Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Once the women are gone, I get my makeup bag out of my duffel and go into the bathroom, where I rifle through it and find my worn-down eyeliner. I look at my reflection, remembering what the one said about Santos requesting minimal makeup. He did say he liked me better without it so he could see my face.
So, I enhance the line of my eyes with a more dramatic look than he’ll appreciate, then wipe away the pink gloss and smear on my usual deep red. Satisfied, I return to the bedroom to watch the sky darken. Days are short this time of year, but I should have an hour before the wedding ceremony.
Back in the bedroom, I tuck the makeup bag into the bag I made sure to bring with me. This one has the things I can’t live without. My notebooks, pencils, my photo of mom and Odin, and the one of us with Uncle Jax. Birth control pills—three months’ worth, just in case.
And, tucked inside a pocket of the tote, is the ruined handkerchief from the night I first met Santos Augustine. It’s darker now, the blood, as it’s five years old. I still don’t know why I took it out of the trash after Odin threw it away.
I slip it out of its pocket and feel the hardened silk between my fingers. I bring it to my nose, but the smell has long since faded. This is what I think about, what takes me back to the science lab at school the night of Junior Prom. When Santos Augustine had leaned close and inhaled my scent. His scent. It’s unique. Custom made. I used the handkerchief to have it made for myself after much research. I wasn’t sure if he’d noticed it back then, but a year ago, when he smelled it on me again, I knew he had known all along. He just hadn’t said anything.
I tuck the handkerchief back in its place. Why haven’t I thrown it away? Why had I had the scent made for myself? I’d even told the woman at the specialty shop that it was a gift for my boyfriend. My boyfriend. I cringe at how that sounds.
The first words he ever spoke to me replay in my mind. Without them, would there be anything between us apart from hate and obligation?
Forgive me.
Ever since he said them—before slicing my palm open—he’s been like fucking Batman. It’s like any time some shit is about to happen to me, a Bat-signal goes out, and there he is. Magically present, and ready to punish anyone who touches what is his.
My mind wanders to other things, more embarrassing things. He held himself back from touching me until I was eighteen. He has always been careful with me. Maybe it’s just that no one apart from Odin or my Uncle Jax has ever been careful, has ever cared, that it gets to me. It does something to me.
Not that he cares, I remind myself. It’s just that he’s careful. There is a difference.
I can’t fool myself. It’s not me he wants. I’m not valuable. Not to him, nor to my own father. Hell, how valuable do I think I was to my mother if she could plan what she’d planned? Even if, in the end, she didn’t go through with it?
The thought hurts, but I need it like I need the cuts sometimes. Pain helps. It keeps things manageable. Santos doesn’t care about me. He cares that no one touches what is his. I am his, and I’m also a means to an end: a marriage to legitimize a criminal family once shunned by the elite of Avarice. That’s all. I don’t need to be an idiot about it. I don’t need to have any feelings about it at all.
Besides, given the way we parted ways last year… Well, I’m not even sure where I stand now given that debacle.
I know when he’d come to the school, it hadn’t been to give me that ring. That was an excuse. He’d been seeking comfort after his father’s death. He’d been seeking it from me. I shake my head to clear that particular thought. Guilt nags at me about how I treated him that night, but I hadn’t known.
My mind wanders to our kiss.
I’ve replayed it a million times, the feeling of his hands on my skin, and his fingers sliding into my panties. I still remember his words, too. That I be ready for him because tonight I will sleep in his bed.
I flush red. I’m so grateful I’ll have the veil covering my face for the ceremony because I don’t trust myself not to think about exactly this the instant I see him. As much as I hate the fact that I’m attracted to him, that I’m turned on by him, it’s the truth. There is something that draws me to Santos Augustine. He may be a monster, but he makes my insides turn to fucking jelly and makes me want things I shouldn’t want.