Page 3 of Scar

He leads me through the opulent halls until we reach an office where a kindly old priest is waiting for us. Scar's demeanor turns cold as he approaches the desk, and the priest's smile falters at the sight of him.

“My son…,” the priest starts as he rises, but Scar cuts him off abruptly.

“Don’t start, Father,” he contends. “You know the oath is binding. It’s a contract.”

“There’s a proper way to do things, Scar.”

The priest addresses my future husband with a fatherly tone; they have obviously known each other for years that the priest feels comfortable enough to challenge him.

“And then there’s my way of doing things.”

Without wasting any time on pleasantries, Scar demands the marriage license and swiftly signs it before he slams the pen down and turns to me as the priest looks on in disappointment.

“Sign,” he snaps, as I waver. The look he gives me when I pause makes me scurry forward until I’m teetering at the desk, my shaking hand lifting the pen to the paper. Am I really doing this? I’m really doing this. I’m really signing my life away to a madman. This is the end of the road for me.

I press the nib down onto the paper, then pause, staring at the single dot of ink I’ve committed to paper. I can’t do this. This is insanity.

“Sign the damn document, Allegra!”

Scar roars the words, and I jump at the unexpected level of venom he directs my way. But I still make no move; instead, my hand quivers and the pen scatters to the desk.

There is only silence in the room, but I could swear I hear his heavy breathing as he waits. It’s only when I hear the familiar click that I turn my head slowly to the man standing beside me and see the gun as he lifts it to my head. The cold metal presses against my temple, hard and unforgiving.

His eyes, a deep void that should carry emotion but don’t, stare unflinchingly into mine. “What will it be?” he whispers, the gun's weight more oppressive with each passing second.

I swallow hard, my mind racing. The room feels colder now, as if it too anticipates what’s coming. His grip tightens around the gun, his finger inching towards the trigger as his hard eyes dart across my face.

He leans in closer, and through clenched teeth he mutters, “Sign the fucking paper.” Another click sounds as he cocks the hammer back. A chill runs down my spine not just from the cold metal pressed against my skin but from the realization that his impatience could be the final nail in my open coffin.

“Scar…” It’s a warning from a soft voice behind us, but even that voice is laced with undeniable fear.

“Fuck off!” he yells at the speaker, his eyes never leaving mine. “If you don’t accept what I’m doing, leave the room now!”

I hear the shuffle of feet as someone leaves the room and shuts the door behind him. His eyes never flicker as they stay on me, his lids growing heavy as he waits.

“Sign the fucking paper or see what happens.”

The man is certifiably crazy. He would do it. He would kill me.

I take my time as I turn back to the desk, pick up the pen, then start to scrawl across the page, my disbelief carrying me as though in slow motion. My knees threaten to give way as my hand flies travels across the page. I’m dumbfounded that the dumb fucker is making me marry him at gunpoint.

“And here,” he says, lifting the page to the one underneath.

“Son,” the priest starts again.

“It’s a pre-nup,” Scar explains.

I’m sure he notices the spark of hope that flares, because he barks out a laugh that’s both vicious and vile at the same time. The possibility of a divorce means there is a way out of this marriage; he wouldn’t be asking for a pre-nup otherwise.

“Don’t get too excited,” he parrots. “The pre-nup is to protect me from your parents’ grubby little hands when you die.”

My heart sinks like a stone in deep water. Of course, he is two steps ahead, always shielding himself from every conceivable angle. His cruelty wraps around my thoughts like a dark mist, suffocating and cold. I sign the second page of the document with a trembling hand, my signature a mere shadow of my once-strong resolve. This man, this devil masquerading as a man, really wants me dead. He is truly a madman.

As I lay down the pen, it clatters slightly against the shining surface of the desk—a stark reminder of the finality of what I’ve just done. The priest looks at me with sorrow-filledeyes, his usual warmth swallowed up by the grim circumstances we find ourselves in. He seems ready to speak, perhaps offer some form of consolation or plea for sanity, but Scar's glare silences him instantly.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage to ask, my voice weak but tinged with defiance. Scar rears back, his lips curving into a cruel smirk.

“Because I can,” he answers simply, as if that explains everything, as if power justifies the breaking of spirits and bending of wills.

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