Chapter 6 New hell

The car is silent, save for the hum of the engine as it drives down the pebbled path. I am sweating despite the air conditioner being on.

I try not to think about the pistol. I try not to think about the way Drogo’s eyes burned when they landed on the whip mark. I also try not to admit I felt a pang of satisfaction seeing my father in pain for the first time.

I know, I know. I should be scared.

Terrified, even.

This man, my husband, shot someone at his own wedding. His father in law. Without warning.

It is a clear sign that all the devious things they said about him might be true.

He could not possibly have nearly killed me last night and then shot my father because of the whipping I thought he had ordered.

That is absurd.

I focus on my twisted hands in my lap, my knuckles white from how hard I am gripping them.

Drogo sits beside me. His presence fills the car like thick smoke.

Finally, I risk a glance at him. He is staring out of the window, one hand resting on his lap while the other arm is draped over the seat behind me. He has not said a word. He has not looked my way.

I cling to the side of the seat, wishing I could disappear. I refuse to think about the life ahead of me or where I am being taken. I refuse to think about my mother, still trapped somewhere, or my father’s scheme against Drogo.

Soon, exhaustion pulls me under.

I jerk awake as the car stops.

Drogo steps out first without glancing at me.

I peek through the window, my eyes widening at the sight outside. A vast compound with a tall, sleek building standing in the center.

This is not what I expected.

A knock snaps me back. The driver stands outside with a raised brow.

I stare at the door, unsure what to do.

It clicks open before I can figure it out.

Swallowing, I step out. My knees wobble from hunger and weakness.

The frigid air cuts against my skin, reminding me how empty I feel.

I took nothing from the pack except the wedding dress clinging to my body. I do not own much anyway. Most of my clothes are old or torn.

Drogo is already out of sight. His men gesture for me to follow them inside.

The interior screams wealth and power. I once thought my father’s mansion was impressive, but compared to this, it is nothing.

“Drogo’s new bride.”

A man in a white shirt approaches. His eyes briefly assess me before he removes his jacket and places it over my shoulders.

“Welcome to East City.”

The east city? I heard it's the largest city in a country that consists of different species, mostly human. It had great resources and wild places with luxurious business exposure and tourism. I dream of visiting here one day.

Well, not in this kind of situation.

"I'm Bran, by the way. Drogo's right-hand man. Come with me."

I hesitate but force my feet to take a step and then another. I clutch the jacket around me tighter as we enter an elevator.

"First time?"

I blink at him.

Is he talking about being out of my pack the first time? Or the elevator?

"I hope the elevator isn't scary."

Why is he so nice?

I shake my head and lower my gaze.

I follow Bran to what seems like the top floor of the building. He stops at the last room and gesture me in.

I step into a cozy, simple room. Three times larger and cleaner than the tiny cold space back in my pack. A bed, marble tiles, and a window adorned by dark curtains.

Is this where I'm going to live now?

There's a meal already waiting at the table by the end. My stomach twists at the salivating aroma. A reminder I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.

"You must be tired from the wedding and travel. Eat, freshen up, and change your dress. You need to gather enough strength. You look too pale and weak."

He didn't say it like an insult. In fact, his words sound more like a concern. Or maybe I'm delusional.

I nod and watch the door shut behind him.

I do what Bran instructs. I freshen up. Surprisingly the room has everything I needed, as if they've been waiting for my arrival. I wear a pair of pajamas already waiting on the dresser.

I eat the soup, small bread, and diced fruit set on the table. It's been a long time since I tasted something this good.

I fall asleep the moment my body sinks to the soft sheet.

A long, refreshing kind of rest I haven't gotten in a long time. Maybe here isn't so bad.

When I wake, the first thing I see is a pair of green eyes watching me.

For a moment, I wonder if I’m still dreaming one of those half-sleep nightmares that leave you panting by morning. But his gaze is too heavy, too sharp, to be imagined.

I jolt upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. Moonlight slips through the window, casting his silhouette on the couch across from me, one finger drumming against the armrest.

“Uh… good evening,” I swallow, trying to steady my breathing.

He rises, sliding his hands into his pockets.

I scramble off the bed, inching toward the corner and fidget with the hem of my dress.

He takes a slow, measured stride toward me, and I’m reminded of how large he is. How easily this man could crush me if he wished.

I almost shrink as his cold, deep voice slices through the tense air.

“Rule number one: when I give you an order, you follow it. Immediately. No questions, no delays. That includes keeping your gaze down and your mouth shut unless I give you permission.”

Quickly, I drop my eyes to the floor, my heart hammering as he moves closer.

"Rule number two," he says. "Here, you are just a stranger. A mere low, pathetic woman relocating. Your identity as my wife will remain hidden. Running your mouth about it is a good way of getting hurt."

His tone runs deeper. "Last but not least. Whatever you see, hear, or learn about me stays with you and follows you to the grave. Betray or side with anyone against me, and you won’t live to regret it.”

A shiver snakes down my spine. This is bad.

How am I supposed to save my mother now?

He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Wonder why I shot your father?” he asks.

His eyes darken, glowing faintly under the dark. “Because only I decide how you’ll be tormented. How you’ll sûffer, and how you’ll die. I own you, Isolde. Body, mind, and soul.”

My pulse falters. So that’s why he shot my father. Not out of kindness, but to mark a claim. That my fate now rest at the palm of his hands.

“Strip.”

I gape at him. “W-what?”

“Rule number one, Isolde.” His voice drops deadly. "Surely, you haven't forgotten this is our wedding night.”

Wedding night?

Sounds more like: WELCOME TO A NEW HELL.