Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
He puts shades on as he prepares to leave the house. They cover his eyes with a dark barrier that must block out the light that would otherwise hurt or harm. It is a pity, because I can no longer read his expression quite as well.
“I like that I am traveling with you,” I tell him as we get into a vehicle. Sleek, low-slung, with just two seats. There’s no room for a third-wheeling bodyguard with a fixation on my husband and an obvious dislike for me. I like that.
“That’s very sweet,” he says, smiling.
“I wish I could always travel with you, not Lydia. She’s rude to me.”
He glances over at me. “She will keep you safe,” he says. “Attitude aside, there are few I trust as much as her.”
Those words spark jealousy deep inside me. I don’t like the idea that he thinks highly of anybody else, especially Lydia, who is a woman. She might not be his mate, but she is obviously part of his life.
“You can wipe that sour look off your pretty face,” he says dryly. “She is not a threat to you in any way. She is not interested in men, least of all me.”
“Everybody is interested in you,” I say, entirely missing his meaning.
He chuckles. “That’s adorable. You’re already jealous.”
“Would you not be jealous if I were surrounded by men who all thought I was the most amazing creature on the planet?” I ask the question, and then immediately regret it. He probably would not care. He only met me yesterday, and he has to tolerate me, because the Artifice said so. Men aren’t jealous of women they have been compelled to take into their bed.
“I would kill any man who looked at you inappropriately,” he says smoothly.
That makes me laugh. “Well, there was a man who both looked and spoke to me inappropriately today…”
“Was, being the operative word,” Arthur replies, sending the vehicle smoothly sliding along the streets.
I stare at him, wishing more than ever that I could see his eyes right now. Is he joking? Is he speaking metaphorically?
“What happened to him?”
“He was retired from existence two minutes after you left his store.”
A cold chill runs through me. “You had him killed?”
Arthur glances over at me again, the dark band of reflective glasses giving nothing away. “The penalty for interfering with my bride is death,” he says. “The city will not miss him.”
I feel rather guilty. The man was rude and callous to me, but I don’t think he deserved to be executed for it without so much as a trial. My husband is apparently able to have anybody killed. That’s a power one should not wield lightly.
“Do not be afraid of me, Mila,” he says. “People already know who you are. Keeping you safe means removing those who treat you with even the slightest disrespect.”
“Except Lydia,” I mutter under my breath.
He chuckles. “Do you want me to kill Lydia as an act of devotion to you, my bride?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Careful what you ask for,” he says. “And even more careful how you interact with the world.”
He’s suggesting that the man would still be alive if I had not gone into his store. But I did not know what the consequences of that action would be. I feel ever so guilty now.
We arrive at our destination, a beautiful building not far from our own home. This one has a delicacy and femininity about it. There are even representations of flowers in cut, angular glass surrounding the main door. It is the first indication I have seen that anybody in this city understands that nature exists.
Arthur parks the car and helps me out of it. I wonder if I will ever look at him the same way, now that I know what he is so casually capable of. I should have already known. I’ve seen his scars. It was silly to imagine that they were just on his body, and not on his soul.
He leads me inside, where we are greeted by exceptionally polite servants who presumably want to stay alive, and then escorted into a large and buzzing ballroom, where dozens are dancing and even more people are milling about in conversation. Music is being played by an extensive string band, and waiters move through the crowd delivering a banquet’s worth of food, one bite-sized snack at a time.
Our arrival does not go unnoticed. Wherever Arthur goes, the crowd first parts, and then collapses in on itself around us. Everybody wants to greet us, and I can barely remember any of their names or faces.
“Mila.” Arthur nudges me after dozens of introductions, each of which I have politely smiled through. “This is Emmaline Carpenter; she is the head of the Boston Women’s Society. If you are very fortunate, she will accept you into her ranks.”