He stands, the space he vacated empty and cold, and I find as he walks behind me that I want him close again. A warm body. Even if he will be my tormentor. Because behind him sit more vultures come to pick at the kill.

I try to move my arms, my head, but I can’t, not even a little, unless I want to set my forehead on the dirty ground. He’s immobilized me. Whatever he chooses to do to me now, I will submit. He has made sure of that. The chair behind me creaks. He sets his feet on either side of my hips. I can just see the tip of his shoe if I shift my gaze.

I gasp when I feel the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck. The rumors were true, then. I realize this is why his sister twisted my hair so tightly. Did she know? Would she herself be submitted to such a degradation one day? Has she already?

But all thoughts vanish as he caresses my skin. He’s gentle as though he’s getting to know the texture of the canvas. Then, abruptly, he grips the already-torn lace top of my gown and rips it farther, making me gasp. The men, our audience, make an appreciative sound as Santiago bares my back, the dress falling to the tops of my breasts, exposing one nipple. I’m hunched over enough that I don’t think the men can see it.

I wonder what a sight we make, the half-monster husband at his kneeling bride’s back, her dress torn, a supplicant to him.

I wonder if he’s aroused.

I close my eyes when I feel something cold and wet touch the back of my neck. I smell alcohol. He’s cleaning the area.

This is really happening. I’m being marked like cattle.

The chair creaks as he drags it forward on the stone bringing his knees to hug my arms tightly, securing me even more before I hear the buzzing of a machine and feel the first prick of the needle.

He’ll tattoo me.

It hurts, and I whimper. But it doesn’t deter him.

It takes about five minutes before the men lose interest, some standing, some talking, only a few remain watching. I fist my hands at my back as the pain intensifies. A branding iron would hurt more, I tell myself. I can manage this.

I know he’ll tattoo the initials of The Society onto my skin. I’m their property as much as I am his. Alongside it, I’ll wear his mark. I don’t know what it is, I realize. Not that it matters. All I can think about is the buzzing of the machine, all I can feel is the warmth of his thighs at my arms. Does he realize it gives me comfort? I’m sure he’s only ensuring I remain in position.