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Right. I might be slightly unhinged. This woman though is fucking terrifying.

There's a church full of people waiting for us and here we are, celebrating death instead.

Guess they can wait until we're damn good and ready. After all, we're getting married on Halloween. Some games are in order...

Ma Macabre needs some beauty rest now.

CHAPTER 16

Manon

"I know that everyone is waiting in the church, Constantine, but something came up, so we're going to be late. An hour late. Rafe’s going to be busy when he gets here, too. There was a situation. Will fill you in later," Laszlo says into the phone, staring down at his filthy shirt with open disgust as though the blood stains are the most inconvenient part of this mess. I've wrapped my coat around myself but I'm shaking anyway. "Just stall them."

Laszlo’s younger brother says something that has Laszlo rolling his eyes.

"Then remind the priest how much money I give his church and that he doesn't get to cancel. I’ll pay for the renovations of the parish east wing, if necessary," he growls, and my insides clench because there is something deeply wrong with this man's voice. It does things to me it has no business doing. It's like he gives my pussy a direct order and the traitorous organ only asks how loud. I can still feel him between my thighs, sticky and uncomfortable, while Constantine speaks on speakerphone, too fast and at low volume for me to keep up. He sounds stressed. "I don't care that the priest has another wedding scheduled. Give the bride and groom a suitcase full of money, and no, they cannot get married before us. We're on the way."

That was the best sex of my life. No, Manon, what on earth are you even saying? Except I can't deny it, because my legs are still trembling and Laszlo Novak's dick is enormous. I genuinely don't know how he was able to fit inside me.

Ah, also, he can eat pussy like no one’s business. Only he didn’t let me come. I feel the frown on my face, then remember he totally made up for that after.

"I'm hanging up now, Constantine. Just tell them there was traffic," he adds, and ends the call. I drag a hand down my face and inhale the smell of blood, sweat and sex. God. I can't believe I had sex with Laszlo Novak. Near a man’s dead body! I'm a doctor, a surgeon, I’m supposed to be saving lives, and I got turned on while my fiancé was killing my ex-boyfriend.

Okay, let’s back up: I got turned on by my fiancé killing my rapist. Charles—the man who was supposed to love me, had the audacity to assault me like I was a piece of meat. Trash. He hurt me, and he knew what he was doing. Didn’t matter that he was drunk. He knew. And when I begged him to stop, he kept going. He’d have finished what he started, if Laszlo hadn’t shown up at the right time.

Still, this entire business is sick, and I think I need a therapist. Possibly several, working in shifts.

"Are you all right, ma macabre?" His voice sounds far away, but it pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance over at him, and even roughed up with blood stains all over, he's handsome, which feels like a personal insult from God. Why am I attracted to a complete psychopath? This is not healthy.

"I told you not to call me that, and for your information, I'm perfectly fine," I snap.

“You told me not to call you sweetheart,” he counters.

“Well, don’t call me anything!” I want to punch the wall. My hands are sticky and gross. I should be used to dirt and blood, except it's Charles's blood, and I have no idea how I'm ever going to look his mother in the face. She never liked me and I only ever saw her once a year, so maybe I can just avoid her.

"The nickname stays. But Constantine is right to panic. Our guests are ready to walk," he tells me as he pulls out of the car park. “We’ll get your car later. We need to get cleaned up and ready first. I had Constantine bring your dress and a couple of stylists at my house. I’ll slip into a suit, too. Or maybe a tux. Weddings are nicer when the groom wears a tux.”

This man is impossible. "What about Charles?"

"What about him?"

"We can't just leave him there. Someone might call the police!"

"No one is calling the police, Manon, because Rafe will be there shortly with my crew to clean the scene." He says it the way one would say, I'll put the bins out. “Oh, you can wear the underwear I got you for tonight. Might as well be ready.”

We don't speak for the rest of the drive. It’s either that or I throw a hissy fit because this man is making me want to kill more people, starting with him.

We're going to be more than an hour late, but most of the guests know exactly who Laszlo Novak is, and I have a feeling he'd start shooting people in the head if anyone tried to walk out of that church. Even though he said he never killed anyone, he’s just proved that claim wrong. At this point, nothing at all would surprise me about the man.

From now on, life is a blur. We arrive at Laszlo’s house and a group of women sweep me upstairs, strip me out of my ruined clothes and order me into the shower with the brisk efficiency of theater nurses. Somehow, he’s had everything moved to a guest bedroom here—my stylist, my dress, everything. When and how did he manage that? Is he also a sorcerer, on top of a murderer and stalker?

Through it all, these women never comment about my appearance or ask any questions. I have bruises everywhere, and I insist on patching myself up alone, because the last thing I need is a stranger noticing the imprint of Laszlo Novak's fingers on my hips. Never mind the blood...

In record time, I'm alone in a limo driven by Rémy, heading to the church, wearing a wedding dress and Charles’ and Laszlo’s marks on my skin, which I'm fairly sure is not what the magazines mean by something borrowed. My father will meet me there—Laszlo arranged everything. He even managed to stay away and not see me in my dress.

Ah, the dress. The dress fits perfectly, which should disturb me. It can’t be this easy. I can’t just act like nothing’s happened.

I give myself the once over in the car, when I’m finally able to breathe a little. The women zipped me into it and I assumed dresses did this, that couture was magic, that this was what money bought. But I never had a fitting. Nobody ever measured me. This dress was made for me, the waist sitting exactly right, the length ending exactly where my ankles begin, and when I move, nothing pulls. Even my scrubs don't fit me this well, and I ordered those in my own size.