After The I Do

by Autumn Breeze

  The fault is his and his alone.

  “I’ve done nothing.” He scoffs at my denial and I hear everything I need to in the single sound. It speaks volumes louder than anything else tonight. I have a feeling it is going to chase me across the years of our marriage.

  “You volunteered,” he declares. I married him, forced this union between us despite the fact that I knew he privately protested. As far as he is concerned, I am to blame for everything that has or will occur.

  If condemning me makes this easier for him, so be it.

  2

  Everett’s eyes drop to his lap as blood runs between his fingers. Vârcolaci are known to be incredibly messy bleeders, though their healing abilities are extraordinary. If glass wasn’t embedded in the wound, he would have already healed. Instead of letting me help, he trembles and drips onto the eyesore.

  “We all do things we don’t want to,” I mutter in a half-hearted attempt at defense, while my fingers curl around his wrist. He still isn’t allowing me to pull his hands apart. I could with just a little more force, but he is already so scared.

  If I frighten him too much, there’s a good chance he will transform.

  A giant wolf suddenly appearing in my father’s office would be just as bad, maybe even worse than Everett dripping blood onto the floor. The old man will bitch endlessly about the wet dog smell and destruction.

  I already have to endure a marriage to Everett; the last thing I want or need is my family making it any more difficult than it promises to be by harassing him.

  “If you didn’t want to, why do it?” he asks

  That is simple: for Sophia.

  “Give me your hand before someone comes to investigate the smell,” I say.

  Everett’s eyes widen. As if just realizing there are bigger dangers than me, he finally allows me to pull his palms apart. His clenching pushed the glass in deeper, causing more blood to bubble to the surface, and making the damage worse.

  I click my tongue and shake my head.

  “Foolish boy,” I scold, standing up. He watches me rise, his brows drawn together. I can’t tell what the coldness in his expression is—distaste, possibly.

  “I’m not foolish,” he defends himself. I begin to hunt through the cabinets and shelves around the perimeter of the room for the medical kit my father keeps on hand for these rare occasions when it is necessary to doctor a wound.

  “Just needlessly terrified then,” I mutter.

  “I can hear you, you know,” he calls.

  I roll my eyes, emerging with the kit from a side room I'd slipped into after not finding the first aid box. Setting it down on the desk, I kneel in front of Everett.

  He still trembles and I shake my head. He is ridiculous. What does he think I am going to do— eat him? Though I need blood to sustain myself, I would never require his. The thought alone is disgusting.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Everett. We are married.”

  I did just vow to protect this man whether in good fortune or adversity. The last person he ever needs to fear is me. For better or worse, I am his husband and he is mine. We made that promise before family, friends and our respective elders.

  “Not by choice,” he mutters as I reach for his wrist once more. He jerks under my fingers but I clasp his hand in place, keeping him from pulling away.

  His nostrils flare as his wide blue eyes dilate. I loosen my hold ever so slightly, trying to prevent him from feeling trapped. Lifting my eyes from his wound, I meet his gaze.

  “Make no mistake, I made my choice.” I chose this marriage, chose him to spend the rest of my life with despite all the challenges we will face. “Now, quit fussing. I need to remove the glass.”

  He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and nods. There is a spark of bravery in his gaze. Removing the tweezers from the box, I inspect his hand before moving the pincers closer to the glass slivers.

  “Wait,” he cries.

  I pause, looking up at him curiously. “What?”

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t like pain.” He truly is ridiculous. I should laugh but instead I set the tweezers down and rise to my feet. Retrieving my glass and the whisky from before, I tip a healthy amount into the crystal.

  “Just drink.”

  He reaches for the cup, but pauses when the pink of his palm is exposed. “Maybe you should just . . . ”

  Tossing the whisky back, it burns and goes straight to my head. That is the only explanation for why I drop to my knees and run my tongue over his palm before he can protest or I can think about my actions. The bitter iron of his blood is rancid, tainted by body sweat and cologne.

  Everett gasps, mostly in surprise.

  I gather my saliva before spitting into the empty cup. Blood and crystal coagulates at the bottom. Some of the shards remain embedded in my tongue, but are freed when I scrape the muscle along my teeth.

  Spitting for a second time, I look back to Everett. The glass shards still embedded in his hand glint in the overhead light but he isn’t clenching his jaw in pain.

  “I suppose it’s true then,” Everett whispers.

  “It’s not as if it was some big secret,” I reply, my fangs retracting. “Our saliva has to have a numbing effect if we want our food source fresh and willing.”

  Gathering the tweezers, I use them to begin my work. Everett is silent, his arm no longer shaking; he seems to have finally calmed down. Maybe my reassurance that I’m not going to hurt him is enough. If so, we can move on to more important topics.

  One of which being our marriage, and the agreement we have entered into. I’m not entirely sure I see the point of this new arrangement. It makes no sense and I wonder who the author of the new terms is.

  My parents are romantics who believe in love despite duty. Those two would be more than willing to go behind my back and change the agreement if it suited them.

  Did it suit them to try and force us into a love match despite the fact that Everett and I are supposed to be enemies?

  I shake my head. The questions are endless and frustrating. I had hoped to avoid frustration despite marriage to a Vârcolac.

  When our families gathered to discuss the final arrangements, I made it clear Everett and I were entitled to separate lives as long as we lived in the same household, shared at least six meals a week, and attended mutual family functions as a unit.

  Those things would ensure peace between the clans—our families—while allowing Everett and I our own peace of mind. Someone disagreed and now, I’m forced to attempt to make a real marriage out of a business transaction.

  It is absurd.

  It’s done now, I remind myself.

  The only way one of us is getting free is if the other one dies. I’m not above murder, but I am above murdering my husband. Hopefully, Everett feels the same way or things are going to get awkward real fast.

  “Oh—” Sophia’s voice comes from the doorway. “I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?” Her heels against the hardwood floor before they are muffled by carpet.

  “Dear me, you’re bleeding.” She sounds shocked, as if the smell isn’t infecting the entire room and probably flooding the hallway.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Everett replies lowly, the sarcasm evident. Sophia doesn’t notice—maybe she doesn’t hear but I do and lift an eyebrow.

  His expression is blank, as if he said nothing at all, but there is still the spark of fight in his downcast eyes.

  Is mouse really a fitting description?

  “Don’t play coy. The smell drew you. Assist me or guard the door,” I say, ignoring Everett.

  Sophia scoffs.“When father sees this I’m not going to be anywhere nearby, much less helping. Toodaloo.”

  She waves, disappearing as quickly as she came when it becomes evident there isn’t anything for her to sink her teeth into. The little minx is a pain in the ass.

  Maybe I did Everett a favor after all by saving him from her.

  “The sister you volunteered for, I’m guessing.” I
nod in answer to his inquiry.

  That is the one and only Sophia Right.

  “She’s lovely, but no use in a jam.” She isn’t very useful period, but I love her. I suppose that's why I am kneeling in front of a bleeding Vârcolac and she is looking for our father—tattle tale.

  “Is this a jam?” I look up from plucking bits of glass out of the palm before me.

  “It could be worse,” I admit.

  “I don’t see how.” Everett looks down, but not before I catch the despair in his gaze.

  The guilt bubbles again.

  It probably isn’t an easy thing to know your family values you more as a bargaining chip than as a member. I doubt it makes him feel better that he’s been sold for the high price of peace and harmony between our clans. Maybe that is worse for him. At least I am here willingly.

  “You could have dripped on the carpet,” I tease, trying for some humor. A surprised laugh shakes his shoulders and I smile—that’s better.

  Today is meant for happiness even if neither of us exactly want to be married. We can and we will work it out. I am a firm believer in finding solutions to my problems.

  I’m not entirely sure if Everett is a problem. He is just a young man, and a scared one from what I can tell.

  “That bad?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  Lifting my head, I find him staring at me. He looks away quickly and I go back to my task. Silence lapses as I work, but before long I finish. With all the glass removed, his skin begins to mend. His palm is still stained crimson, but it is nothing a little soap and water won’t cure.

  “Thank you,” he whispers as I rise.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply, putting the first aid kit back together while he wraps his hand in the torn curtain.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so . . . kind?”

  “I’m not a monster. Not anymore than you are, at least.”

  Everett nods. When I come back into the office after putting the kit away, he is on his feet.

  “You know—” he takes a step toward me. It is slow and I notice his hands shake again. “We were never properly introduced, or introduced at all.”

  He is right, of course. Until we met in front of the elder to be married, we’d never been close enough to one another to be properly introduced. It is a glaring oversight on my part.

  I offer him my hand. “I’m Thanos—Athanasios, successor of the Moroii clan.”

  With shaky fingers, he grasps my hand. “I’m Everett, just Everett.”

  “I didn’t notice any brothers seated with your family.”

  Everett shrugs. “I have six sisters.”

  Six sisters sounds like the kind of nightmare no one needs. I have two younger sisters and one younger brother. Sophia and Lilith are more than enough female siblings.

  “Aren’t you the successor in that case?” I question.

  Everett shakes his head as he pulls his hand away. My palm is stained with his blood from the tight grasp he delivered. He is strong. In his second form, he would be a powerful force to be reckoned with.

  “My father chose my cousin, Oliver, as our family successor,” Everett admits.

  His father passed him over for the title? I frown, unable to comprehend why he would possibly do that.

  Most house heads want the title to fall to someone in their family—at least for Moroii that is true. It is about blood pride. Usually, you pick the oldest male child for that role. Sometimes, if you are modern, you selected your oldest child whether they be male or female.

  David passed over his son completely. It is . . . insanity.

  “His loss,” I remark.

  Everett smiles, and it looks as if some of the sorrow and anxiety has faded.

  3

  My new husband peers out the window of the limo we were ushered into when the reception finished. I can’t see his face, but I imagine his eyes are the size of silver dollars.

  Most people have never been outside of Necropolis City. Of course, most people never want to leave the city and venture into the perimeter land that surrounds the zones we are forced to inhabit. The sprawling jungle is more than enough for the majority; I’m not the majority.

  “I didn’t realize you didn’t live on your family estate,” Everett speaks. I shrug even though he can’t see.

  He is taking in the endless sea of forest and fields that surround my long drive. The moon is high and in this weather, as warm as it is, the grounds are covered in lush flowers and deep greens. Even I have to admit, it is beautiful.

  “I haven’t lived there in years,” I inform him.

  He turns away from the view. “But tradition—”

  “—can hang.” I lean forward, tapping on the glass panel that separates us from the driver. It lowers with a whirl. “Let us out here. We could use the air.” The car slows and I glance at Everett. “The house isn’t far and I’m under the impression you’ve never been anywhere that isn’t paved in concrete.”

  “That must seem like a tragedy,” he says. “By nature, Vârcolaci need the space to run, but we live in a place that has no space, or no dirt and trees that haven’t been strategically planted.”

  Everett follows me out of the car, inhaling deeply once his feet touch solid ground. This far from the city, exhaust doesn’t taint the air. Here, it is just wide open space.

  You can even see the stars.

  “Amazing,” Everett mutters. I grasp his triceps and turn him up the drive as the limo carries on. Hopefully neither of us have an occasion to ride in one ever again. They are unnecessary but father insisted, and I am still doing my best to follow his lead since he is the head of our clan.

  “I own a little under seven thousand acres—sixty-four hundred, I believe. Most of it is forest and fields. There are a couple of lakes, as well,” I tell him.

  Turning in a circle, Everett looks everywhere. His eyes are bright, the blue a neon glow in the dark. His eyesight should be superb, much better than mine at any time of day.

  “It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to pa—” He clasps his lips together, looking toward the ground with hunched shoulders.

  “Come now, tell me. I am your husband and I do want you happy here. I have no interest in carrying on the war of our fathers. This union is supposed to be about peace and I want us to be amicable.”

  We can have a decent life together, if we try.

  Maybe it would never be a union of love, but it can at least be a coalition of comfortable happiness and warmth. It can be more than business, if we both make an effort to be more than enemies sharing the same roof. With time, we can even come to care for each other as friends.

  “I paint,” Everett mutters. “My father thinks it’s a foolish hobby; one he has never approved of. No one in my family approves, actually—maybe my mother, but she’d never say so.”

  Isn’t he part of a pack? Isn’t it the job of the pack to love, support, and encourage each other? Has he ever received that, at all? Is his fear rooted in something deeper than just our clan rivalry? Maybe some of it is fastened in a private war that took place within the walls of his father’s estate.

  My fist clenches.

  Abuse is never something I stomach well.

  “My mother paints, beautifully, actually. My little sister, Lilith, enjoys painting, but has no patience and my youngest brother plays the piano superbly. Sophia has the voice of an angel when she's not using it to lure us all into a spot of trouble—” which she often is. Those are stories for another time, when we know each other better.

  “No one here, least of all myself, minds if you paint,” I continue. “It might be interesting to have an artist in the house again. It’s been awhile since I’ve tripped over canvases and been splattered with paint.”

  Everett glances up and I give him a reassuring smile. He tries to return the sentiment, but I can tell he doesn’t feel any sort of joy.

  Today is not a happy day no matter how well it seems to be going. I have to beli
eve it will get better, for both our sakes. There is still time for us to find steady ground to stand on. The start has been rough, but I am determined. Everett, despite how young he is, seems to be just as dedicated.

  “I’ll contain myself to one room,” he mumbles. His fingers are clasped together in front of his body as he walks beside me at an even pace.

  There is something delicate about him that I don’t normally encounter when dealing with Vârcolaci. His submission makes my guard rise, but I push it down. He is my husband and if I erect walls before we even start building a friendship, we’ll never be more than prisoners to the agreement we signed.

  “This is your home now, Everett. Be comfortable here.” If that means painting at the kitchen table or leaving a canvas to dry in the living room, I’m okay with that.

  As long as we learn to co-exist, I won’t find this marriage disagreeable. Even with the terms having changed, I still want this to work. Not just for our families and Necropolis, but for us as well. We can’t spend our lives together sad and dissatisfied.

  “I—” Everett starts to speak, but the neigh of a horse in the distance interrupts him. His eyes grow as open wonder flickers across his face.

  “Horses,” he whispers, his eyes dancing. It is like Christmas in April. “I’ve never seen a horse in real life.”

  “They are beautiful creatures. I’ll take you to see them once you’re settled,” I offer. Everett grins, a pep entering his step as he walks toward the lights in the distance.

  My staff is probably wondering where the hell I am. By now, the limo must have reached the end of the drive and been directed to use the private entrance to leave.

  “Maybe I could paint them,” he muses.

  “If you can get them to be still for any length of time, I’m sure they’d make wonderful subjects,” I reply. He hums in response. We walk in silence. The main gate is opened as

  I wave to the guard; he lifts his hand in greeting as well.

  “Congratulations on your nuptials, Mr. Right.”