She peeks up at me from beneath her lashes and begins to study the artwork on my face again. I watch her carefully for signs of her true feelings, but I only see her curiosity. It perplexes me beyond measure, and it irritates me more than I could have anticipated. She is supposed to be disgusted by me. She is supposed to hate me. This is the natural order of things.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asks quietly. “In the confessional. Your cologne—”

The muscles in my spine turn rigid at her observation. I did not expect her to be so… perceptive. She should know better than to ask me such a question.

“Do you mean when you begged God not to let you marry a monster?” I sneer.

“That isn’t what I meant—” She sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “You’re twisting my words around.”

I turn my gaze toward the window, stewing in my aggravation. What a disobedient little surprise she has turned out to be. Challenging me already. Refusing to wear the shoes I bought her. Questioning me as if she has a right to do so. As if a Moreno could ever possess the authority equal to a Sovereign Son. In her mind, she is probably glad for the match. This is, after all, what her family wants. Elevation. Money. Power. Attaching herself to me will give her all those things. And at her core, I have no doubt Ivy is just the same as her mother. She may have toyed with the notion of a different life, but she chose to marry me just the same. It would be foolish of me not to believe she has her own motivations, and whatever they may be, she will never have my trust.

I am relieved for her reminder of our respective roles. It is up to me to let her know this behavior will not be tolerated, and there is no reason it should wait. Ivy may have readily attached herself to me, but she will come to understand the only wedded bliss she is to receive are the punishments I dole out.

The ride is over after a few brief moments, and when Marco turns off the ignition, I tap on the glass and instruct him to leave us. He does.

The street is dark outside, only the lamplight filtering into the car. But it does little to hide the tremor in my bride’s body as I turn to her and reach for her face. I’m determined to put her in her place at once, but when she tries to hide her strange eye from me, my intentions are momentarily displaced.

“Don’t,” I warn her as she tries to adjust her hair. “I want to see it.”