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I almost recoil at “honor and obey.” And there is an unconscious collective gasp from our audience at these words.
The one thing nobody consulted me on, the one thing that I was shoving all the way back to a dark hole in my mind was the vows. I didn’t know these would be the old-fashioned vows that nobody says anymore. How could I?
Aidan squeezes my hand—a warning—and I can’t look away from his demanding gaze.
I repeat the words, and I feel his body relax. I’m numb as a ring slides onto my finger. I can’t even look down at it. I’m just trying to get through this.
The priest asks if there are any objections. No one saves me. This is really happening.
He pronounces us married and tells Aidan he may kiss the bride. Then that same hand that stroked the side of my throat and ran through my hair the night he drove me home, that warm hand I’ve had dreams about for months, once again, moves through my hair, stroking the back of my neck, pulling me close.
And then his lips are on mine. I gasp as his tongue invades my mouth for the first time. This is not a sweet polite public kiss. It’s a claiming. It’s the kind of kiss that should only happen behind closed doors. He’s devouring me, giving me a preview of what’s coming very soon, and god help me, but a part of me wants to fall into it. A part of my body that has been denied so long wants this man to touch me, while the sane part of me screams from behind locked sound-proofed glass. No, no, no! No!
But it’s done. It’s too late.
“I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Stryker.”
Ten
Aidan
I feel her fragile hand gripped in mine, like a bird’s wing, as we exit down the aisle. She doesn’t look at me, and right now she has plenty of distractions to avoid it. We greet guests, accepting their well wishes as they file out of the church and on to the reception venue.
Mina gives me a warning look as she and Brian move through the line. As though that’s necessary. What does she think I’m planning to do to Maddie? Or does she suspect my darkness doesn’t live on any kind of leash?
Brian is inscrutable as always. I know there are far more thoughts in his head than he will ever speak aloud. He congratulates us and tells Maddie it was nice to meet her earlier, confirming for me my suspicion that she would make one final attempt to flee. I’m pretty sure it happened after she texted me.
Father Rossi gives me a similar look to Mina’s. He knows everything. I think back to last night’s final confession before the wedding. Technically a couple is supposed to receive counseling before the marriage. And confession is highly recommended—especially for mortal sins, which I engage in quite regularly. Strictly speaking, we don’t believe in divorce ever at all—not that I would ever give Maddie that option anyway.
Our Lady of Hope doesn’t like to marry a couple if both parties aren’t Catholic, but I obtained a dispensation from the local bishop. Maddie can’t even take the Eucharist if she’s not Catholic. And she isn’t. At least not yet. I’m not sure how she’s going to react to my demand that she convert. It’s not a simple matter of, “Hey, I’m a Catholic now.” There are catechism classes and confirmation. It’s a whole ordeal. Maddie isn’t even religious.
Confession before getting married, especially if one has mortal sins on their soul, is standard, so last night I was once again confessing. Masturbation. Pornography—I’m pretty sure watching Maddie on a screen counts. And I have watched that video many times between that night and today.
I confessed to some murders, of course. Though I try to phrase it tactfully. Father Rossi isn’t surprised by anything from me anymore. Though I think he was surprised when I confessed that Maddie is not here by her own choice, that she was forced into this marriage due to her father’s debt to me.
I’ve killed so many people, and yet the thing the priest takes an issue with is Madison being forced into this marriage because it somehow involves him in a sin against the Church. But in the end, he relented and gave me my absolution. Because at the end of the day, the truth is he’s more afraid of the Stryker family than he is of God. God, after all, requires faith, and I am a known fact.
I haven’t been in power in my organization for long, but I am a tornado, and those don’t take long to assert their powers of destruction, either.
Father Rossi looks between me and Maddie and then back at me rather pointedly. I have no idea what secret coded message he’s trying to convey. Is he warning me not to hurt her? As though he could ever enforce that. Would he go to the authorities with my long list of crimes if I made him regret participating in this? If I hurt her? Would he break his oaths both to the church and to the families he’s connected to?
Maybe Brian was right. Or maybe I just shouldn’t have brought Maddie into my confession at all. I don’t feel guilty for taking what’s mine. I also don’t feel guilty for killing. Confession is part of the ritual. It restores order in my mind. It has nothing to do with heaven or hell. As though any competent God would ever be dumb enough to let me into an afterlife paradise no matter what pretty words I said to a priest or acts of contrition I performed.
God knows I’m not sorry, and fuck him for taking my mother from me. He thinks I worry about him forgiving me? He needs to be more worried about me not forgiving him. It was an unforgivable sin to take her from me, and I will hold that grudge until the day I die. If he’s so all powerful, why did he let them kill her? Why didn’t he turn the bullets into blanks with his red sea parting magic? Why was her life not worth more?
The line of guests has finally cleared out. We take what feels like a thousand photos. Maddie is stiff in my arms, suddenly now so much more self-conscious and resistant then she was when we were standing in front of hundreds of people actually getting married.
Finally, two hours after the wedding, we’re sitting in the back of the limousine on the way to the reception. I feel her pull away from me. She gave herself over for just a moment with that kiss, but now she’s obviously had time to think about it, and whatever fleeting momentary surrender she felt is very far away from this moment.
She’s crying. Fucking crying right now.
I clench and unclench my hands trying to dissipate the feeling of tension. We’re too close together in this car. Her scent of strawberries, roses, and citrus is driving me insane. I just want to throw her down on this seat and take her, make her forget whatever bullshit doubts are in her head and force her back into the moment of that kiss—or even the moment where I touched her in the car that night and she didn’t pull away. Even that moment was closer to what I want than this one.
But I know she was attracted. She’d rather be with some alley crawling punk than me, knowing who I am? Because one look at me would have told anyone I wasn’t a random schoolboy savior looking to rescue fair maidens that night.
And now we have this stupid party to go to. I won’t have a real chance to talk to her in any meaningful way until that’s done.
“Tears won’t work on me. You’d better get yourself together before we get to the reception. I’m not going to have people thinking I’m beating you. You can cry all you want after we get home.”