Page 6 of Bloody Wedding (The Order of the Owed #1)

“Supposed to? Who gives a fuck about ‘supposed to’?” He scoffs, fisting his hand angrily. “You’d let Heller fuck you, but not me? Is that it?”

Heller .

The derisive way he spits out Adrian’s surname has me jumping up, stepping away, eager to escape the same old accusations.

“Desmond, I?—”

“He might’ve had everyone else fooled. You, too. But maybe that’s just how you get your kicks. You need a man to treat you like shit to get you ready? Fine with me, Loni. Trust me. When your future bride is a worthless slut, it’s easy to put her in her place.”

You’ll never be worthy of being my Offering …

I gasp. I can’t help it.

And then I lie.

“There was never anything between Adrian and me?—”

I don’t even get to finish my denial. Not really. I’m just beginning my thought when fury flashes across his features and Desmond is lunging up from the couch, hand snatching my wrist so that he can shake my whole damn body.

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” he sneers, my brain rattling around inside of my skull.

“I’m not stupid. I won. You get that, you dumb bitch?

I got the King to let me have you. And after we get married on Tuesday, I’ll make sure to rub it in Heller’s face every fucking chance I get.

And you… I’ll be fucking you until you forget you ever let some other guy have that pussy before I did. ”

He wrenches my arm again, shoving me away this time. I know that’s exactly what he planned on doing in my bedroom if I’d gone along with his commands, but hearing him promise to fuck me… knowing that, as his wife, I’ll eventually have to…

“Don’t touch me,” I gasp, rubbing my wrist. “You stay away from me.”

I just wanted the few feet between us to stay there. I should’ve known better, because he stalks toward me.

“Do you know how lucky you are that I’m willing to marry you? You should be one of the Used, but I’m letting you be my wife. You should be grateful.”

Grateful? Grateful ?

I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, and no matter what choice I make, it seems like the wrong one. And now this pompous dickhead thinks I should let him fuck me because he’s forcing me to marry him?

Hell, no.

Going up on my tiptoes, nose to nose with Desmond, I snap, “If I had any choice in this, asshole, you wouldn’t even be the last one!”

Screaming at him felt pretty good. For a couple of seconds, I’m glad that I shot back, but my satisfaction disappears the instant he rears his hand and swings, slapping me full-strength across the face.

The force of his hit has me landing on the floor of the living room in a crumpled heap. My cheek screams in agony, but I clamp my teeth together, holding back the scream from my throat.

His expensive shoes land inches away from the hand I use to pull myself into a seated position.

Desmond crouches down so that we’re on the same level. “Remember that, Loni. You don’t have a choice. You will marry me on Tuesday. Unless you want the King to get involved.”

If I never see Jack Collins again, that would be too soon.

I shake my head, my other hand clapped to my cheek, trying desperately to quell the throbbing. My ear is ringing. My heart pounding.

And yet, when I meet the certainty in his stare, I refuse to give him what he wants. I refuse to fight back again.

Instead, I nod. “And you’ll see me in that damn dress then. Not a minute sooner.”

It’s not a victory. Lying on the floor, praying my Dad doesn’t walk in on Desmond hovering over me… when he nods, letting the matter of seeing the wedding dress drop, it’s not a victory.

But I take it as one anyway.

Something tells me that, as his wife, there will be plenty of battles to fight and (hopefully) win.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want to do this.

I really, really don’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 my husband after 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 could literally give 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.