Page 63 of A Vow So Soulless

“Curse. Get over here and write this for me.”

He obeys instantly, slicing through the room to my bedside. He bends over the bedside table, writing slowly and carefully, glancing at my phone every few letters so that he doesn’t make a mistake. Then he hands it to Bruno.

“An Eala Bhàn,” Bruno reads slowly, his tongue tangling on the Irish words. “What does it mean?”

“It’s the name of a song,” I tell him. The first song I ever heard Deirdre play, and apparently her mamma’s favourite. “Literally translated, it means The White Swan.”

Bruno nods, looking once more at the paper before stowing it carefully in his case.

“Seems fitting,” he says. “White swan. And you chose a white-coloured metal ring with a setting that reminds you of wings.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but now that he’s said it, I feel like everything is looping back and connecting. Everything working out exactly the way it’s supposed to. Clicking into place.

The other paper Bruno shows me has examples of font that he can use to hand-engrave the band. I choose a simple cursive style, smooth and romantic, but not too curly or flowery.

“And what about your band? We’re working with a tight timeline for your wedding date. If you want something custom, we should decide on a style as soon as possible.”

I blink at Bruno, completely forgetting about my whole wedding band conundrum. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do.

I stare down at my left hand, perfectly smooth and encased in the black leather I’ve grown so used to. There’s that cliché saying, to know something as well as the back of your hand. But I know this leather much more than the mottled skin beneath it.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. The espresso hasn’t helped my headache, and now that we’ve got the important stuff for Deirdre out of the way, I’m ready for this to be done. “I wear the gloves all the time. Seems kind of pointless to wear a ring just to hide it. And it might bug the scar tissue.”

But even as I say the words, I feel a vicious throb. It feels like loss. I want a fucking ring to match my bride’s, goddamnit. If I hadn’t already killed my father for what he did – for abandoning us in that fire, letting me destroy my hands to save his younger son – I’d murder him all over again just for making this moment so tinged with fucking bitterness.

I’ve accepted how fucked-up my hands are now. I’ve got my gloves, and I don’t give them much of a second thought these days. But now, struggling with the fact that I can’t just put a ring on like any other brainless shmuck might, I feel an anguished fury expanding in my veins, sending raging ticks of pressure through my throbbing head.

For the first time, I notice there are a few men’s wedding bands in Bruno’s case. I stare at them like a pathetic, starving dog stares at the butcher’s back door. I fucking want one. I want Deirdre to slide it onto my finger during our wedding. I want the whole world to see that I’m hers as much as she is mine.

“Just wear it on top of your glove,” Curse suddenly interjects.

My gaze cuts to him. I stare at him, momentarily speechless, because what he just said is so fucking obvious and yet it never occurred to me before.

“You don’t think that’s gonna be fucking weird?” I ask, even while my mouth waters. I feel literal hunger at the thought of wearing a band matching Deirdre’s, prominently displayed on the crisp, buttery black of my hand.

“Wearing leather gloves all day, every day no matter the weather, is already weird,” Curse replies. “Who the fuck cares? You want a ring? Then wear a ring.”

I shake my head. Between this and all the perfectly-timed, helpful shit with the engagement announcement, I swear Curse has missed his true calling as a fucking wedding planner. Or maybe it’s less that he’s good at wedding shit, and more that he’s exceptionally skilled at solving problems.

A lot of my problems just happen to be wedding-related lately, I guess.

“Alright, then. No sparkly shit for me. Just a plain band. Platinum to match Deirdre’s,” I tell Bruno. He nods, then deftly measures my left ring finger with my glove on.

“Perfect. No other modifications for your ring? No engravings?”

I mull that over for a second, then nod. “I do want something engraved.”

Bruno pulls out another small sheet of paper. I write this one myself. Since it’s in English, I’m not worried that my sloppy left-hand writing will confuse Bruno when he’s trying to do the engraving the way I thought me writing the Irish with my left hand might. I scrawl the four words then hand it back to him.

Bruno’s brows furrow as he reads it.

“Property of Deirdre Titone.” He glances at me uncertainly. “And you’re sure that’s what you want engraved? It’s for your ring, remember. Not hers.”

“Of course that’s what I fucking want engraved,” I retort. “It has nothing to do with who owns the ring itself and everything to do with who owns the man wearing it.”

Bruno’s face clears of confusion, settling into something blankly pleasant and professional.

“Ah. Of course.” I think I see an amused glint in those dark blue eyes of his, but I can’t quite tell, because he’s bent his head and is busily placing the chosen engagement ring in a small black box before snapping shut the case he brought.

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