The men fall quiet as Santiago walks me toward them, our steps slowed, him not so much dragging me anymore. No, not toward them. We’re walking toward the ornately carved wooden canopy that looks to be centuries old. It’s draped thickly with cascading red roses woven into vibrant green ivy. The floor beneath the canopy is littered with the flowers too. I can almost smell them there are so many.

The men’s expressions grow more serious as they begin to take their seats in the chairs lined up across from this makeshift stage.

Beneath the canopy are a small table with golden legs and a single chair, large and golden to match the table, the pattern on the upholstered cushions too worn to make out from here.

As we near the table, I see equipment on top. Some of which I can’t place, but others, like the leather restraints, have my stomach falling away. I stumble, catching my toe on a slightly raised stone as my gaze shifts to the firepits scattered throughout the courtyard and to the one closest to the canopy with the iron pressed into the fire.

That’s the one that scares me.

I don’t back up consciously. I don’t realize I’ve done it until both of Santiago’s hands come to my arms and turn me to face him.

“Wife,” he says, and I drag my gaze from that iron up to him.

“You can’t—”

He leans down toward me, his cheek brushing mine, igniting a spark. “I can,” he whispers against my ear. He holds me like that for a moment, then licks the shell of it, making me shudder as he draws backward and nearly lifts me off my feet to take me to the center of the canopy. He crushes the roses beneath his shoes, and the smell and roar of the fires overwhelm all of my senses. Once I’m standing before the chair and table, he turns me to face the men, and keeping his hands on my shoulders, he gives me a single-word command.

“Kneel.”

I swallow hard. I look up at him, and he looks down at me. Behind him, a sea of faces watches curiously, intently. Will I obey? Will I submit? And what happens if I don’t?

“Please don’t,” I start, but no more words come. Please don’t hurt me. It’s pointless. He enjoys hurting me. Didn’t I just learn that?

His hands tighten on my shoulders, and I go down, the lace of the dress rough between my naked knees and the cold stone. I kneel up, staring at him. My husband. I feel the first tear slide down my cheek. Is this what he wants? He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m already giving him my tears.

But if it is, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His expression is unreadable as he walks behind me.