Chapter 16: The Bride

The wedding gown was sewn of undyed spider silk, imported from Orpheia’s home city alongside a team of shackled seamstresses tasked with making the garment. Orpheia recognized the lace that layered over itself in a voluptuous cascade as being the family pattern of an old friend. She feared she knew the names of those who suffered for her gown. People who likely weren’t still alive. Had she known the names of those out on the fields? Had she known some of the girls that were ravaged and murdered the night Meyrick entranced her? Orpheia couldn’t believe that she had been blind to what Meyrick had been doing from the very beginning.

Everything from Orpheia’s neck to her wrists was covered in the silk, falling to the floor in a pile of wasted fabric. Beneath the extravagance hid leather coverings—a bustier, boots, and tight bloomers—given to Orpheia in order to keep Meyrick’s favorite parts of her skin unmarked before he could get his hands on her. Had Orpheia been left alone for only a few moments, she would not have hesitated to carve her nails deep beneath her skin and ruin the canvas that Meyrick was so yearning to rip to shreds himself. But he was clever and kept his bride under tight lock and key. She was never without Lucilia, nor at least two guards. They were gentle when they touched her, out of fear of wounding her. The only place they could strike was the crown of her head, for her hair hid the black and violet bruises underneath.

Orpheia’s head throbbed with each slow step toward the basilica. She walked alongside a barrage of royal guards with her hands bound in white leather restraints. The cuffs held her wrists together and forced her to grip a bouquet of black calla lilies. The same flowers adorned her hair and influenced the painting of her makeup. The restraints were attached to a chain that Lucilia held onto tight. She forced Orpheia along at a slow pace, ensuring that each and every gawking civilian got a good long look at the king’s prisoner bride. The last of the Umbranians to be put into chains. Orpheia was just grateful that she could not see their faces through her veil, though their nervous whispers were loud enough to cause her to tremble. Orpheia focused solely on the sound of her own breathing, hoping it might drown out the noise.

The sun was still hanging up above, though it drew nearer to dusk. At the rate Orpheia was being walked, the ceremony would end with a sky painted in bloodied reds and freezing blues. A moonless night would greet her upon the finale of her freedom. How putridly fitting.

King Meyrick stood at the top of the basilica steps, speaking quietly with Father Grimshaw. The limestone stairs had been scrubbed clean and adorned with more blossoms, as if it were an apology of sorts for Orpheia’s last torturous encounter. She could still see spots of crimson, however, where the stone had chewed through the skin of her kneecaps.

Meyrick and the priest were both dressed in white, though Grimshaw wore gold in his garments. They were the very same ones he had adorned when he first whipped Orpheia. Her skin shriveled up to see them again. Meyrick’s suit was void of anything but pure white, just like his bride. His hair had been slicked back and decorated with baby’s breath petals, while a black calla lily was pinned to his breast with a lock of Orpheia’s hair that had been cut from her in her sleep. He carried a silver sword on his hip, bound in a white leather sheath. It was no decoration. The blade inside was likely sharp.

When Meyrick finally caught a glimpse of the mountain of silky white lace climbing the stairs toward him, he flashed a proud smile. “How beautiful you look,” he said, taking the chain from Lucilia. She bowed her head in respect to both men, then whispered a short prayer before Father Grimshaw escorted her inside the basilica. At the base of the steps, a crowd began to form; a sea of hungry people, each gnawing their gums and gnashing their teeth for a chance to see the couple.

Orpheia looked past him, peering through her veil, and found the basilica inside to be quite spacious, and surprisingly empty. “What of the guests?”

Meyrick’s smile faded slightly, but he pursed his lips to compensate for the error. “What do we need of guests, little phantom?”

“Your court members do not wish to see this?” Orpheia asked. “Nor your generals?”

“Those bleeding oafs?” Meyrick chuckled. He patted a soft hand to Orpheia’s shoulder, then gripped it tight enough to hold her unprotected skin on the precipice of bruising. “Those gentlemen have played their roles, my pet. But I am ushering in a new era right here, right now. Marrying you is the first act of my kingship. Electing a new court will be my second.”

“First act?” Orpheia looked up to realize that Meyrick’s head was still missing its crown. “Are you not king?”

“Hush now,” Meyrick snapped. “Play your part. Appease me. For tonight, I’ll make you feel so good that you’ll ever forget who you once were.”

“And then what? Become Selina?”

Meyrick’s smile widened. He tightened his grip for a moment, then let his hand drop. “What are you talking about? You’ve always been Selina.”

Orpheia scowled beneath the veil. “You wretched man. I am Orpheia. I was born Orpheia, I live as Orpheia, and I will die Orpheia.”

“Orpheia is your daughter,” he said. There was a conviction in his voice that frightened Orpheia. She stumbled back, only for Meyrick to scoop her by the hips and drag her closer toward the basilica’s entrance. “You’re being silly, Selina. We’ve waited for this for so long.”

“We?”

“It took ten years, but I finally brought you back to me. With my uncle gone, there is nothing standing in our way anymore.”

“What are you talking about? My mother—”

“You can cast as many hexes on me as you wish, Selina. You can scorn my name all you want. But I will make you mine. Though your body has changed, your pussy tastes the same. Perhaps your screams will sound the same, too. I’ve gotten smarter, pet. I won’t allow a repeat of last time.”

Orpheia, frozen in shock, felt her body sway. She rested against Meyrick’s strong hand, despite the way his touch made her shrivel. “What happened last time?”

Meyrick laughed. He pulled Orpheia closer by the shackles around her wrist. His breath was hot against Orpheia’s veil, and slowly, he sucked away her air.

“You remember,” he whispered gently. “The way you kicked and screeched. I still recall your fists pounding against me as you begged me to stop. Tell me you remember. Remember how my cock felt inside of you. How your pussy was so willing to drink in every droplet of my sodomy.”

“What did you do to my mother?” Orpheia whispered, but the words came out so silently that Meyrick could not hear.

“I’ve fitted the bed with shackles this time,” he said, pulling away. “You’ll learn to submit. You will learn to love me.”

A heavy thud rang out through the basilica walls as the doors fell shut. Orpheia leapt in terror and shrieked, for she had not realized that Meyrick had slowly been dragging her inside. She was locked in, with no one to comfort her but the watchful eyes of the guards, the priest, her maid, and the false king beside her.

“My mother hadn’t been killed for witchcraft at all, had she?” Orpheia asked. Black tears stained her gown’s breast.