Page 6 of Beneath Scarred Vows

"Do you think this changes anything?"

Her words hit me like a slap as I see the flames dancing in the reflection of her eyes.

"What did you say?" I ask, needing to hear it again.

"This," she says, gesturing toward the still-burning corpse. "You think this makes you powerful? It doesn't. It just makes you predictable."

I feel my jaw clench. The muscles in my neck tighten. No one speaks to me this way. No one.

"Predictable," I repeat.

The fire crackles loudly as it consumes what's left of the man tied to the post. The screaming has stopped. All that remains are the sounds of flames eating wood and flesh.

"Yes," she says simply. "Predictable. Like every other man who thinks violence equals control."

I step closer to her, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. Or maybe it's from the fire. I can't tell anymore.

"Let me tell you something about control, wife." I say the last word like a curse. "You think you understand what's happening here. You don't."

She doesn't back away. Doesn't recoil when I tower over her.

"I understand perfectly," she says. "You wanted to show me what you're capable of. What you'll do to anyone who crosses you." Her eyes flick to the burning body. "Including me."

I look at her with a stern face. "And yet you're not afraid."

"No."

"Why not?"

She shrugs, a delicate lift of one shoulder. "You can only die once."

Something twists inside me at her words. I'm learning she's a woman who watches a man burn without blinking.

I take a step back, reassessing.

"Your uncle said you might be a little difficult," I say. "He didn't mention you were suicidal."

"I'm not suicidal," she replies. "I'm just not afraid of anything. Or of you."

I laugh. "Well, maybe you should be."

"Why?" she asks. "What more can you do to me that hasn't already been done? My family is dead. I've been traded like cattleto forge an alliance. And now I'm watching a stranger burn while wearing a wedding dress I hate."

"You think he's a stranger?" I ask, nodding toward the burning post.

"Isn't he?"

"He's someone who took part in killing your family."

There’s a pause and then she looks at me, her face showing anger with a hint of disgust. “I'm going back to the car."

What? No tears? No gratitude?

"A woman without a soul isn't much of a wife, Katerina."

She doesn't answer. She just keeps walking.

But I notice it. Her posture is different. She's stiffer. Her shoulders more square. More rigid.