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I don’t wantto do this.

I don’t want to do this.

I really,reallydon’t want to do this…

But it’s happening.

The last few days have been a blur. I’m still staying at my father’s house—the back of my skull pulses in a headache whenever I think I’ll be passed off, given away, and living with myhusbandafter the wedding—but whether he has his regrets or he’s waiting for a temper tantrum, he’s kept his distance. I think the man has left his study maybe five times total in the last fourteen days, and one of them was to ride in the limo with me to St. Catherine’s so he couldliterallygive me away.

I tried to tell him about my meeting with Desmond, but his last sneers—the reminder that I lost any credibility I had when I was seventeen—has me staying quiet. Instead, I piled on the makeup, hiding the red mark on my pale skin until it had faded.Luckily, the marks of his fingers on my wrist didn’t bruise. No one knows that he attacked me, and I’m going to keep it that way.

He thinks I’ll go meekly. I don’t want to do this, but I will, and I already have a plan in mind.

I’m an Offering. Even though Jack Collins revoked that title a decade ago, he obviously gave it back if I’m going through with this today. As an Offering, I have protections that other women in the Order don’t.

Simply put, if he lays his hands on me again once we’re married, I can petition the King for an end to our marriage. And since we don’t do divorce, there’s only one way to save an Offering from an abuser who hurts his wife instead of taking care of her: excommunication from the order.

All it will take is Desmond hitting me one more time, leaving a visible mark, and he’ll be dead. I’ll be free.

Does that mean there aren’t abusers in the Order? Of course not. Many of the men just know how to hit without leaving proof. Others keep their abuse emotional or financial rather than physical. And then there are the women who tolerate it because they don’t want to be the reason their husbands die.

I won’t let my Dad be excommunicated or executed. But Desmond?

I’ll turn on him with a smile.

Thinking of my short marriage is the only reason I can find to smile at all today.

I’m wearing a six thousand-dollar wedding dress, all lace and ruffles and hand-sewn beading, but it feels like a prison-orange jumpsuit. Desmond is standing in front of the altar, unable to hide his smirk that I just walked down the aisle to him. Father Francis is prepared to start the ceremony as the echoes of the final chords to the wedding march die out.

This is it. It’s happening. I’m about to get married to Desmond St. James?—

—or am I?

Out of the corner of my eye, the doors at the back of the church push open. A man in a suit stalks in, a last-minute guest I’m assuming, but instead of grabbing a seat in one of the last pews, he starts down the same path I took with Dad mere moments ago.

He clears his throat, wordlessly calling for attention.

I swivel my head, looking at him, and nearly faint on the spot.

It’s him.

It’s Adrian.

And he’s holding a gun.

THREE

RIGHT ON TIME

ADRIAN

He doesn’t know it yet, but Desmond St. James is going to die.

Not right away. That would be sloppy. And I pride myself on not being sloppy.

Besides, I have every right to take matters into my own hands, and I plan on it. For the Order’s sake, though, I figured I ought to be discreet. Isn’t that what’s expected of the Owed? Hide in the shadows, play puppet master, watch the rest of Harmony Heights dance when we pull their strings.

So I hired an assassin. The Hummingbird came highly recommended, and I reached out to her almost immediately after Dallas let me know that Desmond decided after all this time that he would Claim Loni.