I DON’T KNOW WHY HE is interested in me; I think again for the hundredth time. What is it about me that makes him want me? After my initial fear wore off, my anger surfaced. Now, I pace the small room with chest-high bookshelves and stomp my feet sometimes as frustration takes over. I should have tried harder. I should have refused his hand as he held it down to me. But then, where would I have gone? Where could I have gone that he wouldn’t have found me? I really have no choice in the matter now, and this makes me angry.
In fact, I’ve been mad ever since I came to my senses and was riding back in that long black limo. Once I realized I had no choice and was stuck, I crossed my arms and stared out of the window for the ride home. Whoever was driving the Limo sped the entire way home and got us back in what seems like a shorter amount of time than the couple of days I spent trying to get away. I squashed all small talk when I refused to answer and kept my gaze out the window.
I had fallen asleep a few times. I mean, it was dark out, and I had a rough couple of days. But thankfully, I did not wake up with my head on Blake’s shoulder, or worse, his lap. No, I had my face planted against the soft leather—I did not drool, thankfully—and my forehead was against the window. The two men who were with Blake sat across from us, and I’m sure they watched me the whole time. Blake introduced them to me when they came back from wherever they went with Billy and Kip. I didn’t ask about those two because I didn’t care about them.
And when the Limo pulled up to my apartment, I was kind of surprised. Not surprised that he knew where I lived—surprised he brought me back to my place. I had thought for sure I’d be kept under lock and key. However, he used his own form of a lock and key. One of his men had been there for the week I stayed in my apartment. No, I did not leave the entire week. I couldn’t. Not because of his goons, but because I knew I would run, and he would chase me down again.
And before he left me, he told me his plans for me. I had no say, and when I demanded he let me go and let me live my life, he seemed sad even as he told me he could not. He said he was as stuck as I was. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I am highly doubtful that someone as powerful as him is ‘stuck’ doing anything he doesn’t want to do. But I know he didn’t trust me because he left his goon to watch me. No, his goon didn’t stay in the apartment with me—it’s way too small for someone of his size to cohabitate with me. He spent his time in the lobby downstairs. It’s not really a lobby, either, and it’s smaller than even my apartment. It’s a 10x12 room with two hard plastic chairs, linoleum floors, and a counter with a clerk that rotates with one other. Yeah, I did not live in the greatest of places.
But I’ve done everything I could do now, and I cannot run any longer. The deal that went down just over three years ago is coming to fruition. I should never have been part of the bargain and, of course, it was why I ran in the first place. And as I waited out my week, my anger grew as much as my frustration because, once again, I had no choice in the matter. Being on my own had given me a taste of freedom I had only dreamed about before. Finding a new job and maintaining a place on my own, trying to heal from the abuses I had suffered, had shown me my strength and resilience. And now, I’m stuck. And the anger inside me has grown within my chest, burning like a fire because I am powerless now. All the power over my own life that I thought I had disappeared the moment he found me huddled in that decrepit motel room.
I stomp across the floor in my heels, my dress flouncing as I walk. Annoyed, I shift the skirt roughly and then throw it out of my hands. It still poofs nicely and seems to mock me. I hate being here. I hate this place, what I’m expected to do, and what will happen shortly.
I hate him.
I have no way out of this new hell. I pause in my pacing. But I actually do. It’s something I had thought about doing before—after that fateful night—and right now, I decide I am going to go through with it. What do I have to lose except...? I’ll make him do it for me. Since I want nothing to do with him and even more so now, I’ll make him do it.
A plan forms in my mind. I decide I will purposely taunt him and make him angry. I will make sure he will want nothing more to do with me, and my nightmare will be over. I’ll make him despise me, and by the time we reach his home, he’ll want to get rid of me. This past week I had been bouncing between being afraid and being angry and everything in between. But I’m done with that now. He doesn’t scare me—not anymore, because I’m deciding and it will start today. It is the perfect day to do so. I will start this off badly. He doesn’t care about how I feel—not that this is any surprise—men have never cared about how I felt or what I wanted. Only what they wanted, or what sort of pain they could inflict on me. So instead of Blake Harland using me, I will use him. He will be my means to an end.
I will begin at this moment, before the wedding takes place, to make him do it. How dare he swoop in to save the day, rescuing me—not that I didn’t appreciate it at the time—I scowl at the floor. But regardless of what he did for me a week past, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still part of this payment, the collateral my father needed for him to make his business last. And it stokes my anger now. Why would Blake even want me as part of the deal? It makes no sense. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen anymore. These are the things of the past now. But here I am—proof that these things do still occur.
So I stand, awaiting my doom in a closed-off room by myself. I’m dressed in the finest of gowns. I heard the whispers that it cost over twenty thousand—and I’m standing in it. It swishes where it’s supposed to. It fits where it is supposed to. It hugs where it is supposed to. It pushes my boobs up and makes them look bigger than they really are. I glance at the clock, and it’s counting down. Counting down the minutes and seconds to my ultimate doom—this carefully orchestrated event to happen in five minutes.
He forced me into this, and I will work it my way. If I’m going to hell, then I’m making sure I go my way, and he’ll want to send me there. I will not give over, and he will not abuse me or hold something over me. I’m done with those days, and now I will have a new start, for however short a time it is. I might be part of the bargain, but I will make sure I’m not a good one. I have a plan that will push his buttons and make him hate me—make him want to kill me. Hopefully, it will be a quick death, but if not, then I will make sure he finishes the job.
He sent people to primp me up, my makeup flawless and not a hair out of place. I’m coifed and glowing and look nothing like myself. I look like a doll, someone to pose, but I’m about to show him I will not be that for him or anyone else!—No matter how fine I’m dressed. I will not be what he wants. I will make him want to dispose of me. The sooner I am out of this world, the better off I will be. No one will miss me, anyway.
I’m not sure when I decided this was my best option. Perhaps it was three years ago when I saw him in that office with my father. Maybe it was a week ago. But I’ve had enough in my short life, and I will get what I want this time. For once, it will be Marina’s turn. I clench my fists, focusing my anger on him and keeping it hot. I will make sure I’m an embarrassment to him and make him sorry for wanting me as part of the bargain. I will corner him and make him act. I will make sure that I press all the buttons tonight, so by the time everything is through, he’ll want nothing more to do with me. He brokered me like chattel and I will make him sorry for it. I’ll start tonight in front of his guests.
I almost hesitate. Almost.
I rip the hemline and let it hang listlessly to drag along the floor when I walk. I tear the seam where it snugs against my waist, revealing skin. I rip the delicate lace where it flitted around the skirt, and now it, too, drags behind me. I yank out beads, tearing holes in the fabric, and connect the dots with a marker I found on the bookshelf. I shorten my veil, so it’s a cap over my head. I leave the front of the bodice alone—I don’t need to show those any more than they already are. I rip up the side of the skirt, so my leg peeks out as I move. I slam one of my heels against a boo
kcase, and now I will limp down the aisle. I pick up the other side of my skirt and pause when I hear the music start up.
I’m late. Good. Keep him waiting! Keep him in suspense, wondering if I will show up. I stalk over to the door of the room, opening it just as someone is about to knock. I recognize the man as one of his men who had been there the night Blake came to fetch me from that rundown motel. I glare at him as I brush by him. It takes him a moment to catch up, and he grabs my arm to stop me.
“What did you do?” His voice is shock and dismay.
“Careful now; you’ll bruise me,” I say and glare at him.
He releases my arm as if it burns him, and I turn from him to face my future. I stalk down the hall in an angry limp and turn the corner to see my father standing by the double doors of the room where my fate awaits. I pause, a stab of the old fear pricks me, and my blood runs cold. But then I steel my resolve and put on an icy glare as he approaches me, his face in a fury.
“What did you do?” he hisses and I hear the fear laced in the tone. He glances at the double doors. Then, I realize he has not paid off Blake yet, and he’s worried that I’m ruining things—for him.
“Why are you here?” I whisper out, wishing my voice was more assertive. My anger burns, and I hate that he is here. How did he know? I didn’t tell him, and certainly Blake should have known not to invite him.
“To give you away.”
He reaches for me, and I jerk away from him, slapping his hand away. I glare at him until he takes a step back. Pleased that I won this small battle, it bolsters my courage for my next step. I turn on my heel and I stomp to the closed doors. When I shove them open, they bang against the wall, announcing my arrival. The guests gasp and murmur and for a brief moment, my courage is replaced by a stab of fear right into my heart. But then my anger resurfaces, turning into defiance, and adrenaline courses through me. I survey the room.
We are not in a church. One such as he would not be in a church. This is a facility that conducts weddings. The room is set up with an aisle and pews, and a stage situated at the front. I sweep my gaze around for a moment. I do not know who these guests are and figure they must be friends of Blake’s, maybe my father’s, but they are not my friends, and after today, it will not matter what happens here because everything will end.
Then, I meet his eyes from across the room and put my smug smile on, forced and unnatural on my lips. I will not be a blushing bride. No, this bride will be one who wishes for his retribution. And as I watch him from across the room, I know I’ve succeeded in the first step of my plan. I see I upset him. But he dishonored me all those years back and now I will do the same to him. I lift my chin in defiance to his glittering eyes. This is what he is getting.
The Officiant waiting to marry us jerks in surprise and casts a quick glance at the waiting groom, but Blake’s eyes are on me only. I watch his hand clench into a fist before relaxing once again. My only consolation is that I am not as nervous as I had been while cutting up this delicate dress. Don’t get me wrong, the dress is—was—beautiful. I do like it. I’m just not going to give him any satisfaction in letting him know it. I have a plan, and it needs to work.
Besides, brides should be able to pick out their own dresses, shoes, veils—husbands.
HIS FIST RELAXES BY the time I reach him, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not. I glare at him the whole way down the aisle. I see the guests with their shocked expressions as I tromp and limp up the aisle on my journey to my doom. I see their worried looks—presumably for me—the quick glances at my groom to see how he is taking this ‘vision’ stalking the aisle to him. I reach the platform and meet his eyes in defiance. It seems as if his eyes promise me pain.
Well, the jokes on you, buddy, I’ve been in pain my entire life.
I reach him, and he takes my hand, a little too forcefully, and I do not give him the satisfaction of letting him know he squeezed a little too hard. It doesn’t hurt, really, just a little too much pressure for comfort. So, I smile—more of a grimace—bitter, full of teeth as my eyes glare into his. We recite our vows as if we are giving a school report—except I am not nervous—not any longer. And he is vibrating with anger.
I stare at him the entire time, gloating, defying him and his so-called authority. If today is my last day to spend as myself, I will make sure I get out on my own terms, doing what I want to. The words are said; mine mumbled and barely audible. And a quick peck on my lips tells me my fate is sealed. He takes my hand and squeezes again. The only sign he gives that he is angry and I will pay for it later. Good. I squeeze back, and he squeezes harder—I feel my bones rub together.
I force a gritted smile as hesitant claps fill the air. Then he jerks me, and I walk stiff-legged down the aisle to the outside doors. We walk under a canopy, casting shade in the waning light, like a walkway, and it leads right to the Limo waiting for us. The driver says nothing as he takes in my appearance and I gather up my dress, lurching inside.
He doesn’t speak to me as he sits beside me, and I scoot over to stare out the darkly tinted window. I wipe my lipstick off on my fingers and then absently, purposely, wipe them on my dress. He arrests that movement and squeezes again. It hurts this time, a signal I’ve succeeded in pushing him, but I will give no quarter. Nor will I look at him. I don’t flinch—I’m done flinching. I’m done acting afraid.
I am done with this world after tonight—and perhaps it gives me false courage.
We drive into the ritzier part of town, past the manicured park with the man-made lake. The Limo drives past an expensive restaurant and then pulls up in front of another store. It is a designer clothes store—a boutique filled with elegant clothing—as the sky darkens. The expensive store caters to the rich, and I have passed this one before. I’ve window shopped here, wishing I could be one of those who could afford to buy their delicate creations, but I’ve only shopped with my eyes, as that is free. I doubt my handprint is still there on the window.
The driver parks directly in front and comes around. The sun is shooting the last of its rays straight at us, and an umbrella shields us perfectly from them. Blake yanks me out, so I stumble, and his powerful hand keeps me upright. I kick off my shoes, and they clatter along the sidewalk. He clenches his jaw and pulls me into the store, which is opened despite them having closed a few hours ago. I’m sure he is their best customer as I look at the men’s suits. But he pulls me over to where the dresses are, and I stumble to a stop.
Blake yanks me around to face him, and I meet his eyes, jaw clenched, lips pursed, my eyes daring him to give me his worst. “Pick out something to change into.” He clips out, eyes hard like blue diamonds.
I jerk my hand away and put it on my hip. “No. I’ll go like this.” I defy him openly, even as the assistants turn away to give us ‘privacy.’
I’ve pushed him now—over what I thought even he could take. Hell, I’d probably done that the moment I walked down the aisle. It gives me a sick satisfaction. He grabs my wrist, pressing his thumb into the underside, where it’s sensitive, and makes me do what he wants. He yanks me along and finds something for me. It’s a cream three-piece with a top, waist jacket, and skirt reminiscent of Jacki-O—sophisticated, chic, and he thrusts it at me. I fume at him and toss it back at him.
“Don’t make me change you in front of the cameras.” His eyes go to the one in the corner, and I don’t look.
His words are ice, a growl, a threat. It’s not the cameras that make me yank the clothes back and head to the changing rooms. I do not wish for him to change me, to reveal my body to him, vulnerable. An assistant points and I glare at her. She backs up and leaves me in peace. I slam the dressing room door, and the rest of the changing rooms rattle.
I forcefully hang up the new dress and rip the wedding dress open so I can shimmy out of it. I drop the wedding dress in a heap, kicking it to the corner, so I never have to touch it again. I put my hands on my hips and study the dress made by some designer whose name I cannot pronounce.
I slip into it and smooth it here and there. Despite my anger, I admire myself for a bit. He might be mad, but he’s got good taste. This is a nice look on me. Part of me wished it came with the cute hat.
I walk out and notice his eyes light up in admiration before shuttering once again and scowling at me. He has a pair of shoes in his hands, somewhat outstretched.
“Wrong size.” I shoulder past him and put distance between us.
I don’t know if they are or not, but I don’t care. I reach the selection of shoes and peruse them carefully. I like the sinful red ones, so I take those and slip them on. They fit and pinch at the same time. Beauty is pain, right? Or is it beauty is a pain? I find a red purse that I have absolutely nothing to put into it and snatch that, too. If he’s paying, then I’m getting it. And I might as well live a little since it’s my last day on earth.
He holds his hand out to me, and I brush past him and out the doors to the Limo. I watch him speak to the department store owner, tip him, and point inside at something. The owner nods his head fervently and disappears. He ducks under the frame of the Limo and slides in gracefully. I ignore him once again and watch the streetlights go by, a blur of lights.
I wonder if I will see the light?
By the time we arrive at the reception hall, done tastefully and lavishly, I’m in a state of fury, and he’s no better. Angrily, I yank my hand from him after he helps me out. I don’t want to touch him. Hell, I don’t even want to look at him—at least, not right now.
But he is pleasing to look at.
Grudgingly, I admit that. The stares he is getting from the single ladies—and the married ones—prove that. His strong jaw, blue eyes, and jet-black hair are the stuff of dreams are made of. He could grace the covers of magazines, and they’d sell out on his picture alone. In fact, the one I had seen of him three years ago had done just that. He’s tall, lean in the right places, muscular in the others. Even his hands have muscles, and I feel one of them at my back right now as he leads me to the bridal table.
A Vampire's Love Page 4
