Page 151 of Black Castle

At the altar, before the priest where they stand facing each other, she can feel his gaze on her, not a single word uttered, but his dark eyes speak of vindictive and wicked things, the cruel and irredeemable things he will do if she dares to change her mind.

The priest is saying something, but most of his words are a blur, each sentence being drowned out by the roaring of her rapidly racing thoughts.

“Do you, Vivienne Marchand, take this man, Zev Raskovic, as your lawfully wedded husband?”

And there it is, the big question, the moment of truth throwing daggers at her heart. As the question hangs in the air, awaiting her answers, she feels her throat tightening as if an invisible noose has been wrapped around her neck, dragging her across a field of thorns.

The brick walls of the church begin to close in, the pressing in her chest weighing a ton. When her lips finally part, silence stretches for a moment, a second, a minute. The word that sits on her tongue is No. But as her gaze flickers to him, and the darkness in his eyes twinkles, she glances to her left, and the gun is still very pressed to her best friend’s head.

“Yes.” Three letters become the heaviest word she has ever spoken in her life as tears roll down her cheeks. “Yes, I do.” It tastes like ashes and her throat feels like sandpaper.

The priest’s voice drones off as her world shatters in front of her. And in that cruel unfold of reality, all she feels is the weight of the cold ring that he slips into her finger, the metal biting into her skin like a shackle.

Her eyes momentarily snap shut, more tears trailing a cold path down her cheeks. In the darkness of her despair, she finally comes to terms with the fact that she has given herself away, not to a prince charming that she has dreamt of for years, not for the hope that paused the habit of slitting her wrists, not for love, but for the cruelest of bargains.

The priest declares them as man and wife, placing his hand on their heads and blessing their sacred union.

But this union is not sacred at all.

It is not a vow either.

It is defeat.

It is a surrender to darkness.

Chapter Forty-seven

Vivienne

Everything feels like a nightmare, a cruel unending slumber.

Vivienne has scrubbed a hand continuously over her face and pinched her skin hard enough to bruise, but nothing changes. Nothing feels real. Except that it’s real, and the reality belongs to her.

It has been an hour since they were driven from the church to his apartment, but an hour isn’t nearly enough to process the wreckage of her life. Fear coils around her ribs, suffocating. Bitterness sours her tongue. Confusion makes her dizzy. But more than anything.

She is terrified.

And she misses Kenji.

Her gaze lifts from where she is on the bed the moment the door opens and Zev walks in. Her lips part to ask him questions about Kenji, but she snaps them shut seeing a phone pressed against his ear. And he looks pretty angry at whoever is on the other end.

“What’s going on, Takahashi?” he demands, his steps lithe and impatient as he crosses the room to the table where a bottle of his infamous American Whiskey sits, pouring himself a glass.

“It’s been over a week.” Her eyes follow him as he walks over to the window, looking into the dark night. “Where the fuck is my vineyard?” The latter is said in Japanese, and for a moment, while drowning in the depth of her despair, she can’t help thinking about how utterly super attractive and smart he looks and sounds whenever he speaks a foreign language.

So far, she has learned he speaks roughly up to nine languages. Out of those nine, she has walked into him or heard him speak about six. The perfect thing about all these is the way he automatically adapts to the local accent of the language he is speaking that he will never pass as just a foreigner speaking a foreign language. Every language turns to his mother’s tongue the moment he gets into character. Commendably, he is an intelligent man, not so far from a genius. But he is evil and that rules out anything else.

“Fix it,” he says, still in Japanese as he veers away from the window, heading to the couch at the corner of the room. “I don’t want to have to take over because I really don’t want to spill any blood on this project.”

Vivienne can’t help but wonder what he is talking about. It doesn’t matter who he is speaking with. She wonders if he is talking about her. But he hasn’t, for once, spared her a glance since he walked in, so she doubts it’s about her. She hopes the topic doesn’t involve him having to kill another person before leaving the States tomorrow.

Speaking of leaving the state. Anxiety weaves into her nerves again; her palms turn clammy. By this time tomorrow, she will be in Russia, in a mansion miles away from civilization, stuck with soldiers that have eyes as cold as stone.

What kind of future is ahead for her?

“Come here,” he says, his voice husky and commanding. Her gaze flickers to him. He is fully settled on the couch, an empty wine glass placed on the glass stool beside the couch.

“Come on now,” he urges, patting his lap, a ghostly smirk tucked under the curve of his full lips. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.”

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