Page 57 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
“Sasha, I…” She stumbles over her words, her mouth agape. “I love you.”
I know those words are supposed to mean something. But even I, an emotionless soldier, know her words are empty in the face of her actions.
Without responding, I turn and walk toward the window. The single-pane sash jolts up, the glass shuddering under the force. I wind my body through the gap and drop to the freshly cut grass on the other side. A few wedding guests are moving toward the front of the church, but the giant oak tree in the graveyard casts enough shadow for me to go relatively unnoticed. I don’t look back, just keep walking, and walking…until I reach my car.
And then I drive. All the way to the airport.
14
Adelina
He never looks back, just strides away, the powerful muscles of his frame flexing beneath the black material of his shirt.
My stomach sinks to the floor, right along with my heart. I told him I loved him, and all I got was the blank stare of the soldier I first met. I don’t know what I expected. There’s really only so many times I could say no to him before he left for good. So why does it hurt so much?
I swipe at the tears that track down my cheeks and swallow down the thick lump in my throat. A knock on the door tears my gaze from the window. The handle jiggles, but of course, I locked the door already.
“Hold on. I…I just need a minute,” I shout.
My gaze frantically darts around the room, looking for something, anything… a used makeup wipe sits in the corner of the dressing table. I use it to clean myself up, though the idea of marrying Enrique with Sasha’s come on my thighs makes me smile through my tears. I’ll never be his, not even on our wedding day. With a glance in the mirror and a couple of adjustments, I’m ready. When I open the door, my young bodyguard stands there. His eyes sweep over me briefly before hitting the floor the same way they usually do.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, surprising me.
“Thank you.”
I walk straight past him and along a corridor that brings me to the entrance hall of the church. The second the music starts, I get nervous, and as I wait alone, it suddenly strikes me—it’s my wedding day. And I’m about to walk down the aisle alone. Without my father. Tears prickle my eyes again, and I fight them back. The last thing I need is to be the weeping bride in front of all those people in there. My father would never have approved of this, and if he were still here, well then, none of this would be happening. Enrique’s head would probably already be on a platter, and life would be simpler, kinder. But that isn’t the case. This is. I’m going to walk down this aisle alone and marry the monster because in this story, there is no prince, and I already turned down the white knight. In this story, the princess must slay the dragon.
A woman I’ve never met squeezes through a tiny gap in the double doors. She has on a headset and a sky-blue dress with a matching hat.
She hands me a bouquet of blood-red roses sprinkled with gypsophila.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, and she throws open the doors.
Everyone—and I do mean everyone—turns in their seats almost as one to look at me. The church appears packed from wall to wall, a grand audience for this sham of a ceremony. My stomach knots and my knees wobble when I take my first step. I’ve never felt quite so alone as I do on the short walk down the aisle. I don’t look for Enrique, only at the floor in front of me. The uneven and worn stone looks like a death trap in these heels. When I do finally reach the front, I brace myself, sucking in a shaky breath before I slowly turn and face Enrique. He takes my hand, and his touch feels alien and uncomfortable.
As soon as the priest starts talking, I feel distanced from the entire thing. I hear the words, sing the hymns, but it’s like I’ve drifted from my body and I’m watching from someone else’s perspective. My lips speak the vows, repeating them robotically. I look at Enrique, but I don’t really see him; it’s more like I’m looking through him. He’s handsome in a three-piece tail suit, but all I see is an ugly man hungry for power.
When the priest escorts us to the back of the church, he presents me with the marriage certificate. Enrique signs, scribbles his name, marring the crisp, white paper, and then hands me the pen. My hand trembles as I stare at our two names side by side. This is it. I’m legally binding myself to Enrique Bianchi and entitling him to everything I now or will ever have. I press the pen to paper and scrawl my signature. Adelina Ricci. There, in black and white. Willingly written. Anything that happens now is of my own doing. And he undoubtedly knows it.
