Page 13 of Obsession & Oath

Because one day, I’d need to be married. Anything less than purity would be a disgrace.

That day would have come a lot sooner had the man next to me not kidnapped me when he did.

It’s strange looking at him now through my delirium without the constraints of anger or my apparent lack of self-preservation.

He has very nice arms.

They seem to tense a little under my gaze. It’s almost funny.

Actually, it is funny. I think I should laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” someone says. This makes me laugh a little harder.

I’m still laughing when I feel a slight prick in my neck.

Then, all the progress my body made in an attempt to wake up quickly reverts, and I’m drawn back into the darkness.

* * *

The next time I wake up, it’s the hum of the car engine that pulls me from the haze of sleep. This time, I wait until I’m positively certain my body is entirely functional before opening my eyes.

I blink hard, my eyes adjusting to the golden light spilling through the window. The sharp ache in my shoulders makes me wonder just how long I’ve been asleep as I right myself.

I look out the car window and blink again.

It’s like I’ve woken up in a postcard.

The town before us is tucked into the hillside and bathed in the soft glow of the late morning. Sunlight warms the terracotta roofs and glints off the cobblestone streets below.

The buildings lean together like old friends whispering secrets, painted in muted shades of ochre and dusty rose. Some shutters are painted bright green, while others are thrown open to reveal flower boxes overflowing with geraniums and lavender.

“Where…” I cough to clear my wretched throat. “Where are we?”

Dante glances in the rearview at me, face set in stone. “This is Montecroce. The family has graciously offered to host us, so, for the love of God, do not begin your hysterics again.”

There’s a twinge in my neck that does the threatening for him.

Instead of replying, I continue to stare out the window, taking in every detail I can as we pass through the city gates, the pillars of which look centuries old and are half crumbled, unlike the iron gates themselves that gleam imposingly in the morning sun.

The streets hum with life around us. A baker dusts flour from his hands as he sets fresh loaves on a wooden rack outside his shop. A woman with a basket of oranges chats with an old man seated on a bench, his cane resting by his side.

Children chase each other through the piazza, their laughter rising like music above the murmured conversations of the townsfolk. It’s idyllic—a quiet rhythm that feels like it’s been playing for centuries.

We pass a fountain in the center of the square, its stone edges worn smooth by time. In the middle, a statue of a saint, weathered but proud, stands with water trickling from the folds of his robe into the basin below.

People pause to dip their hands in or fill small bottles, offering quick prayers before moving on. It doesn’t feel staged or touristy—it feels real, like this is simply how it’s always been.

As the car climbs higher, leaving the piazza behind, I notice something else peaking out above the rooftops. A shadow, almost, that seems to stretch taller and taller the higher we climb.

The streets narrow, and soon, we’re threading through a canopy of tall cypress trees as we turn a final corner.

I blink. I blink again.

A castle.

“What the hell?”

To my surprise, Dante seems to snort back a laugh.

---