"Are you alright?"
Beatrice only hummed in response. She felt her veil begin to slide from her face, but she slapped the hand away.
Ephraim rubbed his hand. "Can I not even see my own bride's face?"
Beatrice suddenly felt very cold, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. "You'll be disappointed."
Ephraim gave her a gentle smile. "That's impossible."
Beatrice drummed her fingers against her thigh. She didn't want to show him her face. As soon as he looked at her, he would know what she was. She hated watching people's faces change when they finally looked at her.
Beatrice sucked in a few quick breaths. It would happen sooner or later. It would be better by her own hand, rather than being forced to.
She slipped the veil from her face, closing her eyes tightly. She felt a ghost of a hand brush over her cheek, right over her mark.
The mark that marked her as a blood traitor.
"I thought they usually marked the wrist," Ephraim said, softly.
Beatrice only shrugged in response.
"What did you do?"
Beatrice chewed on her lips. It had been a long time since someone had asked her that. "I killed someone."
She braced herself for further questions, but Ephraim stayed silent. She was surprised that she was thankful for his silence. She didn't need reassurance or sympathy. She didn't want it. She realized silence was exactly what she wanted. But in her mind, her gods were still screaming.
Ephraim continued to stroke her cheek before bringing his lips to her. They were cold and uncomfortable and Beatrice couldn't help herself from pulling away.
Ephraim frowned, "Are you afraid of me?"
"No." Beatrice answered honestly. "I'm just uncomfortable."
Uncomfortable. It was not quite the truth, but not a lie either. In truth, Beatrice did not know how she felt. She just knew she wanted to be alone.
A thought of her demon flashed in her head and for a moment, but only a moment, she craved the warmth that radiated off of him.
"I'm cold," she told her husband. "And tired. Let's sleep."
"Sleep? On our wedding night?"
Beatrice feigned ignorance. "What else would one do at night?"
Ephraim sighed, settling down onto the bed.
"I will have to go to my estate in a few weeks."
Beatrice instantly felt her mood brighten. Outside? Out of the damn monastery? Beatrice could barely hide her giddiness.
"Oh!" She cried. "How wonderful! How long will we be staying?"
Ephraim's lips thinned. And just like that, Beatrice's hopes were crushed.
"You won't be coming."
"Why not? I'm your wife, aren't I?"
"Are you?"
Beatrice choked out a laugh. "Are you punishing me for not wanting to sleep with you?"
"No, I already promised the archbishop that I would not take you from the monastery far before our wedding."
Beatrice twisted the blanket in her fists. "You've been in talks with my father for a long time?"
"Of course, it was a complicated marriage."
"But you've only met me today."
"What about it, Asaemia?"
Beatrice's blood ran cold. He didn't know her real name. The demon in the chapel knew her real name, but her own husband only called her by the archbishop's damnable pet name.
She hated this feeling that rose inside her. It was ugly and dark. It chilled her entire body, seizing her heart with ice. It made her feel unclean. She assumed a thousand baths wouldn't make her feel any less disgusting.
She wanted to hit the man in front of her for making her feel that way. She wanted to hit the archbishop for arranging the whole situation. She wanted to hit herself, for allowing herself to be so weak to be hurt by it all.
She cursed her gods, who cursed her back in fury.
'Do what you like,' she told her gods. 'You have never given me your blessings in the first place.'
"I see," she said quietly. "I see how this marriage will be."
'Why would you expect anything else?' Her gods whispered back.
Why indeed.
Beatrice did not sleep that night. Her husband was up at the first light of morning, but Beatrice remained in bed until the spot at her side had long gone cold and the sun was high in the sky.
She only rose when she was given a summons order from the archbishop.
Ascanio eyed her the entire walk to the audience room.
"Stop looking at me," she commanded.
"You don't look happy," Ascanio commented.
Had there ever been a time she felt happy? She tried to summon the thought in her mind, some sort of memory of happiness. Did she even know what happiness was? Was it a false family that she knew deep in her heart could never be completely her own? Was it a father, who was not her father, watching her every move? Was it living day after day trapped within the same dull, lifeless place?
'How long do you intend to be the victim?' A god asked her.
She stood in front of the door. The door that would lead to the archbishop. She tightened her fist. She felt nails dig into flesh and blood gather in her palm.
Beatrice would be a victim no longer.