But it had to be done. For the sake of us all.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, exhaling slowly through my mouth to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. My eyes closed of their own accord and I could not help but picture what this wedding would be like.
People. So many people who knew nothing of my existence would today see me wed the prophet. A man I had only met once . . . a man I was told would not see me again until our wedding because I tempted him too much. They would see him take me on the ceremonial bed. They would watch me through the gauze curtain, being taken against my will by the prophet.
And they would do nothing about it. They would praise the Lord for its occurrence.
Disgust swirled within me when I pictured the prophet’s face, but that disgust switched to warmth when I immediately thought of Rider. I never thought of Rider as Prophet Cain. Prophet Cain was a cruel man lording his power over innocent people, convincing them to bend to his will. Rider was a kind, gentle, but tortured, soul. I fought back the smile from my lips as I let my mind drift back over the past five days. When I had awoken the morning after Rider had revealed his true identity to me, I was in his arms. I, Harmony, was cradled to his chest like a contented lover, his large, strong arms keeping me to his side as though he was terrified I would leave.
No man had ever treated me the way he had, staring down into my eyes as I lifted my head to stare up into his. His hand slowly stroked down the side of my face, only stopping to let his fingertips drift over my kiss-swollen lips. His every touch was an answered prayer, the childhood prayer I had refused to ever let wane—that I would be wanted by somebody . . . loved for me and me alone. The wish that every Cursed Sister begs God for, but one that is never answered.
I had held my breath, seeing the undisguised affection he held for me in his dark eyes . . . but seeing the internal struggle he was fighting too. My smile fell. If there was ever a man who physically represented a torn soul, it was Rider. He was two sides of the same coin, a man straddling a barrier only known in his heart. Any mention of his brother caused a visible pain to settle on his face. Any mention of the sins he said he’d committed as prophet struck him as hard as any physical blow. If his hand happened to be in mine, it would always squeeze a little more. I had no idea what he had done to make him hate himself so badly. I could not believe this man was capable of doing anything wrong or untoward. His heart was pure.
His heart was true.
I wanted to help him, but I had no idea how. Rider kept so much back that I knew my knowledge of him was barely scratching the surface. I wanted him to let me in, but he had not let me get that far, always keeping me in a perpetual place of warmth, of happiness. He never let any darkness into our small haven of solace.
He had made it our very own sanctuary.
He knew who we were now. And he knew the reason why we had come back. He never said much about it. But I could see that what I had committed to do pained him.
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.