Page 38 of Pure Vengeance

CAGED BRIDE

BY RAISA GREYWOOD

CHAPTER ONE

Natasha

An Ashland does not flinch.

Not ever.

Not even when she’s being forced to marry a man she’s never met.

I didn’t have anything old or borrowed, but I had plenty of blue. Well, black and blue anyway. There was even a little purple under my right eye to make things festive. The makeup artist was careful, but it still hurt when she tried to cover the bruises on my face with concealer.

The thick paste wasn’t even really concealer. It was theatrical paint that I would probably need a sandblaster to remove. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about smudging it. The artist was incredibly talented too. Aside from the rose-pink lip stain and skillfully applied smoky eyeshadow that lightened my brown eyes into golden amber, I looked like I wasn’t wearing makeup at all.

My curly brown hair even looked good. Somehow, she’d managed to tame my usual frizz and create glossy waves trailing to the center of my back.

“Ten minutes, Tasha!” my father shouted as he pounded on the door with a meaty fist. “Get your fat ass moving.”

Considering he’d have found something derogatory to say regardless of my weight, the jab didn’t bother me, but I bit my tongue before I reminded him that my name wasn’t Tasha. It was just another of his power plays—as if by shortening my name he could make me feel small.

Too bad it usually worked.

Hell, he’d barely given me time to throw a few outfits into a small suitcase before hustling me to the church.

The stylist flinched, then tugged me to my feet and led me to where my wedding dress waited. The gaudy mass of embroidered lace, tulle, and satin would have looked better on a taller, slimmer bride, but I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. It was the first dress I tried on that didn’t need alterations.

I sent my best wishes to the curvaceous bride who had managed to escape my fate.

Sometimes I wished my mother hadn’t died when I was a baby, but mostly not. She might have been able to stop my father from treating me like dog shit, but it was more likely she’d have been abused too. Of course, knowing my father, I was pretty sure her death hadn’t been an accident.

I was little more than a financial asset—something to trade in exchange for money or power—and I wondered what my future husband had promised him.

At least I knew his name, but aside from that, I was clueless about who Lachlan O’Donnell was or what he did. I hadn’t even seen a picture of him, which meant he was either old enough to be my grandfather, or too unpleasant to get a wife without buying one.

Not that it mattered.

He was probably at least as bad or worse than my father, but maybe he wasn’t. Instead of bitching and grousing, maybeI should thank my lucky stars I was getting out from under my father’s thumb, but it was getting damned hard to keep a positive attitude.

Heck, if I was entertaining pipe dreams anyway, maybe Lachlan would let me go to college. I swallowed a laugh. Women in my father’s world didn’t go to college. They learned how to do lunch, plan parties, and direct housekeeping staff.

Most importantly, they learned to keep their mouths shut and stay out of their husband’s way.

And if Lachlan had made a deal with dear old Dad, he was probably the same. I’d be thankful enough if he didn’t hit me, and doubly blessed if he got himself a mistress and left me alone after I gave him his heir and spare.

I didn’t look at the stylist or the makeup artist as they zipped me into my dress. There wasn’t any point in it, and I hadn’t bothered learning their names. Lucky for them, they weren’t my friends, and I’d forget what they looked like before I cut my wedding cake.

And no way would I ever let them know how much it hurt when they squeezed my bruised ribs into the tight satin bodice. I felt like a fucking sausage.

“You look so pretty, Ms. Ashland,” the stylist murmured as she draped my veil over my face. “Mr. O’Donnell won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

Yeah. He’s going to wonder whose curtains got used to make this horror of a wedding dress.

“Thanks.” I slipped my feet into the crystal-encrusted heels and straightened my spine. “I guess it’s showtime.”

I picked up the end of the chapel-length train before I tripped on it and opened the door leading from the small dressing room. To my surprise, a woman waited outside. She wore a pale-pink bridesmaid dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. Asilky shawl in a slightly darker pink covered her shoulders and arms, and her blonde hair was pinned into a neat chignon.

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