Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Eight: Death is Much Hotter than We Realised

The masked man is three things.

Lord of the Underworld. Death incarnate.

And my husband.

My first thought after realising this is, 'Why didn't I try blind dates sooner?'

My conscience says, 'I'm married now anyway.'

And my next thought is, 'At least it's this guy!'

Clearing my throat, I copy the bow that the rest of the room is making. I can't make it quite as low as they are— with their noses so deep that they sweep the dust from the floor—but it doesn't matter, anyway. My husband drops his hold, and actually turns away from me.

I blink, halfway into an elaborate bow, heat from the rejection rising to my face.

Did my own husband just ignore me? I brush the thought away as I eye him striding through the middle of the room. The guests fling themselves out of his way as he heads towards the dais, and the throne. The rippling effect only confirms my gut telling me that this man is powerful.

He didn't ignore me on purpose, I persuade myself, he didn't know it was me. That must be it! He treated me like everyone else because we haven't been introduced yet. He can't even see my face.

Even if I am the only one wearing white...

He sits down, and the remainder of the room rises from their bows. The pathway between him and me is still clear, but I am too infuriated to take step. After all, regardless of my real intent, I have died for him.

I can't help but feel jilted. But then, the King says something to Jefferson, who is busy fussing over his Royal Highness, and the elderly man pauses, and coughs.

'The King would like me to welcome his new bride to our kingdom,' Jefferson announces, and I'm gratified that he doesn't require a pun in my introduction. He raises his arm in a gesture towards me, and the crowd spins on their heels, taking in my dress and my features.

Like a cow at market. Moo. How much am I worth?

From the corner of my eye, I spot Mercer by his honey curled hair, wedged between an obese lady and her friend, who had grabbed his arms to engage him in their conversation. I try not to turn and flash him a smirk in front of watching eyes; instead, I lower my eyelashes and curtsey.

'I am honoured to be here,' I say in my most demure voice. I see Mercer's mouth plop open in frank disbelief. 'May I meet my husband?'

I can't believe I have to ask permission to meet him! Arrogant, son of a b—

'Yes, my dear, of corpse! Come here!'

Oh, Lord. He did not just crack that joke at my wedding reception. Did anyone else even notice? Are they just good at pretending not to laugh?

My little feet patter sweetly along the floor, echoing in the silence. My stride is no longer gruff or impatient: I walk like a pure soul blessed to meet her husband at last— that is, with my eyes lowered, my hands clasped in front of my body and my footsteps a whisper. I reach the dais, where I stand a few metres from the throne. The King watches me carefully, a lazy hand propping up his chin, and his long legs stretching towards me. I'm itching to take off his mask.

When my husband simply stares at me, and the silenced deafens, I grow more irritated. Is he always this welcoming his brides?

'Might I look upon your face?' I enquire with forced politeness. Jefferson, at the King's right hand side, laughs heartily.