Page 116 of A Love Most Fatal

I give one long look that he meets with a hard one in kind. One that says he wasn’t lying about what he was going to do to my family. I duck my head. I need to think.

“Good girl.”

Cillian slides palms down both of my arms until landing on my wrists which he squeezes lightly before cuffing them again in front of me, this time with zip ties that will cut into my skin if I struggle.

“You’re so beautiful when you behave.”

My heart drops furtherinto the ever-growing pit of my stomach when I realize where we’re going. My church, the Saint Mary, not ten miles from my home, the backdrop of so many memories, and now to be sullied with this. It’s fitting, I suppose. I always wanted to be married here.

When we arrive, the sun is almost set, half of the sky is now a purple twilight. Cillian ushers me into an empty old building, save for a man I don’t recognize at the altar. Outside there wereabout a dozen armed guards, maybe more, which gives me hope that he’s worried someone might know where he is. Someone that might be dangerous to his plan.

He let me use the restroom before we left, but watched the whole time. No funny business, he said, can’t take any chances I’d try something.

He even held the dress up for me, a smug smirk all the while. Quite the gentleman.

The last light of the day filters through the stained-glass face of the Virgin Mary as she looks down on us. It doesn’t provide comfort today, just a sad foreboding. If I was her, I would know what to do, I think. Maybe I’d have some divine intervention.

I’m good at thinking on my feet, but as soon as I realized Cillian had weapons pointed at everyone I love, my mind went blank.

I wasn’t meant to be the choice maker; I wasn’t meant to be a boss. My dad would never have ended up here, not ever. He was smart and discerning. He knew who he could trust, and when he couldn’t, he dispensed of them with regret but readiness.

I wonder about the signs I missed as Cillian slowly marches me up the aisle. What didn’t I see in the last three months, in the last thirteen years, that led us here?

“Did you get the license?” the man asks.

“Of course,” Cillian says, and pulls an envelope from inside his suit’s chest pocket. Cillian always has made light work of expediting official documents.

“A beautiful occasion,” the man at the altar says, and I can see now that he is a priest, though not one I recognize.

I could almost laugh. A supposed man of God stands at the head of this beautiful place about to marry a wicked man to a woman whose hands are zip tied in front of her. My mind wonders over what Cillian must’ve threatened him with. Or bribed, I suppose.

“Indeed,” Cillian says. “I thought you’d want to be married in your church. Such a beautiful wedding your sister had. Yours could’ve been as grand a celebration as hers, but,” Cillian shrugs at the priest, “it is what it is.”

“Indeed,” the priest echoes. “Shall we get right to it, then?”

Cillian nods and takes my bound hands in his, his thumb tracing small circles over my knuckles. His touch is gentle, like he’s trying to soothe me, but his eyes speak something different. They promise pain, violence, and all manner of cruelty if I mess this up.

I lift my chin and meet his eyes as the priest begins reading off the marriage ceremony from his old leather book. There are candles lit on the altar and in sconces around the old church, a yellow-glow hue illuminating the scene as the sky darkens to night.

The priest starts with prayer, and Cillian winks up at me from his head bowed in mock reverence. This isn’t a normal wedding, none of the repeated prayers and songs, just a homily. The priest speaks briefly about the bonds of marriage, the sacred nature of it, and how we will be one for the rest of our long lives here on earth. He shares some scriptures, but I don’t hear them; I’m too deep in the pit of my mind willing every ill-intention I’ve ever had into my eyes.

Cillian just smirks. Amused.

“Do you have the rings?” The priest asked Cillian.

“Yes.” Cillian lets go of my hands only to pull two gold bands from his breast pocket. The one for me is dainty, with an intricate vine design carved on the outside. He slides it on my left ring finger, though it’s tight with all the blood that’s rushed to my hands since being tied up. He puts his own ring on instead of making me try in my state.

“Cillian, do you promise to be a companion to Vanessa in all of her successes and failures, her happiness and sadness, toalways give to her your unwavering support and above all else, the freedom to be herself?”

“I do,” he says. The hollow promise guts me, and without meaning to, a drop falls from my eye and rolls down my cheek. Cillian wipes it with the pad of his thumb then licks it off.

“And Vanessa?—”

A phone starts buzzing in Cillian’s suit, halting the priest. Cillian pulls it from his breast pocket, reading over the screen briefly before nodding. “Continue.”

“Vanessa, do you promise to be a companion to Cillian in all of his successes and failures, his happiness and sadness, to always give to him your unwavering support and above all else, the freedom to be himself?

My mouth is dry, like I’ve swallowed cotton balls. If I say yes to this, what am I promising?

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