Feeling defeated, I offer him a curt nod and school my facial features to the same nonchalant expression he has stitched on his face. With my spine ramrod straight and my head held high, I let Alejandro lead me out of the limo and begin to walk up the stairs towards the church’s wide oak doors.
Once we reach the entrance, the wedding song immediately commences, as if anxious to announce to the world that my impending doom is on the horizon. I try my best not to look at my surroundings and just stare at the large golden cross that hangs proudly behind the priest who is about to marry me off to one of my family’s greatest enemies.
I go to great lengths not to look at the groom waiting for me at the altar, though. If Tiernan isn’t one bit curious about me, then why should I act like I care one iota about him?
No.
Let him know that his disinterest is mutual.
It’s with this thought that my brother’s words from the day before come to the forefront of my mind.
All I have to do is give the Irish king an heir, and he’ll discard me like yesterday’s newspaper.
To most women, that bleak thought would have them running for the hills, but to a cartel princess like me, one who has already been sold and paid for, it’s the only thread of hope I have to hold on to.
Bear a child and be free.
I can do that.
I have to do that.
It’s the only way I’ll be able to survive in this foreign land filled with people who hate me just on mere principle alone.
With new resolve, my hesitant steps, leading me to a fate I never asked for, become steadier. Surer. And as the wedding guests sitting in their pews gawk and whisper while I walk down the aisle, my determination only grows.
I may not like my father, but I have his blood running through my veins, which means I can be just as calculating and manipulative. Or at least in theory, I should be. I just have to find a way to tap into these unpracticed traits if I’m to endure my hellish existence with these savages.
Unsurprisingly, Alejandro’s holier than thou demeanor never falters as he leads me to the altar. When we reach our mark, he pulls me to face him one last time as a Hernandez.
“Remember what I said,” he whispers in my ear, before placing a tender kiss on the top of my head, over my veil.
I nod, taking his advice and words of caution to heart before turning around and stretching my hand to the man who is about to become the instrument that decides if there will be happiness or only misery in my future.
Although I refuse to look at his face, the first thing I notice about my soon-to-be husband is that his hands are huge compared to mine. The rough calluses on them tell me that he’s not afraid of a hard day’s work and takes matters into his own hands should the situation call for it.
How many men has he killed with those hands, I wonder?
Or, more importantly, how many of them were my brethren?
I feel the weight of his stare on me as if reading the thoughts in my head. But like a stubborn child, I continue not to look at him, turning my full attention from his hand and on to the priest so we can get this show on the road.
I was of two minds if I should have worn the traditional veil to cover my face while getting married this morning, but now, I’m thankful I have the heavy garment to shield and protect me a little while longer, since Tiernan isn’t the only one who is staring me down.
Although the air inside the church is crisp and cool, a trickle of sweat slithers down my back from the heat of everyone’s eyes on us, making me feel like I’m some trapped exotic fish in a bowl for everyone to admire—or in my case, scrutinize. My entire body feels itchy and hot as the Irish priest commences his spiel about holy matrimony.
Once I’ve gathered my wits, the priest’s words become clearer to me. I shift my fixed gaze from the cross behind him and, for the first time since I’ve reached the altar, stare at the priest who is about to bind me to this stranger forever.
Just like with every man I’ve encountered in my life, his eyes hold no warmth, no sympathy for my circumstances—even when the words he’s uttering are all about the sanctity of marriage, love, and family. My stomach churns with the knowledge that even this man of the cloth looks down in disdain at me. Like I’m the enemy that dared to enter his sacred domain, a serpent that should have never crawled into his holy temple and should be cast out from paradise by force if need be.
Logic tells me that I can’t fault him for his blatant dislike of me.
My family has done enough damage over the years in the U.S. to warrant such contempt. But can the Kelly family say they are clean of the same sins my family has committed in the past? Don’t they also have the same blood-soaked hands? I guess it’s easier for this priest to ignore their crimes when his church benefits from their generosity. I doubt the Vatican is the benefactor of all the gold and jewels encrusted on the cross I’ve been admiring for the past half hour.