Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The shirt came down to her knees and she still felt more naked than she ever had before.

Carmine peeked out of the door warily, her face already hot. Her heart pounded within her ribcage. Atticus was impossible to miss in the small space. He sat on one of the low benches that framed the comically small table at the foot of the bed. His broad shoulders were hunched, his long coat removed. There were straps over his shoulders. It took her a second to realize he wore a gun holster. He'd pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing a fascinating array of vampiric skulls and thorny vines and flowers sprayed over thick, sturdy forearms.

Atticus looked up from his phone the moment her gaze landed on him. He went preternaturally still.

Her fingers tightened around the small latch that acted as a doorknob. The heat of her blush could have rivaled the sun. She couldn't remember the last time someone had seen her without her makeup or her veil.

Grim's acolytes painted themselves and veiled their heads in a commitment to modesty and selflessness. All genders wore long white gowns. Jewelry, haircuts, and tattoos were forbidden. Brides especially weren't allowed to alter their bodies in any way that wasn't pre-approved by the matron in charge of their care.

That was why she'd had her body hair lasered off, but she'd never had more than the dead ends carefully trimmed from her head. She painted her face and hands, but she couldn't dream of a tattoo or even glittery eyeshadow. She wore her gowns, but never dared to ask if she might try a color other than white.

One reason so many brides looked forward to their bride price being paid was the relative freedom it came with. The matron liked to remind them all the time that if they were chosen, they could dress however their spouses liked. They might get to own a pair of sneakers, or lip gloss, or even cut their hair.

Carmine longed to try those things, but she didn't account for how nude she would feel without her costume, the mask she'd worn for so long.

And the way Atticus looked at her… it definitely felt like she was nude.

He said something too low for her to hear, pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, and then muttered, "That was fast. Was everything okay? Do you need something?"

The bathroom had been fully stocked. The soaps and things weren't quite as good of a quality as she was used to — a bride must have soft skin — but everything was there. In fact, she'd taken the luxury of a whole extra minute in the shower, just to see if she could.

"I'm okay," she answered, because he kept waiting for her to say something.

Atticus dropped his hand and fixed her with a look. "Why'd you go so fast? You didn't have to hurry. My sister takes ages in the shower. She says it's a woman's right."

He has a sister? Yes, that seemed right. She didn't know what it was like having siblings, but she thought she could see Atticus fitting into a big brother mold very easily.

Must be nice to have someone looking out for you.

"I took an extra minute," she reminded him as she shuffled her way out of the bathroom. There were really only a few feet between the bathroom and the bed, but the journey felt like it took ages. Probably because Atticus watched her so closely.

"Extra minute?"

Carmine tried very hard not to look guilty. "Yes. I was in the shower for five minutes. Didn't you notice?"

He seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting down to the shirt she'd borrowed, then back up, like he was trying not to look and failing. Maybe that was why it took him a second to ask, "What are you talking about?"

She wasn't sure where she was supposed to sleep or even sit, but there wasn't exactly a bevy of options, so she settled back on the edge of the bed and tucked her bare legs under her. Carefully arranging her long rope of wet hair over her shoulder, she began to braid it so it would be more manageable.

"In the crypt, we're only allowed four minutes of shower time. Two minutes of water with a minute break in between."

Atticus looked at her like she'd just plucked something from inside a corpse and waved it around. "Why would they do that?"

"Longer showers encourage vanity and sloth," she replied, by rote. After a heartbeat, she took a risk by adding, "Also, I think they didn't want us to be alone together for any longer than that. The showers were communal and they couldn't risk any of us being defiled."

A couple tried it once and things went very, very badly for them. Personally, Carmine didn't understand the appeal. It was a good way to get out of being a bride, certainly, but only if you succeeded. If you didn't, the punishment would be endless. Not to mention the fact that the act itself seemed awful.

Atticus's expression didn't ease up. If anything, he looked more disgusted than when she started.

"Okay, new rule," he rumbled, standing up slowly from his seat. He planted his hands on the tiny tabletop and a muscle in his jaw ticced. "No more five minute showers."

Her stomach sank, but before it could go too far, he continued, "You take as long as you fucking want. Ten minutes. Twenty. Fuck, an hour if that's what you need. Look at all that hair. No way five minutes is enough. There's a fancy water recycler in this thing, so take as long as you need to."

Ten-minute showers? Her stomach exploded with excited butterflies. She hadn't experienced a luxury like that since she was little and her mother used to give her baths in the plastic tub of their one-bedroom apartment.

"And another thing— This isn't the crypt anymore. You don't have to ask me permission for shit. You don't have to watch what you say. You can't run because you could get hurt, but everything else… You're your own person. All that stuff was bullshit, okay? Whoever taught you that— that shit about defilement was a piece of garbage and if they were here, I'd shoot them."

Carmine was only halfway done with her braid, but her fingers refused to move. She could only stare, wide-eyed, as Atticus stalked over to his backpack and snatched it up. He looked so angry, but it wasn't directed at her. She felt it, though, like a furnace getting hotter and hotter.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was making rules for her if she wasn't supposed to ask for permission for things, but she didn't. Instead, she found herself saying, "My groom might not like that."

He stopped by the bed and turned his head to lash her with a glare. "What part?"

"Any of it." She licked her lips and looked away, afraid that if she held his gaze for a moment longer, she'd catch fire. "I'm not supposed to listen to anyone but my groom. If he wants?—"

A tug on the loose end of her braid stopped her mid-sentence. Atticus held the dripping ends of her hair in his tattooed fist, but he didn't yank it. He wrapped it once, twice, around his knuckles before he gently pulled her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He looked much calmer when he told her, "Your groom is a dead man, doll. Stop thinking about him."

Her heart leapt, but Carmine knew better than to hope, to trust. If anything, the cold look in Atticus's eyes made her more afraid. She thought she understood how to deal with a man who'd pay her bride price, but him? There was no telling what he wanted from her, let alone what he'd do next.

She couldn't rely on him to save her. For all she knew, he was worse than her groom. He could kidnap her, sell her to someone else. Offer her as a broodmare to other vampires. Take her for himself.

It was the oddest thing, the physical reaction she had to that last thought. A flush rolled down from her chest to her toes, and something warm unfurled in the lowest part of her stomach.

Atticus slowly unwound her hair from around his knuckles. When he was done, he skimmed them over her clothed shoulder. That warmth in her stomach grew hotter, bigger, and oddly a little heavier.

Maybe he saw the panic in her eyes. Maybe he understood that a bride couldn't trust anyone — especially those who claimed to want to help. Whatever the reason, his expression went from terrifying to soft in a heartbeat.

"Easy, doll. I'm not going to let anyone touch you, okay?" He gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. Carmine didn't understand what he wanted her to do until her back hit the mattress. Using one hand, he pulled the blankets out from under her and draped them over her legs. He gave the top of her bandaged foot a gentle pat. "Sleep. I'm gonna shower."

"Okay." She tracked him as he moved toward the bathroom.

Opening the door, he reminded her, "No running. If you do, I'll hunt you down, and you're not gonna like what I'll have to say when I catch you. Got it?" He cast her one of those stern looks over his shoulder, demanding a response.

Carmine hid the lower half of her face beneath a sheet and curled on her side, her eyes glued to the wide shape of his back, his sturdy waist, the funny way the short bristles of hair on the nape of his neck came together in a triangular shape. Her voice came out whispery when she answered, "Got it."

And just like that, he gifted her another one of those brilliant smiles. "Thatta girl."