Page 39 of Wild Reverence

“I presume Grimald himself never once attempted to swim against the current in the middle of the river with a rope tied about him?”

“No.”

A cruel man, I thought, shuddering when I recalled how his hands had felt on me, how rough and desperate they had been in Vincent’s nightmare, as if I were a prize to use and keep in a cage.

We continued onward in silence through the sentry’s corridor, passing more windows and archers and cold shadows until we arrived at Fury Tower.

A knight dressed in chainmail and armor greeted us.

A long sword was sheathed at her side, its scabbard etched with silver vines.

Her brown skin shone with mist from the rain, her black hair was captured in one thick braid, and her face was solemn, her ink-dark eyes inquisitive as she met my gaze.

The news of Vincent taking a bride had traveled across the bridge like wildfire, then.

“Lord, lady,” she greeted us in a rich voice. “Felicitations for your union. We are surprised by the news but delighted. The parley is also ready for you. If you’ll follow me.”

“Thank you, Lady Hyacinthe,” said Vincent, but he released my hand, motioning for me to follow the knight up the curling stairs.

I did, my palm damp as I followed Hyacinthe up the stairwell and through a doorway that spilled us out into the open air of Maiden Bridge.

The rain was still falling; the clouds remained swollen and dark above us.

I did not know if I should be relieved or not—when would the clouds break?—and I startled when I felt Vincent’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the covered portion of Fury Tower. He must have felt me jump; his palm immediately fell away, as if I had burned him.

I sighed. We did need to practice. The truth was…

I was not accustomed to this: allowing someone to touch me with such ease.

Accepting it, as natural as breathing. Trusting another hand.

It was not because I did not crave touch, for I did.

A desire I rarely voiced for fear of how it might swell.

The avoidance was for my own survival, an effort to protect my fault line.

Hyacinthe led us to the arch of Fury Gate, where a small group of knights stood in wait for us. The portcullis they guarded was raised just high enough for Vincent and me to duck beneath again, but I soon noticed that there was another gate. One made of solid wood and fortified with latticed iron.

“Your uncle waits just beyond the outer gate, lord. He brought two men with him—an advisor and his squire—and all of them have arrived unarmed, as promised,” said one of the knights—a middle-aged man with graying hair and a gnarled scar on his cheek.

He cast a dubious glance my way, his distrust as tangible as the rain. “And the goddess…?”

“This is my wife, Matilda. She is accompanying me,” Vincent said, a warning in his tone, as if he knew some of his knights would be suspicious of my presence.

“As we discussed this morning… my orders are that you do not engage in any conflict. Not even if he strikes at me. And under no circumstance will you raise that gate unless I command it.”

The knights were silent, but a few pursed their mouths and shifted their weight from foot to foot.

They did not like Vincent’s order, and I could understand why.

I imagined the baron might wound Vincent to force the knights to raise Fury Gate.

And if the wooden gate and portcullis were lifted, then the baron could take control of a portion of the bridge.

“Are you ready, Matilda?” Vincent asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

We ducked beneath the portcullis, stood in the shadows between gates. As the portcullis began to lower behind us, I felt Vincent’s gaze trace my profile through the veil.

“I have a request,” I said.

“And what is that?”

I glanced at him. “We should keep my identity concealed. At least, in the beginning. Let Grimald believe I am a mortal woman.”

“Impossible. Your beauty is too telling,” Vincent said. “Edric might have overlooked your divinity earlier in my bedroom, but my uncle will not.”

“This veil will dim my power.”

“Then you will need to remove your belt. Even if Grimald does not recognize it from that day we met on the moors, it will draw his eyes, his curiosity.”

I did not want to surrender my belt, but he was right. If I wanted to pass as a mortal woman, I had to remove it, and so I did, setting it on the ground behind me.

“All right,” Vincent said after a long beat. “We will pass you off as mortal. But if I may also make a request of you?”

I arched my brows, surprised. “Speak it.”

“If my uncle kills me here on the bridge… you will return to Nathaniel. Help my brother defend this place and keep him alive.”

“You will not die tonight. Not with me beside you.”

“ Please, Matilda.”

It was here that I learned his deepest fear; I felt it pulse through him like the throb of a fresh-cut wound.

His father was dead; his mother had abandoned them.

He had lost two brothers. He could not bear to lose another, to be left alone in the world, the last of his name. The last son of Beckett.

“I will do it,” I said, ignoring the twinge of resistance that came with this promise.

The portcullis had fully lowered and locked, sending a shudder through the floor. Now the wooden gate before us began to rise at a laborious rate, exposing a rain-slick Fury Bridge.

When Vincent held out his hand, mine moved to take it. This time it was a smooth meeting, as if I had touched him a hundred times. As if I could have found him in the dark.

Together, we stepped out onto Fury Bridge as bride and groom.