Page 16 of His Bride

My palm begins to itch. She speaks far too freely, and though she may be displaced and perhaps a little afraid of me, her natural impulse is clearly to speak her mind. It must be part and parcel of coming from the countryside and having lived with her family rather than having interacted with those outside her little world.

That habit will not serve her well in my world. She is going to have to interact with a great many people of power, and she will need to mind her words and hold her tongue from time to time.

I am going to have to teach her how to behave. She is my mate, and my wife. She will represent the House of Darken, and I cannot have her going around boldly stating simple facts this way. The entirety of society would collapse if we all did that.

“You, young lady, are about to find yourself over my knee.”

Mila

He seems displeased with me. I didn’t mean to offend him, but at the same time I did not want to play some game of pretend because he thought I needed it. Obviously he does not find me beautiful. Maraline always made it very clear that she was the beautiful one, and I the plainer sister.

I am trying very hard to be polite, but every word I say seems to somehow make things worse. Perhaps it is some kind of cultural difference. Or maybe it’s just that I lack the airs and graces that my sister had.

He is looking at me expectantly, as if there is supposed to be some kind of response.

I am not sure what to say. I know that this is our wedding night, sort of, and I know, from the whispered comments between my mother and sister, that something called sex occurs on this evening. The word itself was always uttered with a mixture of excitement and horror. I’ve long wondered what it means precisely, though again, the procedure at the Artifice office gave me something of a hint.

I decide to reference it, so I sound more worldly. Maybe that will impress him.

“Is that a sex thing?”

My husband stares at me, his eyes widening slightly, the muscle in his cheek twitching.

“No, you brat. It is not asex thing, it is a punishment for disrespect thing.”

“I’ve disrespected you?”

“You sound surprised. Yes. You have. I am used to obedience from those around me. I give orders, and they are followed.”

“Soldiers,” I say. “You’re talking about soldiers. Not wives. I believe they’re different.”

He snorts. “They might be. Mine will not be. I expect to be obeyed. I expect to be spoken to with respect. And I expect you to mind what I say.”

He called me a brat. I haven’t been called that in a very long time, not since there was a stable hand who didn’t like me when I was a girl. He thought I was spoiled because my mother let me ride whichever ponies I liked. What he didn’t realize and what this man who calls himself my mate also doesn’t realize is that I have never been spoiled in any way, and I am not a brat. I saywhat I think because I don’t know what else to say. I have never understood Maraline’s little games of what she called tact, and which always seemed to somehow possess more cruelty than my own plainer speech.

I still don’t understand what he is annoyed about. I told him that he didn’t have to be romantic with me if he didn’t feel it, and I told him that I was his wife. Both of those things are true, and hardly cause to call me a brat.

“You’ve not said anything that makes sense,” I comment.

His brow furrows, and I know that I have yet again said the wrong thing.

“Maybe you could say it again. Try using longer words.”

His jaw clenches. Okay. That was worse. Oops.

“Come here, you little…” He reaches for me, and I do what any sensible creature does: I shy away. He misses his grip the first time, but not the second. He catches me by the back of my simple gown, right up near the nape of my neck.

Besides the doctor, I have never been touched by a grown man before. I had no idea that they were all so incredibly strong. Arthur handles me as though I weigh nothing more than a doll. I feel my feet leave the floor as he swings me around.

He slaps my ass with his open palm, imparting a horrible sting that makes me yelp. It is an incredible pain that is swiftly followed by a good dozen more slaps delivered mercilessly.

It is painful, that much is obvious. But what I did not expect, or understand, is that it also fills me with shame. It is deeply embarrassing to be whipped, even by hand. My hips are pressed over his thigh as he sits down with me over his knee.

“You are my wife. My bride. My mate. You belong to me. Your presence in my life is ordained and commanded by the Artifice. All of those things mean that you will have to learn how to behave in this world, which is my world.”

He smacks me again, once, twice, thrice, on and on. This is a painful indignity.

And then he subjects me to the worst indignity so far. He throws up my skirt and strikes me over my undergarments.

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