Page 31 of Honey Cut
Maybe it’s the new rings on our fingers, the new name I’m leaving the cathedral with. Or maybe it’s the firm grace of his lips, the almost chaste coax of his tongue. It’s the kiss of a groom who can’t wait to taste his beloved, and the honesty in it nearly rocks me back.
Just as a noise catches in my throat, he breaks away, breathing hard as he looks at me.
When we turn to face our guests, there is a clear division between those uninitiated into Lyonesse—who look stunned at the evident display of desire—and those who count themselves as Mark’s night children. They are smiling.
We’ve shown them the story of the former killer falling for a submissive young heiress… Now we just need to sell it for good. And sell it we will at Lyonesse tomorrow night, where half these people will be watching Mark and me on the stage, sealing our new vows in the most depraved possible way.
My sins to save God’s kingdom, I remind myself, and Mark and I walk down the aisle to music and applause.
I can’t see Tristan through the crowd.
* * *
The reception is justacross the street, on a rooftop with a gasp-inducing view of the cathedral. I change into my reception dress with Bryn’s help, and she gives a low whistle as she comes around the front to assess her work.
“Your father is going to be furious,” she says with some delight as she takes in the dress.
I don’t consider myself rebellious or subversive by any means, but I do get a thrill as I look at myself in the mirror. Without the veil, I’ve opted for a white ribbon to frame my ballerina-like bun and another white ribbon around my neck. The dress itself is tea-length, made of lace and a smooth, translucent tulle. The skirt falls in big structured pleats, the strapless bodice is a boned corset, and it’s only the embroidery on the bodice and the lacy slip I wear underneath that keep the dress from breaking New York’s public decency laws.
And with the ribbons and the ankle-strap heels I pair with it, I look every inch an angel that the devil took to wife.
“If my father hates it, he has no one to blame but himself,” I say as I find my clutch and we leave the bridal room. “He’s the one who married me to the owner of a kink club. He can’t be angry that I’m going to play the part.”
“I don’t think your new husband will mind,” notes Bryn as we find the elevator bank and wait for a car. “I’ll be shocked if you make it through the reception unmauled.”
I wonder what Tristan will think—and then I quickly put the thought out of my mind. It’s going to be a miserable road if I consider Tristan every time my body is on display, especially after we all get back to Lyonesse.
“I’m not sure about the mauling,” I murmur. An elevator arrives, and we step on. I’ll meet Mark at the top, where we’ll make an entrance together. “We’re pretending, you know. Everything we do is for the sake of selling our marriage.”
She shakes her head. “There was nothing pretend about your kiss earlier. Or the way he slipped those shoes on your feet in the dressing room. Didn’t you say you were hoping to make things more real between you? I think you’re well on your way.”
“It’s best for everyone if this becomes a real…partnership. But it’s not real yet.”
Bryn gives me the same look she used to give me when I’d forget to tuck my chin while sparring. Like I’m missing something so obvious that she’s not going to bother correcting me. But she knows how Mark left things in my bedroom almost three years ago. She knows that he barely spoke to me after that, that we only saw each other once more for my collaring ceremony before Tristan came to get me in Ireland.
I don’t doubt that Mark will enjoy everything we do for the sake of our performance. But trust me? Feel real affection for me? The chances of that died in a shadowy Manhattan penthouse years ago. And I spent my adolescence getting kicked, punched, and grappled to the ground; I have craved holy pain; I have craved pain with my cunt slick and my nipples erect.
But never again do I want to feel what I felt when Mark left me that morning.
The elevator doors open just as I discreetly check the seam in my tulle skirt—I moved the pin given to me by the Scales from my ceremony gown to this one earlier. It’s there, ready and waiting. Now I’ll just need to dance with the Serbian banker.
“Isolde,” I hear Mark say as Bryn and I step off, and I look up in time to see the unguarded surprise in his face when he sees my dress. Sees me.
His eyes drift to the white ribbon around my neck, so like a collar, and I see the knot of his Adam’s apple lift and then lower above his bow tie.
“Told you,” Bryn whispers as she moves past me.
Once we’re alone, Mark steps closer. “You’re wearing a different dress.” His voice is neutral, and his expression has settled back into its usual inscrutability, but his eyes flick down, lingering on where the skirt pleats over the shallow curve of my hip, where the embroidery veils most—but not all—of my breasts.
I touch him, reaching for his hand.
A small crease etches itself between his brows. I’ve so rarely initiated contact with him that it’s no wonder that he’s not sure what I’m doing now.
“Half the people here are your people,” I say, wrapping my fingers around his. “I know we plan to give them a show tomorrow, but tonight I wanted no doubt. I’m yours.”
I pull his fingers to where the ribbon wraps around my neck, and he rests his fingertips against the satin.
“You are willing, then, to so quickly tarnish your reputation as the darling of Laurence Bank?” His voice is cool and businesslike, but he can’t look away from my throat. His fingers are stroking the ribbon now. “It’s not only my people out there, Isolde. It is your father’s colleagues and business partners. It is the frocked friends of your uncle’s. Donors and socialites. It is loosely known what I do for a living, and they will have wondered about our marriage, but the Lyonesse NDAs are strong enough that they could wonder for a long time yet.”
