Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
The only remaining question is how long will she survive under my rule? How long can she bear the punishments of her father’s sins before it becomes too much? And will she decide to put herself out of her misery, or will it be me?
Tomorrow, she will be mine to touch. Mine to take. Mine to do with as I please. She will know what it feels like to be well and truly owned. My brand on her skin. Her virgin blood on my cock. The first of a thousand tears she will shed drying on her cheeks by the time I’m through with her.
When I close my eyes, I can imagine it so vividly. But the vision wavers between rough and soft against my will. I have not been with a woman since before the explosion. Though many would do my bidding should I request it, I have not desired to expose them to the horrors of my scarred flesh. Ivy will have no choice but to subject herself to me, should I want her to. She will bear it every time she looks at me. I want her to feel what I feel inside. The Moreno blood running through her veins has destroyed me, and it should destroy her too.
Perhaps one day, I will let her see the landscape of terror her father left behind on my body. For now, I should use her only as a vessel. Her affection is not required to do what’s necessary. To open her body to mine and accept my cock until her belly is round and swollen with my child.
My fingers move over the ornate gothic mask on my desk. It is not difficult to imagine her kneeling before me, naked with my fresh mark etched into her skin. The mask blinding her vision as she sucks in a breath, waiting for me to draw near. What a beautiful, terrifying sight it will be.
The clock on the mantel ticks down the seconds, the hours dwindling away and sealing her fate. Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, Ivy Moreno will be my wife.
9
Ivy
I’m in my room sitting on my bed, and no matter how many blankets I wrap around my body, I can’t seem to get warm.
Seeing my father yesterday was harder than I expected. He’d lost a lot of weight, and he didn’t look good. He looked small and weak, cheeks hollowed out and so pale like he was fighting for every breath.
Or he would be if he weren’t on a machine that was doing the breathing for him.
I talked to one of the doctors who said he’d gone into cardiac arrest. And he didn’t have to tell me the outcome didn’t look good. I could see that. So I sat beside him and held his hand and tried not to sob.
My dad and I, we’re as close as you can get when you’re a daughter of a Society family. The females are considered second-class citizens, and daughters are marriage material to, ideally, better your standing within the organization or birth the sons of the next generation. Sons hold more value. Although not Abel because he was a product of a marriage not sanctified by The Society.
But when we were alone, Dad was different. He was never unkind. My mother was the one always ready to smack you with the back of her hand or burn you with the tip of a cigarette she swore she didn’t smoke. My dad was gentle. And at times, affectionate even.
No. He is gentle. He’s still here. And as long as he’s still here, there’s still a chance.
He let me go away to college. That doesn’t happen to most girls within The Society. Girls live at home. They study but only under the watchful eyes of their parents.
I think back to Dr. Chambers, shuddering at the thought of what it must have been like having him for a father. It actually makes me understand Maria a little more.
My dad is different. And I want to believe that some part of him hoped I would somehow get away from the clutches of The Society. At least on some subconscious level.
I try to remember those things as I sit here now. Not how small he looked in that hospital bed. Not the ongoing sounds of the machines he was hooked up to.
I stare at the garment bag hanging on my closet door. It’s clear. I can see through it to my wedding dress. It’s beautiful. Black. It fits my mood. And it fits for a Society wedding to a stranger.
There must be yards of lace and too many satin buttons to count. The veil is in its own bag, and it’s even longer than the dress. The shoes, though, as gorgeous as they are, will be staying in their box. Maybe he can return them and get his money back. Because if I wear those, I will surely break my neck.