I don’t know how much time passes. The buzzing lulls me, the pricks of the needles somehow grounding me. And all the while Santiago works quietly at my back, thighs strong on either side of me, breath warm on the back of my neck when he leans close to inspect his work. I think about the chapel. About what happened there. How merciless he was.

I think about his hands on me, his fingers inside me. I think about his lips at my neck. His teeth.

My belly flips.

He’ll take me tonight. Consummate our marriage. And there is a part of me that is curious. That wants it. Even knowing he will be as merciless when I lie in his bed.

The buzzing stops abruptly. The back of my neck throbs. It takes me a minute to realize it’s over. I almost panic with the realization.

The bonds at my wrists are first to go. He works without ceremony, freeing me of those and the ones on my upper arms. I bring my hands to the floor on either side of me, my head still down, the chain at my throat still fastening me to the stone. I look at the rings on my finger. The salt and pepper diamond. Strange and beautiful. Another symbol of his ownership of me.

“It’s finished,” he says, voice deep and low and still commanding the attention of everyone in the place.

I exhale. Finished. No branding iron for me. I would count myself lucky, but I know this thing between us has only just begun.

A few of the men come to look at his handiwork and compliment it. No one touches me, but Santiago remains close. I get the feeling no one would dare incur his wrath.

When I next feel his touch, I gasp, muscles tightening with anxiety.

“Don’t move,” he commands.

I still. I don’t expect him to touch me. Not like he is, at least. But then I realize what he must be doing. Applying a salve.

I close my eyes, my breath leveling, my body relaxing at least a little. He’s being careful. Gentle. When he’s finished, I feel something cover the tattoo. I open my eyes and berate myself because he’s not being gentle or careful with me or for me. He’s protecting his work. It wouldn’t do if it got infected.

Santiago stands and walks around me. I remain in position, head still bowed by the chain, back of my neck feeling warm, my arms and shoulders sore. He takes his time as someone brings him a drink. It’s somehow more humiliating when they mingle among themselves. When they ignore me altogether, the collared bride kneeling head bowed at their feet.

But I don’t care. Let them ignore me. Let them forget me.