I am unfamiliar with true pleasure. The meaning behind it has always been lost to me. But I suspect it feels like this. The warmth that fills my icy heart when I consider all the ways Ivy will pay for her father’s sins. Under my rule, she will be banished to eternal darkness. She will be owned but never loved. And when she looks at herself in the mirror after tonight, she will understand true shame. I will settle for nothing less.

From the shadows of the confessional, I run my fingers over the rosary necklace that will soon collar my wife. The ceremony is set to begin in thirty minutes when Mercedes texts me to let me know she has returned home after her preparations with Ivy. She informs me that my bride’s face will be the perfect canvas for the blade of my knife. A strange sort of envy materializes in me as I realize how closely Mercedes was able to study my captive. Since I met her in her father’s office many years ago, I have only seen her close up once. The night I gave her the ring was dark and shadowed, and it did not afford me so much detail. And though I have studied the photographs in her file for countless hours, it is not the same as breathing the same air as she does.

I return my sister’s message with instructions to gather some things and stay at the compound tonight. After the phone is returned to my pocket, I lean my head back against the wooden partition and close my eyes, only to be interrupted by the bustling sound of someone entering the chapel.

“Just give me five minutes to myself. Please, Abel.”

I recognize the lilting melody of Ivy’s softness, followed by the growl of her brother.

“I’ll be watching,” he warns her. “Don’t think about doing anything stupid.”

There’s a rustling of fabric, and the soft slap of feet against the stone flooring. She isn’t wearing the heels I bought her. Silly, foolish girl.

For several minutes, I listen to her walk around the chapel. I can’t see her, but I can imagine her seeking out sanctuary for herself. Somewhere to hide and never come out.

When the door to the other side of the confessional opens, I suck in a breath and ease my body back into the darkness as Ivy steps inside. She lowers herself onto the kneeler, mere inches away from me, the thin mesh panel the only thing that separates us.

Her scent fills the space as she shifts and sighs, murmuring the Lord’s name in prayer. She smells clean and natural with a faint lingering hint of what I think is lotion or shampoo. It is a refreshing change from the cloying sweetness of expensive perfume I am often surrounded by in The Society.