A Vow So Soulless, page 18
“And I want her wedding band engraved,” I say suddenly.
“Oh? Alright.” Bruno produces two different, small papers from his case. One is blank.
“Please write the words you want, exactly as you’d like to see them on the ring.”
I know the spelling like I know my own name, but I whip out my phone to double check, just in case. I pick up the pen with my uninjured left hand, then hiss in frustration, worried I’m going to fuck something up.
“Curse. Get over here and write this for me.”
He obeys instantly, slicing through the room to my bedside. He bends over the bedside table, writing slowly and carefully, glancing at my phone every few letters so that he doesn’t make a mistake. Then he hands it to Bruno.
“An Eala Bhàn,” Bruno reads slowly, his tongue tangling on the Irish words. “What does it mean?”
“It’s the name of a song,” I tell him. The first song I ever heard Deirdre play, and apparently her mamma’s favourite. “Literally translated, it means The White Swan.”
Bruno nods, looking once more at the paper before stowing it carefully in his case.
“Seems fitting,” he says. “White swan. And you chose a white-coloured metal ring with a setting that reminds you of wings.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but now that he’s said it, I feel like everything is looping back and connecting. Everything working out exactly the way it’s supposed to. Clicking into place.
The other paper Bruno shows me has examples of font that he can use to hand-engrave the band. I choose a simple cursive style, smooth and romantic, but not too curly or flowery.
“And what about your band? We’re working with a tight timeline for your wedding date. If you want something custom, we should decide on a style as soon as possible.”
I blink at Bruno, completely forgetting about my whole wedding band conundrum. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do.
I stare down at my left hand, perfectly smooth and encased in the black leather I’ve grown so used to. There’s that cliché saying, to know something as well as the back of your hand. But I know this leather much more than the mottled skin beneath it.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. The espresso hasn’t helped my headache, and now that we’ve got the important stuff for Deirdre out of the way, I’m ready for this to be done. “I wear the gloves all the time. Seems kind of pointless to wear a ring just to hide it. And it might bug the scar tissue.”
But even as I say the words, I feel a vicious throb. It feels like loss. I want a fucking ring to match my bride’s, goddamnit. If I hadn’t already killed my father for what he did – for abandoning us in that fire, letting me destroy my hands to save his younger son – I’d murder him all over again just for making this moment so tinged with fucking bitterness.
I’ve accepted how fucked-up my hands are now. I’ve got my gloves, and I don’t give them much of a second thought these days. But now, struggling with the fact that I can’t just put a ring on like any other brainless shmuck might, I feel an anguished fury expanding in my veins, sending raging ticks of pressure through my throbbing head.
For the first time, I notice there are a few men’s wedding bands in Bruno’s case. I stare at them like a pathetic, starving dog stares at the butcher’s back door. I fucking want one. I want Deirdre to slide it onto my finger during our wedding. I want the whole world to see that I’m hers as much as she is mine.
“Just wear it on top of your glove,” Curse suddenly interjects.
My gaze cuts to him. I stare at him, momentarily speechless, because what he just said is so fucking obvious and yet it never occurred to me before.
“You don’t think that’s gonna be fucking weird?” I ask, even while my mouth waters. I feel literal hunger at the thought of wearing a band matching Deirdre’s, prominently displayed on the crisp, buttery black of my hand.
“Wearing leather gloves all day, every day no matter the weather, is already weird,” Curse replies. “Who the fuck cares? You want a ring? Then wear a ring.”
I shake my head. Between this and all the perfectly-timed, helpful shit with the engagement announcement, I swear Curse has missed his true calling as a fucking wedding planner. Or maybe it’s less that he’s good at wedding shit, and more that he’s exceptionally skilled at solving problems.
A lot of my problems just happen to be wedding-related lately, I guess.
“Alright, then. No sparkly shit for me. Just a plain band. Platinum to match Deirdre’s,” I tell Bruno. He nods, then deftly measures my left ring finger with my glove on.
“Perfect. No other modifications for your ring? No engravings?”
I mull that over for a second, then nod. “I do want something engraved.”
Bruno pulls out another small sheet of paper. I write this one myself. Since it’s in English, I’m not worried that my sloppy left-hand writing will confuse Bruno when he’s trying to do the engraving the way I thought me writing the Irish with my left hand might. I scrawl the four words then hand it back to him.
Bruno’s brows furrow as he reads it.
“Property of Deirdre Titone.” He glances at me uncertainly. “And you’re sure that’s what you want engraved? It’s for your ring, remember. Not hers.”
“Of course that’s what I fucking want engraved,” I retort. “It has nothing to do with who owns the ring itself and everything to do with who owns the man wearing it.”
Bruno’s face clears of confusion, settling into something blankly pleasant and professional.
“Ah. Of course.” I think I see an amused glint in those dark blue eyes of his, but I can’t quite tell, because he’s bent his head and is busily placing the chosen engagement ring in a small black box before snapping shut the case he brought.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” He hands back the engagement ring in its box to me. “I’ll commence work on the two custom bands right away and will be in touch about billing within the week.”
“Good. We’ll talk then, I grunt. Curse escorts Bruno from the room.
I don’t watch them go. I’m too pre-occupied with the little black box in my hand. Even the box looks luxurious, some kind of perfectly carved and polished wood that’s been lacquered to obsidian perfection. It’s so glossy and uniform that it makes the smooth expanse of my glove look cracked and gritty.
It’s so small. And yet, it feels oddly heavy in my hand. Positioning my thumb against the seam of the box, I pop it open.
Inside the lid there’s a tiny light that automatically comes on when the box is opened. The light cascades down over the diamond, showing off the gem in all its glory. Shattered bands of colour explode outward, like fireworks, from the white centre.
I sit and stare mutely at the ring for a long, long time.
Entirely fucking mesmerised by its fire.
Chapter 20
Deirdre
I float through my classes in a bit of a daze, unable to focus much on anything that goes on around me. I’m so caught-up in worrying about how Elio’s faring at home without me.
Hold on. Did I just say at home? Like… my home?
I shake that off and try to redirect my attention to my laptop. But as Doctor Heaney goes on at the front of the class, I find my mind drifting once again. What if Elio’s not listening to the doctor’s orders? What if he’s not resting like he’s supposed to? He seemed to hate it last night. There was all this pent-up, burning energy inside him that seemed to make him miserable, especially when paired with how much pain I know he’s in.
I hope he’s at least taken a Tylenol, the stubborn sod.
I take a few perfunctory notes, already knowing that I’m going to have to borrow some from a classmate for this lecture, because mine are pathetically sparse. Although, that might not turn out to be so easy. Everyone’s given me a wide fucking birth ever since we came back from the holiday break and I showed up to the first day of January classes with Elio Titone at my side. I haven’t attended a single class unchaperoned since then, and whenever it wasn’t Elio, it’s Enzo, like today. He may not be as outwardly intimidating as Elio – because let’s be real, is anyone? – but he’s still very big, very broody, and so very obviously not a man to be fucked around with that it’s had every one of my classmates avoiding me like I’ve got some kind of contagious virus.
There’s nobody even sitting in this row with us, even though it’s a decently full room. Enzo and I are completely alone here.
Enzo doesn’t say anything, and I don’t find him nearly as distracting as I do Elio, but it still isn’t easy to concentrate beside him. His head is on a constant swivel, casting his fierce hazel gaze at the students behind us, then back to the front of the room, then to the windows, then to the door, before repeating it all over again. He’s Elio’s head of security, and man, does he ever seem fit for the role. He’s like a German Shepherd in the shape of a person.
The lecture ends, and I give a sigh of relief. I still have a seminar right after this, but at least I’m halfway done now.
Never thought I’d see the day where I’m anxious to get out of class so I can go back and check on Elio. The hold that man has managed to wrap around me is insane. I’m so busy imagining all the ways he could make his injuries worse doing something stupid that I almost miss Doctor Heaney’s reminder from the front of the room as we all file out.
“Don’t forget about your assignment! It’s due in March!”
Shoot. I had forgotten about it. There’s still lots of time, but that’s not what has me worried. What has me worried is that I don’t see how I’m supposed to actually complete the assignment within the given parameters. We’re supposed to go to a live music event and write up a comparative report outlining the similarities and differences to live music productions in the modern age versus a historical period of our choosing. It actually sounds like a really cool assignment. The prof didn’t give us any real restrictions on the type of music. It could be anything from a symphony to a metal concert to a live band in a pub.
But there’s no fucking way Elio’s going to let me go have a night on the town listening to live music.
I take my studies seriously. I’ve never been the type to slack off too much or cheat. But for the first time in my uni career I think I might either have to skip this one or really fudge it by making up a fake music event and writing a report on that.
I blow out a sigh. I’ll worry about that later, I guess.
Maybe I can use my fucking wedding as the music event, I think with mirthless irony. I’m sure there will be music there…
If it even happens. Which it won’t.
The seminar goes much the same as the lecture, with me finding it difficult to focus. It gets so bad towards the end of the class that I do something I typically make it a rule to avoid, because it always just feels so disrespectful, especially in a small, intimate seminar versus a lecture.
But I do it anyway. I take out my phone, hiding it behind the open screen of my laptop. I scroll through my contacts until I reach Elio, who’s still listed as My Monster.
I choose the text message option, biting hard at my lip as I stare at the blinking cursor in the text box.
What do I even want to say? I’ve never texted him before, and it’s got me feeling unnecessarily anxious. And that makes me so annoyed with myself I start typing out of sheer anger.
Are you following the doctor’s orders? Are you in bed?
His reply comes in almost instantly. And I hate, fucking hate, the way the speed of it makes my heart do an odd little dip.
Good afternoon, Songbird. Are you supposed to be texting in class?
My cheeks flame. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I scowl at the screen, thumbs flying.
You answer my question first and then I’ll answer yours.
Once again, the reply comes in quickly.
Yes. I’m being your good little patient. All tucked in nice and snug. I didn’t know being injured would make you so damn bossy.
There’s a slight pause, and as I try to figure out what to say to that, another text comes in.
I should get you a cute little nurse’s outfit. I’d let you scold me all you wanted if you wore it.
Jesus Mary and Joseph. How this man is finding it in him to flirt while he’s laid up in bed with a busted kidney is absolutely beyond me. But it does sound like he’s doing alright at least, and there’s a pleasurable little rush of relief at that.
You never answered my question, comes another message. Are you supposed to be texting right now? Or are you supposed to be listening to the teacher?
Before I can answer, Enzo’s phone vibrates. He takes it out and appears to read a message that’s just come in. Then, without a word, he snatches my phone out of my hand and shoves it into his pocket.
“Hey!” I whisper-hiss at him. But even though I’m trying to be quiet, my voice carries. This isn’t a large lecture hall where you can get away with a quiet conversation in the back row. It’s a fifteen-person seminar, and when I look up every set of eyes is on me.
“I’m sorry,” I say instantly, wanting to fall through the fucking floor and disappear. My professor Dr Frank, a kind man I’ve always looked up to, shakes his head rapidly, face probably even more red than mine as his gaze goes to Enzo beside me.
“Not at all, Deirdre. Not at all,” he stammers. He’s clearly worried about some kind of reprisal from Enzo, or Elio, if he says anything about me disrupting the class.
God, he must have seen the engagement announcement by now. They probably all did. What must they think of me, their normal, boring, quiet classmate engaged to one of the most brutal men to ever walk Toronto’s streets?
Now that I think about it, the last time I was on this campus with Elio he broke my ex-boyfriend Brian’s nose, right out in the middle of the fucking daylight, not a care in the world for who might have been witness. I wonder if Brian’s seen the announcement. He must have. He always kept up to date with news and politics. There’s no way he would have missed it, the way it was plastered across every news site big and small.
Most of my classmates have already averted their gazes from me. It’s as if, sitting beside a made man, I’ve become the sun. Distracting, but too hard to look at for long without imminent pain. Everyone tries to appear very focused on what Dr Frank says next. Well, everyone except for one student, a dark-haired girl named Annabelle Choi. I like her, or at least, I did before, back when I had friends and wasn’t cut off from the whole damn world even as I tried to make my way back into it.
Annabelle and I worked on a project together as partners last semester, and as someone who tended to take on the majority of group work in school growing up, working with her was a dream. She’s whip-smart, detail oriented, a fast talker and an even faster writer. I can feel how keen her gaze is on me as I turn my burning face back to my laptop, her brown eyes brimming with about a million unspoken questions.
A few minutes later, the class ends, and I practically bolt out of it. Enzo and I join the crush of students leaving their classes from adjacent rooms. As we pass by a door into one of the women’s bathrooms on this floor, I stop.
“Hold on a second. I’m just gonna pop in here,” I tell Enzo, heading for the door. I go through it, expecting Enzo to wait outside, but infuriatingly, he doesn’t. He strolls right in after me.
“Hey!” I say, embarrassed and annoyed. “This is the ladies’ room. Out you go!”
Enzo doesn’t budge.
“There are stalls,” he says with a shrug. “Not like I’ll be watching you.”
Not like at home… Where I don’t even have a door at all. Good grief.
“It doesn’t matter! You’re still not supposed to come in here!” I glare and point furiously at the door.
Enzo doesn’t seem impressed. Light brown eyebrows rise over his hazel eyes.
“Look, Mrs. Titone, I have very specific orders that I’ve been given to follow in Elio’s absence. While he’s not here with you, I’m not to let you out of my sight.”
“I’ll already be out of your sight in the stall, so why can’t you go outside the room?”
He jerks his chin towards the gap between the bottoms of the stall doors and the floor. I follow his gaze, seeing one set of winter boots in an occupied stall. The other two are empty.
“I’ll still be able to see part of you.”
“Oh, come on! There are no windows in here. It’s not like I can run away or someone can come in without you seeing them at the outside door!”
“It’s not happening, Mrs. Titone,” he says coolly.
God, I wish he’d stop calling me that.
“And you can glare at me all you want,” he adds, “but I’m a lot more afraid of pissing off Elio than I am of you. What was it he said about watching you? Oh, right. ‘Protect my fiancé like her life is your own, because it is.’”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means he’ll kill me if something happens to you.”
I gawk at him, amazed at how casually he says it. He doesn’t seem upset in the slightest that his boss has literally threatened to kill him if he fucks up. It’s like he’s talking about being written up for being late to work.
“You should report him to somebody. To the Ministry of Labour, or something,” I mutter sarcastically, giving up on arguing with him and heading into a stall. I really do have to pee, and I don’t think I’ll make it home at this rate. Might as well just suck it up and go. I feel bad for the other girl in here, though. Must be kind of weird to suddenly hear a man’s voice echoing off the bathroom walls when you’re not expecting it.
