Page 208 of Making Choices

“What the fuck?”

“Yep.” Cherub shrugs like the news hasn’t upset her. “Apparently she had a real need for me to be as fertile as possible.”

“It could’ve been a mistake.” Even as I say it, I know it isn’t. This is another move in Bebe’s game. She’s up to something—her taunts about my feelings for Cherub make that clear. “Maybe the Trinity’s doctor is wrong.”

My duchess lifts her phone. “I Googled it. The doctor here is right.”

“Holy fuck.” I press a kiss to the end of her nose. “I guess we won’t need the two years Gabriel negotiated then.”

“Carter.” She touches her fingertips to my lips. “I was with Zeke today. He... we... I guess we’ll know in a month or so if I’ve really screwed things up.”

“Fuck.” My initial reaction is bitterness. I swallow it down when I see the devastation my wife is trying to hide from me. She’s full of fear and shame for something that isn’t really her fault. “You didn’t know, so we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

“Carter McKinnley Hudson, the time has come to present your bride to your brethren.”

“Guess, I’m gonna have to get used to hearin’ my middle name every time the Trinity address me,” I crack the joke to lighten the mood as I try to divest myself of my clothes as quickly as possible. The black robe I’m expected to wear is made of some kind of animal fur and it makes me itch when Cherub helps me pull it over my shoulders. “Get a look at you.”

“They definitely go all out,” my duchess tells me with a laugh. I make her turn in a circle so I can fully appreciate the gold robe with its intricate embroidery and the crown they’ve dressed her in. “It smells like money and bad deeds.”

“Wait until you get a load of the bed we’re performin’ on.”

The colour drains from my wife’s face at my reminder of what’s to come. Preoccupied with the bullshit Bebe pulled on her, it seems as though she’s forgotten that we’re about to consummate our marriage in front of a hundred men playing dress up. A more fucked up way to celebrate a marriage, I can’t think of, yet it appears that this is how every man in the Trinity cements his union.

“You’re beautiful. You’re precious. You’re mine,” I tell my wife without an ounce of hesitation. Her eyes flash with muted delight as I try to calm her worries. “Not one of them is gonna get an eyeful of you. We’ll do what needs to be done, then we’re outta here.”

“Okay.”

After I tighten the belt around my waist, I hold out my hand to her. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust that I’ll get you through this in one piece.” As my duchess swallows, my palm tingles with the need to collar her. I give into it, curling my fingers around her neck and dragging her onto her tiptoes. She melts into me, and her submission settles my nerves. “We’re doin’ this for Venom, no one else.”

Cherub nods. “For Venom.”

The lie burns my tongue, but I accept the pain as my penance.

I’ll do whatever it takes to get her through this.

“Mr. McKinnley Hudson.” The curtain that blocks us from the crowd shifts and the guy who offered me Viagra pops his head into the tiny room. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

“We’re comin’,” I tell him.

Leading Cherub onto the brightly lit altar, I do my best to shield her from the other men. She blinks a few times, then her face leeches of all colour. I squeeze her hand, a little freaked out by the sight of a hundred men in black robes with bone masks concealing their faces myself.

It’s an eerie sight.

And things only get worse when a man carrying a scythe steps on to the platform.

“Kneel,” Viagra man mutters. I follow his gaze to the pulpit where two blood-red cushions have been placed. My duchess follows my lead, dropping to her knees on the smaller rectangle next to mine. “Take each other’s hand.”

I link my fingers with my wife’s.

The man with the sickle approaches. “Hold out your palms.”

With obvious reluctance, I do as I’m told. The robed man swipes the blade over my palm, then he repeats the motion with Cherub. She gasps, a small sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Face each other.” We shuffle around until we’re head on. The tentative smile my duchess tries to offer me falters when the man adds. “Press your wounds together.” We clasp hands, the gashes across our palm bleed freely as the pressure of our grip increases. Blood runs down our forearms and drips on the cushions. “Repeat after me, dos cossos units per la sang i beneïts per la sagrada trinitat.”

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