my neck and I gasp, wanting to reach up but unable to. It’s thin, whatever it is, and it fastens with a click.
I feel him stand and hear him as he walks around me again. I look up at him. At the two sides of his face.
He watches me for a long minute. Only when I drop my gaze does he crouch down to take my face into his hand. His touch is gentle as he studies me, studies the few tears that drop from my eyes.
I want to tell him not to hurt me. I want to beg him not to brand me. But I can’t form words. Can’t make sound.
He lets something drop from his other hand. It makes a clinking noise when it hits the stone, and I shift my gaze to it. It’s a long, thin chain. He lifts my chin higher and hooks it onto the choker he just placed around my neck and runs the other end through a small ring attached to the stone floor that I hadn’t even noticed.
My gaze slides to the fire again, and the only sound I can make is a choked sob.
He tugs the chain, making me bow my head, but holds my gaze as he leans toward me, his cheek against my cheek again, the rough stubble on his jaw scratching my skin.
“Move and I’ll use the branding iron, do you understand?”
He draws back to look at me.
I’m trembling, shaking. It’s a good thing I’m already on the floor, or I’d have fallen by now.
“Do you understand me, Ivy?”
I nod frantically, tears falling wildly, feeling just a hint of relief as I see that iron in my periphery.
He nods once, then continues to shorten the chain, and when my head is bowed far enough forward, he locks it.
One of those tears drops on the stone floor. Then another.
He stands, the space he vacated empty and cold, and I find as he walks behind me that I want him close again. A warm body. Even if he will be my tormentor. Because behind him sit more vultures come to pick at the kill.
I try to move my arms, my head, but I can’t, not even a little, unless I want to set my forehead on the dirty ground. He’s immobilized me. Whatever he chooses to do to me now, I will submit. He has made sure of that. The chair behind me creaks. He sets his feet on either side of my hips. I can just see the tip of his shoe if I shift my gaze.
I gasp when I feel the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck. The rumors were true, then. I realize this is why his sister twisted my hair so tightly. Did she know? Would she herself be submitted to such a degradation one day? Has she already?
But all thoughts vanish as he caresses my skin. He’s gentle as though he’s getting to know the texture of the canvas. Then, abruptly, he grips the already-torn lace top of my gown and rips it farther, making me gasp. The men, our audience, make an appreciative sound as Santiago bares my back, the dress falling to the tops of my breasts, exposing one nipple. I’m hunched over enough that I don’t think the men can see it.
I wonder what a sight we make, the half-monster husband at his kneeling bride’s back, her dress torn, a supplicant to him.
I wonder if he’s aroused.
I close my eyes when I feel something cold and wet touch the back of my neck. I smell alcohol. He’s cleaning the area.
This is really happening. I’m being marked like cattle.
The chair creaks as he drags it forward on the stone bringing his knees to hug my arms tightly, securing me even more before I hear the buzzing of a machine and feel the first prick of the needle.
He’ll tattoo me.
It hurts, and I whimper. But it doesn’t deter him.
It takes about five minutes before the men lose interest, some standing, some talking, only a few remain watching. I fist my hands at my back as the pain intensifies. A branding iron would hurt more, I tell myself. I can manage this.
I know he’ll tattoo the initials of The Society onto my skin. I’m their property as much as I am his. Alongside it, I’ll wear his mark. I don’t know what it is, I realize. Not that it matters. All I can think about is the buzzing of the