Page 27 of Forced Vows

Róise Shaughnessy

The wedding has to take place the same month I graduate from college. That's only a little over a year away.

Clammy sweat forms on my forehead and in my armpits.

"Give me your hand, Róise." Miceli puts his hand out, palm up like the other men.

Only he wants me to place mine on top, not cut him.

I look at him and try to speak past my suddenly dry and tight throat. "I don't know if I can do this."

My words are barely above a whisper, but he hears me. Maybe the others do too, but my focus can't move beyond Miceli's handsome face.

The face of a man who should be my enemy, but will one day be my husband.

"I'm not your enemy, Róise. I never will be."

Did I say those words out loud? I must have. I'm pretty sure Miceli does not have his brother's gift of reading minds.

"But—"

With a gentle grip on my wrist, he lifts my right hand and places it in his outstretched palm. "It will be alright."

Nodding, I look away like I do when I'm getting a shot or having blood drawn and feel a tiny prick on my right thumb.

Shocked I jerk my head forward and look down. A drop of blood is welling on the pad of my thumb.

"Squeeze it a little and there will be enough blood to sign the contract."

I can only stare at the tiny drop of welling blood.

He squeezes my thumb between his and his forefinger and the drop grows. He releases the pressure on my thumb and rubs the blood around so it covers the pad completely.

"Do it quickly before the blood dries," he says.

I press my thumb down beside my name under the promise to marry this man.

He pulls my hand to his mouth and sucks the blood away from my thumb. Erotic chills replace the horror of seconds ago. Will I always react to him like this?

My body going up in flames at his slightest touch.

He releases my thumb from his mouth. "Now it's your turn."

He means for me to cut him.

I shake my head, putting my hands under the table so he can't put the knife in them. "I don't want to. Have my uncle do it."

"No." Miceli doesn't say anything else, but he waits.

Like he's confident I can and will do what is necessary.

"Say something to make me mad," I tell him. "I think I could cut you then."

"Bloodthirsty, I like it," he teases.

I shake my head. "I mean it."

"No."

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