Chapter Five: Bridegroom's Secret

(Alondra's POV)

They laced me into the dress so tightly I could barely breathe.

Three women circled me like birds, tugging at ribbons, pinning lace, smoothing the long white skirt over my hips. The corset cinched my waist until my ribs pressed against each other and a small dizzy feeling settled behind my eyes. They did not let me eat. The only thing they allowed me was a small cup of warm milk, and even that was rationed in tiny sips so the dress would stay snatched.

I let them.

I let them do all of it.

I had accepted my fate by the time they slid the veil over my face.

If I was going to die in this house like the brides before me, then at least my parents would be free of the debt. That was something. That was enough. It had to be enough, because there was nothing else left.

My father walked me down the aisle.

He could not look at me.

His arm was stiff under my hand and his eyes stayed fixed on the floor the whole way down, like a man being marched to his own execution instead of mine. I caught one glimpse of my mother on the way past, sitting in the front row in a black dress that was far too dark for a wedding, tears running silently down her cheeks. She mouthed something to me. I did not let myself read her lips. I looked away before the pain in my chest could finish forming, because I could still feel what it was to be betrayed by my own blood, and I was not ready to forgive her yet.

I lifted my eyes to the front of the hall.

That was when I saw him.

He was standing off to the side, near one of the tall arched windows, half in shadow. Black suit. Black tie. Hands folded in front of him the way a soldier folds them at attention. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbone, and his eyes were already on me.

They had probably been on me since the moment the doors opened.

 I held his gaze for one long second because I could not help myself, and something cold and electric ran down my spine in answer. Then I tore my eyes away and looked at the man waiting for me at the altar.

He was a little taller than me. Not much. Soft brown hair brushed neatly to one side. A face that was more cute than handsome, with full cheeks that made him look younger than I expected. He smiled at me when our eyes met. A real smile. Small and a little nervous, like he was as overwhelmed by this whole thing as I was.

I almost smiled back.

The ceremony moved fast. Faster than I thought a wedding could move. The priest spoke words I did not really hear. Vows came out of my mouth. My groom said his vows too, soft and clear, and when the priest told him to lift my veil, his hands shook the smallest bit as he raised it.

He looked at my face for a long moment.

"You are even more beautiful than they told me," he whispered.

Then he leaned in and kissed me.

It was gentle. Slower than I expected. Nothing like the kind of kiss a mafia heir was supposed to give. His lips were warm and a little dry, and he pulled away before it could ever become too much. When he stepped back, his cheeks were faintly pink.

I blinked at him.

This was not what I had been promised.

The reception passed in a blur of music and gold light. My new husband, whose name they finally spoke aloud during the toasts as Iker, kept his hand at the small of my back the entire time. He introduced me softly to people, He brought me water without me asking. When the music started, he held out his hand to me and pulled me into a slow dance, and I caught myself smiling against his shoulder before I even realized I was doing it.

His mother watched us the entire night.

She sat at the head table in a deep blood-red dress with diamonds the size of grapes at her ears. Every time I glanced at her she was already looking at me, and her eyes were the kind of cold that did not need words. They said I was dirt that had wandered into her house. 

After the party, Iker took my hand and led me to his private quarters.

His rooms were on the far side of the estate, a wing of their own. That was why I had not seen him during the day I had spent locked in that bedroom. The space was warm, lived-in. Books on the shelves. A bottle of wine and two glasses already set out on a small table near the window.

He shut the door behind us. He kicked off his shoes. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, and then he sat down beside me on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair like a boy who had just survived something difficult.

"You can breathe now," he said softly. "It is just us."

I looked at him.

I really looked at him.

He smiled at me. It was so easy on his face. So unguarded.

"I know how all of this looks," he said. "I know what they probably told you about my family." He paused, looking at his hands. "I just want you to know that I am going to spend the rest of our marriage proving every one of those stories wrong. I promise you, Alondra. You will not regret marrying me."

My throat went tight.

He looked up at me again. Something shy flickered across his face.

"I was not expecting you to be this pretty," he added, quieter. "They told me you were beautiful. They did not tell me you were this beautiful."

I felt my cheeks go warm.

I felt myself blush.

I had not blushed or smiled for a very long time. And here was this man,  this gentle boy in an expensive suit, making me feel like a girl again with a single sentence.

He poured himself a glass of wine.

He drank the whole thing in one slow swallow.

Then he set the glass down and turned to me, and the look in his eyes had changed. Softer at the edges. Warmer. He leaned in and kissed me again, slower than the kiss at the altar, and this time it lingered. His hand slid up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone, and I felt my breath catch against his lips.

His fingers found the small buttons at the back of my dress and began to undo them, one by one. He moved slowly, asking me with his hands before his mouth ever had to. I lifted my own fingers to the buttons of his shirt and worked them open with trembling hands. He pulled back only long enough to slide the dress off my shoulders, and his eyes traveled over my skin with a kind of reverence that made my whole body go warm.

He eased me down onto the bed.

His mouth found the line of my throat. His hand traced the curve of my waist. He braced himself above me, his weight careful, his eyes searching mine in the soft golden light.

"May I?" he whispered.

A real gentleman. Even now. Even here.

I nodded, slow and sweet.

He smiled. He kissed me again. His hands moved to the waistband of his trousers, and he shifted his weight to one side to slide them off, and then he sat up to push them all the way down his legs.

He never made it.

His body jerked.

It was small at first. A twitch in his shoulder. A strange snap of his head to the side. I thought maybe he had pulled a muscle. I sat up halfway, reaching for him, my hand already going to his arm.

Then his whole body went rigid.

His eyes rolled back. A thin white foam bubbled up out of the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin in a slow line. His arms shook so violently the entire bed shook with him, and then he slid sideways off the mattress and hit the floor with a heavy, wet sound that I will never forget for as long as I live.

He convulsed at my feet.

His body bent in shapes a body should not bend in. His fingers clawed at the rug. The foam at his mouth turned faintly pink.

I screamed.

I screamed so loud I felt something tear in my throat.

"Help! Somebody, please! HELP HIM!"

The doors burst open.