Page 49

Veronica

“I ’ll be going back to Russia tomorrow.”

Veronica doesn’t flinch, and no movement from her body indicates that she heard or cares about the information the man sitting beside her just shared.

Her head rests on the window, empty eyes staring into nothing as the news of Ian Petrakis’s passing replays like a video on a loop in her head.

It has been nearly 72 hours, yet the buzz surrounding his death has refused to fade—unlike Jack Griffin’s, which though still under a futile investigation, barely made an impact. The media and law enforcement have latched onto the case, but every headline only deepens the frustration. It’s as if they are chasing a ghost.

How can a killer walk into a man’s house—walk, because with all they gathered, there was no sign of breaking in—stab, dismember him, claw out his heart, and set him on fire, and yet, no evidence has been found?

The killer was so professional he wiped his traces clean.

This issue made her begin to think about Marlene Mendes a lot. For some sick, twisted reason, it feels like she is starting to miss her, and she wonders why because her absence has been made obvious by the lack of new, fresh scars.

She knows if Marlene was around, she would have cracked this case already. She is a smart woman, always thinking ten steps ahead. If not for the treachery going on in her unit, she was supposed to have received multiple promotions by now. But because she is the ex-wife of a serial killer, the team doesn’t think she deserves more than she has been offered. This is another reason why her hatred for Veronica is justified. Her father killed people, but Marlene is left to suffer for it.

But if she were here, she would have cracked the case by now. The process would have driven her mad. She would have drowned herself in alcohol, thrown tantrums, and needed a punching bag—her. But she would have unraveled the truth and exposed the monster sitting beside her. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be suffocating under this guilt, a relentless parasite gnawing at her soul, a cancer metastasizing in her chest.

“Did you catch what I said?” His gruff voice racks her back into the black SUV gliding down the familiar road that leads to her house. It has been another seven hours of school. But she would be lying if she remembered anything she was taught today. How can she concentrate when the news of Ian’s murder is what everyone seems to be talking about? And because she was once the man’s supposed girlfriend, she ended up as the main target of questions and fake sympathy.

“You are coming with me,” he says with a tone of finality. As if she is just supposed to nod her head to this like a subservient little dog. As if she is a child that has no right to an opinion.

“I can’t.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Too drained and emotionally wrecked to shape the words into the fury clawing at her from the inside.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says, his eyes fixed on his iPad, his tone infuriatingly calm.

Her fingers curl on her lap. “So what, is this an order?” She raises a brow, something maddening stirring in her gut as she glares at his though perfectly structured side profile.

“It’s not a request.” He still doesn’t spare her a glance. “We live at dawn.”

“No.” She shakes her head, defiance crackling through her like a live wire. “No, seriously, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to put me on a leash and drag me around like some pet then expect me to obey.”

He finally lifts his gaze. “You are not on a leash.” A pause. Then with a quiet, lethal certainty, “You’re mine. Which means you belong wherever I am.”

Veronica lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yours?” Her voice rises, drenched in venom. She has had enough.

“You know you are literally so fucking delusional, right? Like what makes you think that just because you fuck me, you own me? Do you think that’s how relationship fucking works?” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I am not yours. Not your girlfriend. And God forbid, not your wife. So no, I’ll not be following you to some strange country because you’ve decided to play commander, Mr. Soldier.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. Something dark flickers in his gaze, brief but lethal, before he inhales sharply and shifts his attention to the soldier behind the wheel.

“Turn the car around.” The word slices through the air like a blade.

“What?” The questions spill from her lips, raw and breathless.

“To St. Michael’s Basilica,” he says, and though she can already spot the roof of her house a couple of blocks away, the tire screeches as the driver makes a bold U-turn until the car is skidding down the road again.

St. Michael’s Basilica is a Catholic church.

Veronica can’t seem to wrap her head around what is going on. This is some sort of nightmare, a joke gone too far.

She glances at Kael, but he has never been a man full of humor.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demands.

“You said you’ll not come with me because you are not my wife,” he says. “Well, I’m about to change that.”

A sound akin to a mournful groan echoes as the large oak door to St. Michael’s Basilica splits open, and a sudden wave of nausea hits Veronica, sweat pickling under the curve of her collar, a few pebbling on her forehead.

Until they arrived here, and even when he made a stop at an expensive store to purchase their wedding rings, nothing felt real. But staring at the serene vastness of the church, the strong aroma of lit incense hitting her, reality comes like a raging storm, threatening to sweep her off her feet.

She lingers on the threshold, her feet too heavy to take the next step because the next step signifies acceptance, and acceptance means her life and freedom are all over.

“We don’t have all day.” His voice is gruff and unkind as they reach her ears, his cold fingers curling around her wrist, pulling her though gently, inside the church.

As his grip on her hand tightens, so does her chest as the sordid reality cloying around her suffocates, she fears she might pass out and die before she even makes it to the altar.

Scanning the room, all she sees is the centuries-old brick walls, and the flickering candlelight, their glow dull and saddening.

Her gaze travels to the altar ahead and when her eyes fall on the priest, nothing about his somber stillness, tired grey eyes eases her misery. Of course, he wouldn’t care. He is just a messenger of God, nothing but a passive instrument of the covenant and faith.

Shifting her gaze from the priest, she looks around in search of anyone, anything to save her from this. But there is nothing. The crucifix looming over her suddenly seems to be mocking her.

You would think coming to a church is a pathway to redemption, happiness, and freedom, but here she is, in a place she has been taught to seek salvation, about to be shackled down in a sham of matrimony to a man who definitely isn’t the son of God.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice barely audible enough for her to hear. “D-don’t do this.”

They are just a few steps away from the altar. But the weight of what is about to unfold settles on her legs like a chain pulling her back, and each step grows heavier and heavier.

“Kael, please.” She forcefully halts, and when he gently turns his head enough for her to catch a fraction of his face, she shakes her head.

His hand on her wrists suddenly drops, and she quickly retracts it to her side, her body trembling. He turns fully, his hands falling inside his pockets.

“Fine,” he says, his voice commanding and dark. “Go.”

Her heart almost soars, and a cry of victory sits at the forefront of her chest. But before she can manufacture a reaction worthy of this, she hears multiple sounds of footsteps from behind, an indication that more audience has walked in.

Slowly, she glances behind her. And the scene causes a shattering of glass around her. Her lips tremble, eyes burning before a tear escapes, the warm liquid trailing down her cheeks.

“S-Shiro,” she stutters as a soldier walks in, gun pressed to her best friend’s temple. And the fear and terror reflecting in his innocent eyes breaks her.

“W-what are you doing?” She turns to him. “What’s going on?”

“If you step out of this room, you’ll never see even my shadow again,” he says. “But of course, that’ll be at the cost of his life.”

“What?” Her voice trembles, horror leaping into her eyes.

“So, what’s it gonna be?” He takes a step closer to her, his fingers grabbing her trembling chin. “This marriage that you detest so much, or the life of your best friend?”

He got her. He got her so good. He has won. He didn’t even have to try too hard. They played a game and he won with a large margin.

Is there even time to bargain or think? Will she be so cruel as to weigh her freedom with Shiro’s life?

When he stretches his hand in front of her to take, bile rises from the pit of her stomach. She clutches tightly onto a fistful of her plaid skirt as if that can harness some magical wind to whisk her away from here.

She wipes the tears on her cheek with the back of her palm before placing the hand on his.

At the altar, before the priest where they stand facing each other, she can feel his gaze on her, not a single word uttered, but his dark eyes speak of vindictive and wicked things, the cruel and irredeemable things he will do if she dares to change her mind.

The priest is saying something, but most of his words are a blur, each sentence being drowned out by the roaring of her rapidly racing thoughts.

“Do you, Veronica Beaumont, take this man, Kael Volkov, as your lawfully wedded husband?”

And there it is, the big question, the moment of truth throwing daggers at her heart. As the question hangs in the air, awaiting her answers, she feels her throat tightening as if an invisible noose has been wrapped around her neck, dragging her across a field of thorns.

The brick walls of the church begin to close in, the pressing in her chest weighing a ton. When her lips finally part, silence stretches for a moment, a second, a minute. The word that sits on her tongue is No . But as her gaze flickers to him, and the darkness in his eyes twinkles, she glances to her left, and the gun is still very pressed to her best friend’s head.

“Yes.” Three letters become the heaviest word she has ever spoken in her life as tears roll down her cheeks. “Yes, I do.” It tastes like ashes and her throat feels like sandpaper.

The priest’s voice drones off as her world shatters in front of her. And in that cruel unfold of reality, all she feels is the weight of the cold ring that he slips into her finger, the metal biting into her skin like a shackle.

Her eyes momentarily snap shut, more tears trailing a cold path down her cheeks. In the darkness of her despair, she finally comes to terms with the fact that she has given herself away, not to a prince charming that she has dreamt of for years, not for the hope that paused the habit of slitting her wrists, not for love, but for the cruelest of bargains.

The priest declares them as man and wife, placing his hand on their heads and blessing their sacred union.

But this union is not sacred at all.

It is not a vow either.

It is defeat.

It is a surrender to darkness.