I had to. If everything worked out, perhaps I could save him too.
For five days we had kissed. Feather-light, innocent kisses, two inexperienced people trying to show how much the other was treasured. I was sure I was now addicted to those kisses. No man had ever simply wanted kisses from me and nothing more. Better still, Rider did not fear me. He did not see me as evil incarnate. I saw the truth of that every time he looked at me. Every time the corner of his lips would pull into a contented smile.
Rider saw me. The real me . . . at least as much as I would let him see. We both had secrets, pasts we had yet to reveal. There was no use burdening him with mine, with the terrors that plagued me each night. Because this short piece of heaven we had found in a stone cell was exactly that—short.
My heart had been irreparably broken many months ago, so much so that I had chosen to live an almost solitary life in Puerto Rico. But since speaking to Rider, that heart had paused in its crumbling. He had given me a short reprieve to breathe again, to chase the loneliness of loss from my spirit. But this week, the pieces had begun to break away again, only in greater chunks. Because as well as the loved ones I had lost so completely, now I would lose Rider. As the countdown to the wedding approached, the pain in my chest had grown worse.
Right now, I could scarcely breathe.
After today I would not share a cell with that man anymore . . . the man I was hopelessly enamored with. I would not know his touch, his lips’ sweet taste, his kindness. From today, I would live with a man that shared Rider’s face, but none of his gentleness.
In mere minutes I would walk down the aisle to celestially merge myself to a man that represented everything I despised. A savage amongst cruel men. An instigator of pain.
Somebody jerked aggressively on my hand, sending a slice of red-hot pain up my arm. I blinked and focused on the culprit—Sister Sarai. I could see the frustration in her expression as she glared at me, lips pursed. “Did you hear anything that I said?” she snapped. I shook my head. “The prophet has given me orders to pass on to you. You must keep your eyes cast down through the ceremony, and you must not speak, except in the moments you take your vows. Never raise your eyes to meet his or anyone else’s. Is that clear? It is imperative that you do this joining by our book. The people need to understand the significance of the Cursed marrying their prophet.”
A wave of ire washed through me at Sarai’s cutting tone, but I tamped it down and simply nodded. Sarai released my arm. A flower garland was placed upon my head, then Sarai waved her hand, motioning for me to stand.
I did, my jeweled sandals tapping lightly on the stone floor. From outside came the tinny sound of speakers playing melodic, lyric-less music. But my attention was captured by what was in front of me. A large mirror was fixed to the wall . . . a large mirror that now showed me in all of my bridal attire.
I stared at the sleeveless white garment that clung to my body. My long blond hair hung in loose ringlets down my back, the two braided front sections secured at the crown of my head, allowing every inch of my veil-free face to be seen. I lifted my hand and hovered my fingers over my cheeks and eyes.
Sarai moved beside me and knocked my hand away. “Do not touch your face,” she ordered. “It will ruin how we have made you look.”
Dark-coated lashes curled like long wings over my brown eyes. My cheeks were pink as though flushed, and my lips were painted a deep rose. I rubbed them together, the colored cream tasting like fruit on my tongue.
A delicate garland of fresh pastel-colored flowers lay upon my head. Sarai thrust something into my hands, and when I looked down I saw it was a small bouquet matching the flowers on my head.
As I clutched the spray, I could not stop trembling. It is truly happening, I thought as I stared at the painted stranger in front of me. I recognized nothing of this woman. I felt nothing like my true self.
My body suddenly felt weak. Drained of any remaining hope. Drained of the calm I had found in Puerto Rico during my short reprieve from this stifling “Cursed” title . . . drained of the temporary happiness I had found in Rider’s arms. Rider, the mysterious, broken man who had stolen what was left of my shattered heart.
I allowed my mind to drift to the man who had become the focus of my every waking thought. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I felt like crying when I wondered who would treat him and care for him after his daily punishments from now on. My heart lurched with sadness as I recalled how his weary eyes would watch me as I washed away the blood and dirt collected on his skin. As if I was his savior, as if no one had ever shown him such care and compassion in his life . . . as if afraid I would leave him, as everyone in his life always had. From today he would be alone again. I could barely breathe as I thought of him sitting day after day in that cell, lonely and defeated.
It broke my heart.
I glanced up at my foreign reflection, and I felt the life seeping from me with every breath. In a better world I would belong to a man such as Rider. We would choose to be in each other’s arms. I had heard the stories of the outside world from Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth, how people were free to live as they wished, with whomever they wished. But in my life, I had only ever experienced hurt and pain. And loss. Such loss that I could not let myself remember those I had loved so fully, yet lost so tragically.
Just the memory burned me alive from within.