I rear my head back. Sebastian is not quite fast enough to avoid having my skull smash into his nose. His grip loosens but not enough. Before I can wriggle free, he tightens both arms around mine. Warm droplets of blood drop from his nose onto my shoulder.

“Younph binch,” Sebastian says, or rather, attempts to say.

“Come again?” I inject so much sugary sweetness in my voice that my own teeth hurt. It is better than rage. More manageable than my fury. As angry as I am, I need to keep my wits about me. There will be a time later for mourning, for digesting these revelations. But Alejandro is dead. I cannot save him. Ana though. Ana is alive. And she needs me. “I couldn’t understand you around that mouthful of blood.”

Cristobal sighs. “I’m surrounded by fools and children.”

“Need I remind you,” I venture, never taking my eyes off of Ana’s disturbingly prone form. “That not a single one of us wanted to be here. Not even Sebastian. He’s only here because he’s a coward and more afraid of you than he is of me.” I angle my head back to catch Sebastian’s eye, only for a brief moment. “A mistake he will come to regret.”

The brute lays Ana out on the altar, stretching her hands and feet to the ends, where he loops heavy leather bindings around her wrists and ankles.

“Don’t do this.” I try to wrench myself free of Sebastian’s hold, but all I manage to do is tear open the wound on my side. Blood seeps through the bandages Ana had so lovingly wrapped around me, staining the white shift they have the audacity to call a wedding dress crimson. “I will give you anything you want, just don’t hurt her. Please.”

“Anything I want?” Cristobal laughs as he rounds the altar, athame in hand. “I am on the precipice of all that I could want and more. The Sonza contracts will open trade to me—to us. We will have unmitigated access to the English, Dutch, and French colonies to the north. The west of Africa. The Mediterranean. All of it will be ours. And all you have to do is be a good girl and watch.”

Of course. It makes sense. If he wants my father’s shipping routes, he has to go through me. Or through my husband. If he controls them himself, it would be far too suspicious. But if they passed to my husband with me as nothing but a mere conduit, then no one would question a thing. Just as no one has questioned his place in society or indeed paid him any mind. That is his strategy, and it has worked for him thus far. He takes obliquely. Never drawing attention. Never stepping into the light. Remaining in the shadows, amassing wealth and power and satisfying his twisted cravings.

“You’re sick,” I spit out.