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Not a question. Not a request. A command from my husband.

I blink up at him. “Here?”

His mask tips downward, and the corner of his mouth moves, just enough to let me see the edge of a smirk. “You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”

I nod, but I haven’t danced for anyone since I left the Manor. Since they found me by the river and I came back from the dark place with bruises on my thighs and scars on my wrists.

Still, I step onto the stone.

The satin of the gown clings to my legs. I lift the damp hem, knotting it at my hip. He watches from the edge of the torchlight, silent, hooded, shadowed. I can feel his gaze like teeth on my skin.

I close my eyes and count.

One, two, three, four…

It starts slow. A lift of the arms, a turn of the head. I rise onto the balls of my feet, arching my spine. My hands paint lines in the air as I twist, a slowpas de chatthat melts into a broken arabesque. My hair spills down my back as I pivot again, this time with more violence.

The steps get faster, sharper. Not ballet anymore–something rawer, more feral. Like I’m becoming part of this night, twirling in the veil itself. Neither here nor there for once in my life, but everywhere. I want him to see this side of me, the one where I’m confident in my arms and legs. Where I’mstable.

Breathing quickly, I leap and land in a crouch, then look up at him through my lashes. Baring my teeth, I let out a final hiss. I understand innately that this is the moment. The place before and after, more than the wedding itself or all the rites and rituals that led up to it.

He’s still watching, his gloved fingers curled around the armrest of the couch.

He knows it too.

I stand slowly, one leg stretched behind me, arms open like an offering.

A long beat stretches between us. I could keep going, or…

“Is this what you wanted?” I whisper. The real question buried underneath:Am I?

His voice answers, low and hungry, a tone I haven’t heard from him before: “Almost.”

36

Timothy

The cabin doorclicks behind us.

The day has been a blessing and a curse. Ceremonies like the Black Wedding bind more than man to wife. They bind the Barons, new and old, back to our ancestors. To our creators.

To death.

It's a reminder about sacrifice, about arrangements for the betterment of our organization. It’s about obligation.

An obligation that now stands uncertain in the center of the small room. Exquisite in that shimmery black dress–a vision any man should want. I’m not any man, which is why I gave her the drug at the reception. I can almost see it pulsing through her bloodstream, doing its job to loosen her up, to shake away the tedious procedures of the last few days. But as we stand in this confined space, away from the party and her protective Barons, it isn’t enough to take away her nerves.

Good.

She should be nervous.

She gave herself to me at the altar, and the sooner she accepts what that means, the better.

I strip off my gloves as I approach, dropping them to the table by the door. Then my mask–the outer one–not the soft felt one underneath. This one covers my eyes and nose, leaving my mouth free. It’s a relief to get it off and I fantasize about removing it entirely.

Not tonight.

A fire burns in the stone fireplace and candles flicker on the mantle. A small suitcase sits against the wall. I assume it’s filled with lace and silk, sexy little things packed to thrill a new husband. It’s been years since I’ve been with a woman outside ceremonial duties, including my wife. The idea of this fresh little thing should have me begging.