Page 118 of Captive Bride

Isobel

My eyes flutter open slowly. My mind is heavy with confusion.

I blink, trying to clear my eyes of the fog that’s descended across them. Everything is blurred, objects seeming to merge together. I’ve never felt so tired in my life, each second a struggle to keep my eyes open.

Sleep pulls at me fiercely.

I slowly lift my head, and it’s as if it’s been tied to a cinder block, my neck too weak to support it. My eyes seem to be the only thing I’m capable of moving.

I search the room with them, my vision beginning to clear as I do.

This isn’t the cathedral. In fact, I’ve never seen this place before.

My heart beats hard with worry.

I glance down at my body, breath catching in my throat as I so.

Oh god, no.

White lace drapes over my frozen form, intricate beading trails up my chest, my feet are shod in ivory heels, stitched with design.

I groan within my chest.

It’s a wedding dress.

I’m a bride. Even in my drug-induced stupor, I know whose bride I am. Father Lawrence has betrayed me, delivered me into the grasp of my worst nightmare.

This must be the Governor’s mansion.

I look at the bed on which I’m lying. This must be the Governor’s bed.

Panic races through me body, adrenaline pumping quickly into my veins.

No, No, No.

This can’t be happening. I struggle to sit, pouring every ounce of my will into the act.

Still, I don’t even budge.

I have to escape. I have to get away from the Governor. I can’t bear to have those hands on me again, not for one second.

I hear a door open, footsteps coming towards me. The Governor himself comes into sight, standing at my side as if drawn by my thoughts alone.

Speak of the devil.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with menace. “How nice of you to join us.”

“Wh-where am I?” I choke out.

My lips, like everything else, are trying to resist my will.

“Home, of course. Your new home! Our home.”

“No,” I say. “No, never.”

He laughs, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

I grind my teeth in response.

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