts. He’d seen them that night two years ago, but maybe he hadn’t understood or maybe he’d just needed time to process that someone would do that to themselves.
Truth is, though, I haven’t cut in a while. I used to. I’d started when I was thirteen. I can’t remember the specifics of the event that triggered it, although it had to do with my father and my mother—the fact that I was alive and she was not. I hadn’t realized it was a thing when I started. It was almost accidental. But in a moment of pain and rejection—why I kept thinking I could do something that would make my father hate me less was beyond me—I’d gone into my bathroom, where I’d seen the razor lying on the edge of the sink, and I’d carelessly cut my wrist.