Marry or Kill

45

E L I A S

Naturally, I'm armed, and have to be if I were to even step one foot in The West. The guards, all muscle and suspicion, close in on me like a pack of wolves scenting blood.

Their hands aren't gentle, rather crude and demanding as they shove me forward.

"Hands on the wall," one of them commands from behind, his voice scraping against my nerves.

I oblige, tilting forward just enough to press my palms against the unyielding surface. The coarse texture of the stone grates against my skin, its details barely visible in the dim lighting of the corridor.

They've chosen this random hallway, far removed from the bustle of the ballroom.

I sweep a quick glance around, taking in the shadows and the muted echoes of our footsteps. I note the stony interior, and the doors leading to other halls.

"Head forward," the other guard seethes, his fingers clamping down on the tender skin of my neck, pushing my head forward with a forceful insistence.

I suppress the urge to resist and let my head dip down, fixing my gaze upon the scuffed toes of my shoes.

As one of the guards presses down on my back, the pressure intensifies, threatening to buckle my knees forward. "Bend more," he commands again, humour honeying in his voice.

I grit my teeth against the strain as the quiet snicker of the other guard cuts through the air like a blade. I fight against my frustration coursing through me, and my focus narrows to my elbow which I want to drive into the both of them.

Their looming shadows claw at the corners of my vision and, with methodical precision, they begin to pat down my back.

A grunt escapes my lips as one of their hands slaps against my waist with harsh purpose, the impact reverberating through my bones like a jolt of electricity.

"Well, I can imagine how desperate you must be to see me like this," I retort, the words escaping my lips with an unexpected lightness, belying the turmoil churning within. "But let's not keep my soon-to-be wife waiting any longer, shall we?"

"Well, then she'll have to wait longer, won't she?" the guard says with a derisive snort. He leans closer. "If I want it, you'll find yourself kissing the ground."

My teeth clench, the pressure sending an ache along my jaw. "I would sooner die than let my knees hit the ground for anyone."

"No, your knees won't bend willingly," the guard replies, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. "They'll only give way only when a bullet finds its home in your forehead as if even death itself understands the weight of your damned ego."

I notice their deliberate delay in patting me down, their hands lingering longer on my back than necessary. With each graze of their rough palms against my skin, I feel the tension coil tighter within me.

The cold metal of my own gun presses against my flesh.

"You'll soon realise that death seems to favour my company, considering I've been out of its clutch for the past two years," I drawl.

The guards fall silent, their hesitation palpable in the air. Then, one of them speaks, his voice laced with menace. "I'd rather send this sorry son of a bastard to meet his damned maker on the spot myself."

Their fingers dance closer, inching towards the concealed weapon, each movement like a slow, agonising crawl.

I wait until the perfect moment.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild beast desperate to break free from its cage.

I feel him freeze upon the gun beneath my shirt, a split-second hesitation that betrays his uncertainty.