My Wedding Night Revenge

3: 3

My body pitched forward against my will, slamming toward the doorway.

Pain shot through me all at once, and for an instant everything went white.

Hester screamed, forgetting her own crushed, purpling fingers, and threw herself forward to shove Bartholomew off me.

"You animals, I'll take you all down with me!"

But she was a girl who barely weighed a hundred pounds. What chance did she have against these village thugs who worked the fields every day?

Vincent stepped up, sneering, and brought the back of his hand down in a hard slap across her clean, pale face.

"Get out of the way. I'll deal with you later!"

Five red finger-marks bloomed across Hester's cheek. She staggered, and her back struck the corner of the vanity.

She slid to the floor and lay there, unable to catch her breath for a long moment.

"Hester."

My eyes stung as I tried to scramble up and go to her.

But the next second, a pair of big hands clamped down hard on my shoulders from behind.

The face that had once been so gentle with me was now twisted beyond recognition.

"Jennifer, so you make a little more money than me and suddenly you forget who you are?"

He pressed down on my shoulders, his knuckles white.

"Let me tell you something. Once you're in the Lyons house, dragon or phoenix, you learn to keep your head down."

"You don't bow today, this doesn't end."

Mavis stood to the side, lifting the basket of eggs and setting it on the edge of the bed with a smile.

"All right, all right, had your fun? Get this cleaned up so they can consummate the marriage."

The groomsmen traded leering looks and slowly closed in.

The whole room was full of their filth, the reek of liquor on their breath enough to make me gag.

Vincent picked up a raw egg and came toward me, eyebrows raised.

"All the good luck's tucked in here. Just bow your head, and your days ahead are guaranteed to be lively."

The other groomsmen dissolved into laughter, whistling and egging him on.

I twisted my body with everything I had and kicked out, catching Bartholomew square in the shin.

He sucked in a sharp breath of pain and let go on reflex.

Then, humiliated and furious, he swung his arm and slapped me hard across the face.

My cheek swelled hot and stinging in an instant, and a faint taste of rust seeped from the corner of my mouth.

The room swayed before it steadied.

I froze. Three years together, and he had never laid a finger on me.

Now, in front of this pack of scum, he'd hit me.

Bartholomew seemed startled by his own hand too. But then he heard the excited howls of the groomsmen.

And something twisted and smug crept into his eyes instead.

He seized my hair again, forcing my head up so I had to look straight at him, and softened his voice into a coax.

"Jenny, sweetheart, you've got such a pretty little face. Why go asking for a beating?"

"Bruise it up and it won't be pretty anymore. Play along, everybody's happy, and your husband will treat you right from now on."

He probably thought a slap followed by a sweet word would be enough to cow me.

But he had no idea where I'd grown up.

My father taught me from the time I was small: a martial artist's bones can break, but the neck must never bend.

Vincent, egg pinched between his fingers, sauntered up in front of me.

The liquor on him mixed with the stink of cheap cigarettes, close enough to choke me.

Hester lay slumped in the corner, her back still not recovered, but she stretched out her hand as hard as she could and still couldn't reach me.

The other bridesmaids were pinned by the groomsmen and couldn't come to help.

Bartholomew's hand bore down hard on the back of my head, slowly building pressure.

"Be good. Cooperate, and it'll be over fast."