12. Frey

TWELVE

FREY

Hours later, when Catherine finally leads me to a mirror, I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. Ignoring my discomfort, she gently rearranges the veil around my face, revealing the hollow panes of my throat, exposed by a gaping neckline.

"You look so beautiful," she coos. "Oh, Frances, you are stunning!"

In a sense, she's right. I look like a beautiful doll that's been drug through hell and back. Her hair is dull and lifeless despite someone's best attempts to coil it into a lovely bun at the nape of my neck. My makeup is minimal but doesn't do much to add color to my sallow cheeks, and nothing can fully hide the bruises on my face or my swollen bottom lip.

My only comfort is the tiny strip of metal hidden within the hem of one of the long bell sleeves that swallow my arms, leaving my neck and chest as the only sections of bare skin.

Catherine does her best to fuss over me with a plastered smile, but I'm sure we both know the truth. I look like a lamb too battered to slaughter.

"I know the color is a bit unorthodox, but you make it work. You look a picture."

"Do I?" I barely recognize my voice. Although the lips in the mirror move, I feel completely disconnected from the figure gazing back at me with her cold, dead eyes. She is the Frances who attempted to jump into another universe without Daze there to save her.

She lost herself in her grief, fell into the cold bay waters, and this is what was spat back out—a dead woman walking.

"I should go get dressed as well," Catherine mutters, glancing at her wristwatch. "The others will be arriving soon."

"Who?" I ask without tearing my gaze from my reflection. "Who else is coming?"

That is a new detail to this horrific arrangement—spectators. Which of my father's deranged associates might be there? Silas?

"I'm not sure, but Colton is here, and I think he wanted to meet with you," Catherine remarks softly. I can see the pain in her face and hear it in her voice. She may pretend to be oblivious, but even she can't ignore the ominous darkness that looms over this entire house. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it in the air. I can taste it. The knot of dread and anxiety in my stomach tightens with each passing minute.

Despite my last words, I can't ignore the part of me that wishes Daze would appear on the horizon. However, I know he wouldn't carry me to safety without craving revenge if he saw my face now. He would burn this entire house down with his enemies still inside it.

Would that be such a bad thing?

There is no clear answer anymore. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible—but it's a minor priority. Firstly, I need to rescue those people in the basement and, if possible, find out why they're being held here at all. I can't get the knowledge of their presence out of my head, or the smell. Despite wearing a priceless gown, I feel so helpless while they cower in squalor below.

But nothing compares to the fear I feel at what could be in store for them.

And for me.

When Catherine leaves the room, I pace the narrow space alone. On my tenth pass near the door, I halfheartedly test the lock, unsurprised to find it secured. Even with my sliver of razor blade, I feel exposed. Weak.

Or so the old Frances would be.

Daze taught me well and I scan the room with a renewed focus, finding anything I can use to aid in my escape. There's a lamp on a nightstand in the corner. I unplug it and set it aside within easy reach—if push comes to shove, I can always use it as a weapon. Only then do I feel somewhat more secure.

Now, to gain a greater understanding of what could be taking place beyond this cage. I don't hear footsteps or a guard approaching after pressing my ear to the door. From below, a distant commotion can be heard near the house's front. Faint voices. Murmurs of conversation. My pulse begins to race as an unfamiliar baritone rumbles in the air. Could this be the arrival of those mysterious "others" that Catherine hinted at?

As I imagine what sort of people could associate with my father, I shudder. No one good.

Trying to make out any noise from below, I sink to my knees, desperate for more. Gradually, the sounds shift, forcing me to inch from the door to a distant corner of the room. Within seconds, I'm crouched near a vent in the floor at the back of the room, straining to pick up traces of that initial conversation. I can almost make out my father's voice, but all I hear are…

Whimpers. There are three distinct voices, so soft I can barely hear them. They don't seem to convey a sense of danger that would justify Catherine's reluctance, though. Not my father's cohorts, perhaps. In fact, I can still hear him, but his voice comes from the other direction of the house.

"Shhh," I hear one of the figures seemingly below the vent whisper. Her voice is so clear that it seems like she's in the room next to me. "They're coming."

I strain my ears for any approaching footsteps, but none reach this level, meaning…

Could I be hearing the people in the basement?

It feels like an unlikely scenario at first—but then I remember our old house and how Hale and I used to pretend to be ghosts, whispering messages to each other using the vents. From the bottom level in the sunroom, he could hear me all the way in his room, a story above.

After a tense few moments of silence, a heavy sigh of relief echoes, followed by terse shushing. Tentatively, I decide to call out, "Hello?"

Silence greets me in return. I can't even hear so much as an intake of air. My cheeks flame. Already, I've gone insane, forced to speak to the shadows if only to distract from the state my life is currently in. Then I hear a set of footsteps approaching from the hall, too suddenly to have come from the stairs.

Shit!

As I begin to rise, a faint sound reaches my ears. "Is someone there?"

In the blink of an eye, the doorknob turns, and I'm still on my knees when the door itself swings open to reveal a smirking Colton.

In contrast to my black gown, he's dressed in a pure-white tux. How cliché. I'm sure he and my father snickered over the juxtaposition—his innocent visage paired with mine, woefully corrupted.

Ironically, even as haggard as I appear, I think Colton looks worse, like a fanciful caricature of his former self. Or, what an innocent fool might imagine a nice, wholesome man to be. Almost like he's playing dress up with someone else's clothes.

There will never be a day when I won't marvel at how easily he and my father fall into their new roles as villains. My entire life has been filtered through rose-colored glasses. As I sleepwalked through my past life, what else had I missed?

After looking me up and down with narrowed eyes, Colton declares, "You look God awful, Frances. I thought Catherine might be able to do something with your face. Apparently not."

His disapproval means nothing to me. Still, I can't stop myself from self-consciously brushing a hand along my cheek. As soon as I realize, I stop myself and keep my head held high. I am not ashamed of the bruises and injuries I've acquired over the past few weeks. Scars and all, they should be worn as badges of honor.

I can't ignore the little voice in my head that wonders what Daze will think of me, though. If I ever see him again…

"I thought I should meet with you before the ceremony just in case you had any delusions of grandeur. Tonight, your father no longer holds any dominion over you, Frances Heywood. You will belong to me. Body and soul."

I dislike the way he uttered the last three words. As his eyes rake over me with way too much familiarity, I step back. My hand flies to the cuff of my sleeve, hunting the razor blade hidden there, just beneath the satin and lace. I don't withdraw it. Yet.

"Oh, don't pretend to be coy, Frances," Colton snarls, stepping forward. "I'm sure you gave more than a glimpse of your body to that biker motherfucker. Didn't you?" He grabs my wrist, jerking me forward.

Panic darts through my system, but I fight to keep my head clear, even as his breath fans over my face. Don't panic. Breathe, Frey. You can handle this.

But if I pull it out now, there goes my entire leverage. Until I'm certain I can escape, I need to stall.

"You never brought me here," I say, hoping to distract him. "Where are we exactly? Is this one of your family's properties?—"

"Don't!" Without warning, he reaches out and grabs my throat. Though my eyes bulge, I don't resist. I'm already trying to work the razor blade free when he loosens his hold.

"Don't think you can play sweet and coy with me, Frances," he growls, his teeth bared. "Not after the humiliation you put me through. I loved you once. I thought you to be a worthy woman to marry. I used to imagine the sort of children we would have, hopefully with your beautiful eyes. But now I see that any children born of you will be as corrupted with evil as you are. If they aren't purified first. Only the hand of a stern father can prevent such a devious nature from festering and spreading. But don't worry, Frances—" He grabs my chin and yanks my face within inches of his. "I fully intend to make sure that you embody the good, God-fearing woman you used to be. And more. You will grow to love me, I'm sure of it. And I fully intend to take advantage of your wifely duties…" I see his arm move and tense even before I feel him touching me—his other hand bunches handfuls of my skirt, lifting it...

Thinking fast, I entwine our fingers together, pulling his hand away.

"If you loved me, you would have told me the truth from the start," I say, trying and failing to make my voice a simpering mockery of how I used to sound. Weak. Passive. He draws his eyebrows together, his skepticism evident, but to my surprise, he relaxes into my grasp. "I only turned to someone else because I felt alone. I was so lost in grief after Hale. It seemed like no one else cared."

He stares into my eyes for a long moment. Then he squeezes my hand so hard I gasp.

"It was your duty to be patient," he warns. "Said attribute is a virtue, after all. You should have been silent by my side and trusted that your father and I knew best. That it would all be for the greater good. You shouldn't have given yourself away to some miscreant like a harlot at the first sign of doubt! And if you truly knew what your father and I had in store, there is no telling what you might do…"

"I would have trusted you," I lie. As if the words physically hurt, the inside of my cheek smarts, and every bruise I sport begins to ache tenfold. "I would have known that you were being honest with me. That's also a virtue."

He tenses his shoulder again, and I'm certain he'll hit me. The fact that he doesn't move brings little comfort. The look in his eye promises only malice. Retribution.

"You think you're so damn smart. Fine. Then why don't you tell me what that degenerate you fucked had to say. Or did you even get as far as talking before you offered yourself to him on a silver platter?"

I fight to keep my anger at bay. He wants me riled and liable to slip up. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

"He told me that Hale didn't kill himself," I say, watching his reaction carefully. "He told me that I couldn't trust anyone."

"Like me?" He pulls back, his eyes narrowing. "And I'm sure you believed him. Dear God, Frances. You always were gullible, but even that should have aroused the smallest hint of skepticism from you."

He sounds so damn cocky. Too smug to be lying. It suddenly occurs to me that he doesn't know the full truth. Apparently, my father doesn't trust him as much as he does Silas. It brings something else he said into a new, chilling light. He may be forcing me to marry Colton, but he doesn't intend for me to stay married long.

Why is that?

"I thought Father trusted you," I say, choosing to probe Colton outright. "Perhaps I should speak more to the man he had keep me company the other night."

"Don't be stupid." Colton scoffs, but I can see confusion ripple across his expression. Apparently, he was still sour about Silas' visit, and the thought unnerves me. Clearly, Colton's role in this twisted game has an end date, one my father even alluded to. Tonight?

"Look at me, you little cunt—" He rips his hand from mine, forcing me to face him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"What?" I try to keep my face blank, knowing the lack of fear will further enrage him. "You mean he didn't tell you? That he sent another man to keep me company all night. Some husband you are. Doesn't the Bible say that a man should guard his woman above all else?"

"You little..." He pulls his arm back, curling his hand into a fist—but then he stops. A flit of hesitation crosses his face as if he just remembered something crucial. Perhaps a warning uttered to him by Father in terms that he can't ignore? He can't touch me. Not tonight. There is a show to put on, after all, and it seems my father wants us both to look and play the part.

"It seems that you're constantly taking orders when it comes to me," I say, laughing as his cheeks redden. "Even now, you know that you will never be able to control me. Not one damn bit. You are nothing more than my father's puppet."

"Is that so?" His hand collides with my shoulder, spinning me around. As I sway to find my balance, pain sears through my scalp, and a glance in the nearby mirror reveals why—he ripped off my veil, pulling my hair out of its delicate coil. I can feel loose strands fall down my shoulders as tears prick my eyes. It hurts like hell, but I'd rather die than show it.

"You smart-mouthed little cunt," he says, his voice rising. "You think he has you so protected? You have no idea how hard I had to fight for him to even keep you in the city and let you marry me. His original plans for you, Frances, were far more befitting. Thankfully, he realized that the money you could bring would make you more useful to keep alive, but don't think that I can't change his mind. All I have to do is walk away."

"Then why don't you?" I counter, turning to face him directly. "I'm sure he would love to give me to Silas. A man he actually trusts?—"

I hear the slap more than I really feel it. My vision goes black for a heartbeat, before returning in snatches. Brilliant stars still dance before my eyes as Colton reappears before me, adjusting his tie.

"You made me do that," he grumbles, eyeing me with a look of utter disgust. "I'm sure your father will understand. From what I hear, your mother was a feisty one as well."

Don't, a part of me warns as anger washes over me. Don't take the bait. Don't let him rattle you.

Too late. As fresh blood drips from the reopened wound on my inner cheek, restraint seems damn near impossible to maintain. My situation resembles that of an animal trapped in a cage, about to be forced to decide between fighting to escape or submitting to death. It's becoming clearer to me now more than ever. I won't last the night here.

So, I decide to throw tact to the wind.

"Don't worry, Colton." Red liquid sprays as I speak, no doubt splattering over my exposed neckline. "I'm sure if you find me too feisty for you, you can help yourself to one of the poor women you have locked up on the property. My father told me all about them as well."

For a split second, his face flashes with genuine concern. Panic takes root in my chest as I realize one chilling detail—I've caught him off guard. Could he not know?

"I'm sure you have no idea," I rush to add. "Some important partner you are. You're nothing more than a puppet dangling from a pretty string?—"

"Shut up!" Lightning fast, he slaps me again, but I manage to deflect the blow with the back of my hand. I feel riled. My skin heats as though a live wire is thrumming beneath it, prickling hot, ready to burn anything or anyone who dares to get too close. An unpleasant metallic taste is on my tongue, but it's not blood. It's anger. I wonder if this is what Daze feels in those moments of blackout rage. When he seemed like a creature possessed more than a man.

Do I have the same look in my eye? For some reason, the prospect doesn't terrify me. I want to be like him.

"You deluded yourself, Colton," I spit, laughing at his shocked expression. "You think that you matter, but you're as disposable as I am. He told me so. You claimed you'd have dominion over me after the wedding. Do you want to know what my father said when I told him?" I force another cold laugh from my throat that sounds gleeful. Demonic. "He said that it won't last very long. That you will never outrank him when it comes to me. Why do you think that is?"

"And did your father tell you that he'll be lucky if he even survives tonight?" he asks in a hoarse hiss. "You think you know everything, you smug little bitch. Then you riddle me this—who needs your father if they can control access to your mother's estate? Michael Heywood is a fading star. Do you know who could benefit politically from his demise, however? His grieving son-in-law. Don't make the mistake of assuming that your father is the only one with ambitions, Frances."

He shoves me back so hard I land on the bed, breathless. He steps forward to loom over me, cracking his knuckles one by one.

"I was going to wait until our wedding night to teach you the importance of obedience when it comes to your husband," he says, his voice low and menacing. "But I think I'll make an exception. After all, you're already mine whether you want to believe it or not. Once I get your signature on the marriage certificate, you or your father won't have any legal recourse. So why should I wait to see what my own wife has to offer?"

He snatches a handful of my skirt and wrenches it up. Cold air teases my skin before his groping fingers replace it, scratching and clawing. My mind goes blank, but not out of panic. A steely finality comes over me. This is it, it warns. You won't get another chance. Hurting him won't be enough this time. You need to kill…

The silk of my dress feels like sandpaper beneath my searching fingertips as they hunt for a hint of sharpness tucked within the lace. There. If I aim for Colton's throat, it doesn't matter how tiny my blade is—as long as I hit an artery. Swallowing hard, I start to wind the metal loose as Colton lunges toward me, raising his hand…

A knock rattles the door, attracting his attention just paces from me. "What is it?"

An unfamiliar voice replies. "Sir, everyone is meeting in the stables for the ceremony."

Colton eyes his raised fist and laughs as if he finds the violence amusing. Gradually, he resumes his polished persona, straightening his tie once again. Tilting his head toward the door, he says, "We'll be down in a moment."

The expression on his face isn't what I expect a new husband to show to his wife. Icy, his narrowed gaze promises painful retribution next time we're alone.

"Compose yourself," he snaps while marching toward the door. I make a halfhearted attempt to tie back my hair, not that he seems to care. After smoothing a hand down the front of his suit, he pulls the door open to reveal a guard, nearly identical to the others I'd glimpsed skulking around the property. Dressed in black with a weapon at his hip, he waits patiently for Colton and me to exit the room. As we head toward the staircase, the guard follows, his steps echoing like a morbid countdown.

Tick.

Tock.

This is another glaring sign that, despite Colton's pompous demeanor, he's not as in control as he thinks. Taking in everything I can, I push the fear aside as we pass the same rooms adorned with faded luxury that I saw while with Catherine. After the sun sets behind the tall windows, the darkness doesn't provide a better contrast to this place than the bright daylight did. In disrepair and dust, it appears more like a gothic vampire's lair.

Or a prison.

A sense of déjà vu washes over me as we retreat down a vaguely familiar corridor that ends before a set of ornate black doors. Another guard opens them from the outside, revealing a shadowed courtyard enclosed by seemingly endless swaths of forest. Colton nudges me out before him as I strain my eyes to view a neglected lawn with overgrown hedges. Not far from the house is an empty fountain that's been dry long enough for weeds to have grown up between cracks in the stone base. Looming above it, towering in the darkness, is a set of large, triangular buildings that must be the stables. Orange lanterns have been fixed to the outside of one, illuminating two large doors left open to the night air.

Apprehension floods my veins. It's not the church venue I was expecting. The uneasy sensation of stage fright envelops me as hushed murmurs from within the imposing structure seep out to greet me. I feel as if I am the lead in a twisted production I never agreed to participate in.

I look over at Colton, whose eyes gleam with a smug air of superiority. As we approach the stables, he grasps my hand in a punishing grip, but I know better than to pull away.

Even though I cannot see him, I can feel my father watching me from the faceless crowd before us. God, there must be twenty… thirty people here. Can any of them be from the congregation in which I spent my entire life, now corrupted by the evil of my father? Only a torchlight illuminates the mostly-dark interior, causing my eyes to blink rapidly as Colton drags me inside.

I glance up at the "altar" ahead, and my heart sinks deeper into my chest. When I used to consider marriage, I envisioned a grand, beautiful ceremony, with my father there to guide me down the aisle and a crowd of swooning churchgoers dressed in their Sunday best.

I don't recognize any of the shrouded figures assembled here. They seem formless, as if draped in black cloaks that shield their features from view. Faceless onlookers, they stand gathered around the sides of the stables, watching in an eerie coordinated silence as Colton and I traverse a long walkway lined in black carpet.

I don't like this.

Especially when I finally see what lurks beyond the altar, emanating a sweltering heat. I don't know how I missed it before—a stone basin containing a roaring fire that crackles at the air. A man in a black robe stands beside it, a hood drawn low over his face.

I can't help it. I falter, forcing Colton to tug on my wrist sternly.

"Come on," he hisses. "I swear I'll drag you there if I have to."

He might have to. What the hell is going on? I can't see my father anywhere. At least until the hooded figure speaks, his voice low and gravelly but instantly familiar.

"Come forward, both of you, and allow yourself to be honored by the cleansing fire."

Fire. My eyes widen at the word. Despite their terrible beauty, I can't help but stare at the dancing flames. I must stop short a second time, because Colton nearly pulls me to the floor in his irritation to force me to keep up.

For a heartbeat, all the bravery I've amassed over the past few days goes out the window. I can't breathe. Terror forms a stone ball in the pit of my throat, making it impossible to suck in air. My heart is a quivering mass in my chest, and my knees buckle.

Cleansing fire.

Cleansing fire.

Those two words form a ceaseless mantra that taunts me, drowning out any voice of reason in my mind that might argue with it. I can't go through with this. I can't!

My fingers are ready to pry the razor blade free.

Then I see them.

Initially, their location appears obscured from my vantage point. In this winding, echoing chamber, I can only hear their hushed whimpers, soft and fearful. My ears are captivated by the sound, and I turn my head just enough to make out shadows in a nearby stall. The place seems devoid of horses, but instead, there are three small figures huddled together on a heap of hay. Loose, dark hair tumbles down their shoulders and every one of them would make a more fitting bride than I do. They're dressed in white shifts that expose their knees and hang on their slender frames as if no one bothered to size them properly.

Because they won't be wearing them for very long, a voice in my head explains. You remember what Father said. That word—Sacrifice.

I shake my head, desperate to clear it of the paranoid whispers. Before I know it, Colton and I are standing before the hooded figure, facing the burning pyre.

This close, it's easier to tell that the ebony-clad figure is my father. Or at least he used to be. As he throws back his hood, I can't find any shred of Michael Heywood lurking within those empty eyes. Gone is any ounce of warmth or light. His very soul seems to reflect the darkness in this room, making even the fire reflecting off his irises seem cold and lifeless.

"We are here today to recognize the holy union of these two souls," he says, his voice overly loud, echoing off the walls in an endless din. "May they both be joined in eternal bonds, but to strengthen those bonds, a promise must be made, and a promise must be kept..."

A cry goes up from the back of the room. The guard who followed us in stands apart from the crowd, herding all three girls from the stall. They're no older than I am, tethered together by shackles on their ankles, and their wide eyes make them resemble a trio of innocent does, captured purely for some hunter's amusement.

My heart sinks. This isn't right, that voice in my head warns. This isn't right. Run, Frey. Run!

Colton digs his nails into the back of my hand as if sensing my thoughts. "You think you are any different than they are?" he asks me, his voice dangerously soft. "You're not, and if you so much as try to disobey me, you'll end up the same way. I'll see to it."

I barely hear him. My attention is consumed by the guard as he crouches to free one of the girls from her companions. She staggers forward, resembling a dove fluttering through the crowd of silent, darkened onlookers. They move in unison, herding her toward the stage as she glances around wildly, visibly confused.

I feel a desperate impulse to help her . Do something. Move . The second I take a step, Colton wrenches me back.

"Don't," he snaps.

"What are you doing?" My voice echoes wildly. "Tell me!"

"This is a necessary act that you brought upon yourself," my father says, filling the entire room. "You are the reason that this union needs to be purified, because of your lies and evil."

Purified. That word haunts me as the frightened girl is steered to the altar and forced to mount it. I feel her grab my hand as she passes.

"Please help me, please!"

I don't recognize her, but a sickening suspicion tells me that she's most likely from the Salvation outreach program, lured here under false pretenses.

But to what end?

Again, I try to speak. "What's going on?"

"Consider this my wedding present to you," my father continues. "And a reminder. Should you think to do anything to me or to destroy this marriage, this will happen."

He lunges for the girl as two men surge from the crowd to help wrestle her down onto a flat table I'd missed before, positioned directly beneath the pyre. She cries out in alarm as they hold her in place while my father approaches. It is only when he brandishes an object into the air that the shape of what he is holding becomes apparent.

A knife.

"No!"

Colton hooks his arm around my waist from behind, pinning me against him. Trapped, I can only watch in horror as the man I once called Father lowers the blade over the girl's chest.

And plunges it in.

"No!" I lose track of myself. I'm not even aware of biting or hitting or flailing at my captors—only that nothing I do can get me free in time.

Bit by bit, I watch the blood spill onto the floor.

And in those wide, endless brown eyes, I see the life drain out.