Page 4 of Beneath Scarred Vows
"No."
She nods once. "Then why waste the breath?"
I laugh. I can't help it. It's short and sharp. "Your uncle warned me you'd be difficult."
"Yeah, well, my uncle never understood me."
The car slows as we approach the turnoff, a narrow dirt road that disappears into a grove of trees. My driver takes it without being told, the car bouncing slightly as we transition from pavement to gravel.
Katerina's fingers tighten on her dress, just slightly. It's the first sign of tension I've seen from her.
"Do you know what happens to brides on their wedding day, Katerina?" I ask, my voice low.
She doesn't answer.
"They receive gifts." I lean in, close enough that I catch the faintest scent of her perfume. Light. Barely noticeable. But it's there. Just like her. "And I have a gift for you."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't want anything from you."
"It's not about what you want."
The road curves sharply, and the trees part to reveal an abandoned structure—a small stone outbuilding that might once have been a storage facility for olives or wine.
The car stops.
"What is this place?" she asks, and I savor the question. It's the first real one she's offered.
"Where you'll receive your wedding present."
Her eyes darken. Not with fear, but with something else. "And if I refuse?"
I reach across her and open her door. "You won't."
She doesn't move.
"Get out of the car, Katerina."
She remains still.
I smile because her little show is ridiculous. "You will get out of this car, or I will drag you out. Your choice."
For a moment, I think she'll fight, and part of me hopes she will. It would give me an excuse to put my hands on her, to assert dominance early.
But she surprises me. She steps out, her movements graceful despite the bulky wedding dress.
She walks a half-step behind me, her heels unsteady on the rough ground. I don't offer my arm. I want to see if she'll stumble. If she'll ask for help.
She doesn't.
As we approach the stone building, she stops suddenly.
She sees it.
We stay there for a moment, the breeze now laced with traces of gasoline.
At the center stands a wooden post, and tied to it is a man.
He's middle-aged, bruised, bloodied. Barely conscious. His clothes are torn, and he's doused in what I'm sure she can now smell.
