Page 32 of Savage Vows
My teeth catch the lemon rind, the thought landing fully in my head. My throat works on reflex, but the bite is too big, too dry. I cough once, then give up and cover my mouth with a napkin, laughing a little despite myself.
Liam’s head snaps toward me. “You all right?”
“Wrong pipe,” I say quickly, though I can feel my face warming.
I set the cake down. I’ve lost interest in sweet things.
Dante pushes his chair back and stands. A few eyes lift toward us, but no one says anything. They don’t have to. The air has changed. He doesn’t say a word, but I understand.
I stand too. My napkin folded, placed on the edge of the plate.
In the bedroom, there is something on the bed I didn’t notice at first. Lingerie, a white baby doll, thin as breath, laid out on the folded sheet like someone was arranging a display. Beneath it, the bed is made with snow-white linens.
My stomach turns. “This is sick.” I look at the sheets, then at the door. “They want proof.”
Dante follows my gaze. His voice stays even. “That is not expected.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
Silence. The fire answers for him with a soft crack.
“You don’t think I’m a virgin,” I say.
He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t deny it. He just holds my eyes, steady, as if the truth is something I can keep for myself if I want to.
I lift the babydoll by two fingers. Lace and air. I scoff before I can stop myself. “Why? Because I left home?”
“Are you?” he asks.
“Not the point.”
I take it with me and walk to the bathroom. He says, “You don’t have to wear it,” as the door clicks behind me.
I hate it. Not just because they expect me to wear it, but because it was never really about wearing anything. It’s about playing along.
He’s wrong. This isn’t about tradition or expectations. This is about humiliation.
Dress her up like a bride. Parade her into a bedroom. Lay out the costume, the sheets, the doll. Give her the illusion of choice and then remind her of the price.
No matter how warm his mother’s voice sounds, or how Liam jokes, or how polite they all pretend to be—this is what it’s really about.
Power.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on the sink. The porcelain is cold. I breathe.
You wanted to come back. You thought you could fix things. Find Julianne. Find the truth.
But this is what they do. They remind you you’re not in control. Not really. This isn’t just a performance. This is punishment.
They don’t want proof. They want shame. They want me in my place, knees together, eyes lowered. Like I should’ve stayed.
He wants to humiliate me.
Let him try.
He’ll see what I’m about.
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