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Her husband loves her mercilessly. She supposes she could bear it if he didn't insist on maintaining the facade, even among those who knew better. Instead, he parades his prize on his arm at fundraisers and galas, regales his captive audiences with the story of their unorthodox courtship.
'She asked me!' he relays to uneven laughter. 'Practically threw herself at me. And how could I say no? I mean, look at her.'
This always receives unanimous agreement.
Yes, Mrs. Titus Danforth is beautiful. Lesser women pay thousands to have their faces sliced open or scalps burned with bleach to look a fraction as lovely as she does. He reminds her of this when they're alone and he can take his time admiring her. Watches from the edge of the bed as she brushes her silken blonde hair or goes through her skin care routine at the vanity. Even without the Devil's favor, being Mr. Le Bail's best girl, she doesn't have to go under the knife and shed blood for beauty. But she pays in other ways.
The day after the wedding, she noticed her hand, the one with a Christ-like hole in it, had become discolored, smelling of decay and rot. No doubt from all the physical trauma she'd been though, unable to properly heal. Her husband brought in a doctor who said it was too late to do anything but amputate. Almost choked the guy to death until she shouted that she agreed with the doctor. There was no saving it.
She doesn't know what happened to her hand after the amputation, only that it was replaced by a plastic prosthetic until the specialists were finished with their state-of-the-art replacements. She didn't want any of them to feel real, she insisted. It'd be too uncanny, make her living flesh crawl.
They patched her up pretty well, all things considered. Grafted some skin from her ass to alleviate the scarring on the shoulder where her would-be sister-in-law shoved a metal stake through it. There's still discoloration, a patchwork element to it that she likes to display in strapless or off-the-shoulder dresses, just to watch people glance at it in discomfort and curiosity that they'd never dare express for fear of being on the receiving end of her husband's wrath.
She wishes she had taken Xing's offer and married her idiot son who at least wouldn't force her to play house, to grin and bear it as he pulled so many strings, bringing about unfathomable destruction for his own gain—'Our gain, sweetheart,' Titus reminds her, when her humanity shows too plainly for his liking. She's also inherited this dark blessing, after all. A consequence of loving her sister, of trying to put Faith first, for once in her miserable life. Except the guilt's been eating at Faith since the wedding, and she drowns it in alcohol and strange men under the watchful eye of the Danforth Resort's bar.
Faith.
Grace remembers Titus's quip about 'fucking Irish Catholics' in regard to she and her sister's names when they first met at the lodge, and decides to start wearing the gold crucifix her mother left her again. A dainty piece that rests just above her clavicle when a maid fastens the clasp for her.
Titus notices it immediately when she joins him for breakfast, his eyebrow raising at the sight of it, expecting an explanation.
She offers none until he asks, "What the hell is that thing doing around your neck?"
"It was my mother's," she replies.
He scoffs, but she knows it bothers him. Catches him glaring at it throughout the day until that night in their marital bed as he's lavishing desperate, searing kisses across her skin, he takes the cross between his teeth and tears it from the chain with a feral tug. Her eyes widen in horror at the sight of the gold glistening against his bared teeth. His lips spread in a self-satisfied grin before he spits the crucifix onto the ground. She listens to it softly rattle against the wooden floor. Imagines the cross shining brilliantly in the bed's shadow as her husband sucks a bruise where it formerly lay on her collarbone.
She tries to silently pray a Hail Mary but can't quite remember the words. Mother of God, can you hear me? The idea of the Blessed Mother always comforted her; a perfect, universal mother who loved and cared for each of her children unconditionally. Surely she's turned her back on Grace, though. What loving mother would see something like this to happening to her child and turn a blind eye?
Hot tears roll down her cheeks, quickly caught by Titus's attentive lips. "You're perfect," he groans. "I can't believe you're mine."
She forces a smile. "I love you."
He knows she doesn't mean it, but he wants to hear it nevertheless. She didn't think he was capable of loving anyone, certainly not after witnessing him snap his own sister's neck. Then, every so often, she catches him staring at her the way Alex did when he thought she wasn't looking. Titus's look of love is never soft or gentle, but it's fond enough to frighten him into keeping his distance for a while.
But he can't stay away for too long.
Slinks into their bedroom like a haughty, spoiled house cat that pretends it doesn't crave affection. That's when he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for her to finish her personal nightly rituals before pouncing, affection gleaming ever so briefly in his eyes as he cages her beneath him.
Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, granting her temporary reprieve from reality before she opens them again at the feeling of his cock pushing against her folds. He demands eye contact when they're intimate (she won't call it anything else. She can't. Acknowledging it head-on will break her) and she doesn't deny him, as he's certainly not rough or cruel as she feared. She's almost guilty to be thankful he gets his fill of that outside the bedroom. His passion is nearly unbearable, though. The ferocity of his kiss at the altar was a mere taste of the way her husband would love her through this life and the next. She's his, and he doesn't take that lightly.
With a deep thrust, he finishes in her, and she's never been more grateful to have an IUD. She never admitted to anyone that Rosemary's Baby scared the shit out of her, and she slept with the lights on for three nights after the first and only time she watched it. And back then, she knew it wasn't real, more a commentary on women's rights and religious fanaticism than anything. How naive.
The Devil is real, and he deems her worthy, more than any of his devotees, and she doesn't even want it. Doesn't want his attention or his favor. But she has both in abundance. Every waking moment of her life is a reminder of this. The ring on her finger, her unexpectedly devoted husband. They have no wedding photos, of course, but he has her elaborate, ritualistic black dress and crowning veil displayed in a glass case, a monument to their union, more for guests to gawk at than themselves. He gives her plenty of reminders when they're alone.
It takes more than one round to tire out her husband despite how much older he is than her, but she feigns physical exhaustion, yawning shortly after he pulls out. Her mind can't take any more of it, her brain's screaming at her to stop.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart," he says, his voice husky as he strokes her hair in a paternalistic way that makes her want to cry again.
She lets out a shaky breath when he kisses her forehead, like he's tucking her into bed. She doesn't hate it when he wraps his arms around her middle, holding her close as she falls asleep. The nightmares of burning houses and being hunted like an animal still rear their ugly head often enough for her to wake up screaming, meeting Titus's wild eyes. He doesn't know how else to calm her but to keep her contained in his arms like a strait-jacket, hold her until the tears stop flowing and she stops writhing violently against him. He's never had to comfort somebody before, never cared enough to do so.
Tonight is more merciful, and her resting hours are dreamless.
The following morning, she awakes before him. It's a delicate maneuver, freeing herself from his iron grip that doesn't let up even in his sleep. She places her hand over his, brushing his fingers gently enough that he loosens them, and then awkwardly wriggles down the length of his torso until she can slide onto the floor. She's fallen over on more than one occasion doing this, but she has better luck this morning, when she's set to meet Faith in about two hours.
Brunch with Faith will be awkward, but fuck, she didn't get herself into this situation to forfeit a relationship with her younger sister again.
The walk-in closet houses dozens of dresses, more heels than she could ever care to walk in (her beloved Chucks aren't on display, but she has a solid two or three she'll wear until the seams give out) and on a shining mahogany table, seven prosthetic hands for her to choose from, each crafted from different material, fingers molded in various poses depending on the occasion. Seven hands. Eight total, counting her in-tact, flesh hand. Eight like some kind of fucking spider. A black widow, all things considered.
She only wears the prosthetics when she goes out. The phantom sensation is still there, like she never lost a limb at all, and sometimes, she's still shocked when she looks down and sees her hand missing. Good. She never wants this to feel normal to her.
But she doesn't need much help getting dressed anymore. Got rid of dresses with zippers or buttons up the back, or had them otherwise altered so she could get them on one-handed. Her biggest hurdle today is packing on enough foundation and concealer to convincingly cover the hickey Titus left at the base of her throat. Despite her best efforts, it still peeks through by the time she has to leave to meet Faith.
"Where're you goin'?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as she walks out of the bathroom.
"I'm getting brunch with my sister," she answers.
"Oh."
"I'll be back for dinner."
He seems pleased with that and allows her to leave after catching her wrist in his hand, pressing an almost gallant kiss to her ringed finger.
She arrives at the resort to little pomp and circumstance, but every employee's attention is on her. They're only half listening to guests, now, glancing up from computers and practically tripping over luggage. The desk clerk who's escorting her to the cafe has the slightest quiver in her voice that Grace tries to calm with a smile and genuine thanks. To her dismay, it only seems to unnerve her, and she flees as soon as Grace is seated.
Faith arrives about fifteen minutes later, though she's more sober than the last time she saw her. She wobbles a bit before sitting down.
"Shit, Grace, you'd think you were married to Dracula," Faith says, blatantly eyeing the faint mark on her sister's throat. "I mean, you kind of are. Since he's evil and ruined your life and wants to take over the world."
"I'm fine, Faith," she assures her sister, cigarette smoldering between her porcelain fingers, perfectly molded to fit one between them. She's taken to chain smoking, which Titus doesn't love, but he doesn't protest too much. Besides, she likes the way he looks at her when she takes a long drag, plump lips wrapped around the filter, hollowing her cheeks for the hell of it before letting smoke escape her mouth. Makes her feel like she has the slightest power over him. If only she could figure out how to use it. "He's better to me than I expected."
"I wouldn't be surprised if he drinks blood."
A waiter brings Faith her first mimosa of brunch, but certainly not of the day. Grace isn't even sure her sister's slept.
"Are you ladies ready to order?"
"I'll have eggs benedict," Grace requests, "and an espresso martini."
"Ooh, I'll have one of those, too!" Faith interjects.
"You should eat something."
"Can you do whatever the fancy version of an egg McMuffin is?" She grins. "Hangover cure of champions."
The waiter nods. "Of course, Mrs. Danforth, Miss MacCaullay."
Faith's proximity to Grace means she's denied very little, especially within the resort. Titus doesn't interfere with Faith's antics. In fact, the two haven't been in the same room since the wedding. Grace wants to keep it that way for as long as she can.
"So, what's new at Casa Satanico?" Faith asks a little too loudly for Grace's comfort. "When's the next goat sacrifice? Or is it another girl this time around?"
The couple one table over glances at them with understandable concern. If she were thinking more quickly, she'd dismiss her sister as being drunk—which she is—but mortification makes its way up Grace's throat instead.
"Faith—"
"Do they ever sacrifice a guy? Because it seems pretty sexist to just—"
"Yes." Grace hisses. "The Le Domases did. Before me it was—" Shit. She didn't even know his name. "A guy. He married into the family. He pulled the same card I did, and they killed him."
"Whoa," Faith says. "At least the Devil's equal opportunity."
Grace scoffs, actually grateful when the waiter brings over their drinks. It's about time for a new cigarette, too. The gilded cigarette case and matching lighter she pulls from her purse make her look glamorous, every bit the debauched wife who married the High Seat and sold her soul to the Devil. Except she can't help but pray more and more, as of late. Shout into that heavenly void and listen desperately for an answer, some confirmation she isn't totally damned. None of her prosthetic hands are molded to clasp together in prayer. Not even an afterthought in the godless world she inhabits.
By the time the plate of eggs benedict is placed in front of her, she's eager to stab it with her fork, watch the runny yolk bleed into the hollandaise sauce. The bacon isn't quite as forgiving. The table shakes as she tries to saw through it with the edge of her fork.
"Do you want me to—"
"Cut my food like I'm a little kid?"
"Sure, if you wanna put it that way."
"Screw it," Grace mutters, throwing down her fork and picking up one of the English muffins. She takes a big, unladylike bite, letting her breakfast make a mess of her designer clothes as half of it plops onto her lap.
Faith giggles, and Grace can't help but smile too, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
"Want some?"
She shakes her head. "I'm good."
Grace takes another bite, and says through a mouth full of half-chewed food, "They should bring out a bib with this."
"One of the ones with a big lobster on it."
Grace snickers at that. This is easily the most fun she's had with Faith she's had in a while, and she doesn't want it to end. The next few hours fly by far too quickly for her liking, and by the time Faith suggests they hang out by the pool or blow money at the casino, Grace's heart cracks a little when she sheepishly confesses she promised her husband she'd be back for dinner.
"Yeah, cool. We spent like all day together anyway. I'm totally tired of seeing your face," Faith says unconvincingly.
"I'll see you soon."
They part with a tight hug, always do, worried it might be their last.
When Grace returns to the mansion (manor? It feels too big to be a mansion, but it's certainly not a home) she sheds her stained dress as soon as she closes the bedroom door and makes a beeline for the closet.
Removing her prosthetic hand, she returns it to its place among the rest. Notices cigarette ash on the porcelain, and in her halfhearted attempt to brush it away with her thumb, ends up smudging it across the knuckles.
She stares at the row of fake hands. Different poses and positions that she mimics with her in-tact hand, over and over, her fingers aching. She doesn't stop until her hand's shaking, and it's almost agony to flex her digits or open her palm, each movement eliciting a whimper from her. She deserves it. She knows she does.
A gruff voice cuts through her daze of self-flagellation.
"Grace?"
"Huh?"
"You know that doesn't matter to me."
She turns to look at him, staring blankly for a moment.
"I don't believe you."
His jaw clenches. "It doesn't."
"When we first met, you talked about me and my sister like we weren't even human. Calling us it. Hunting us down like fucking animals!" Her voice breaks as she shouts. "I lost my hand because of this bullshit! I lost the only family I have!"
"You're still alive. Your sister is still alive."
"Yeah, but she wishes she weren't. Faith's too strong to do something like that, though. She's always been stronger than me. When she was eight and I was twelve, a couple wanted to adopt her, and she made the biggest fuss to the social worker unless they adopted me, too. But they—they only wanted Faith, so they backed out. I remember thinking she was such an idiot for throwing her chance away." She lets out a shaky breath. "Foster kids—something like a third of us end up homeless or in prison after we age out of the system. So when I got a college scholarship, I jumped on it. Busted my ass in New York so by the time Faith aged out, we wouldn't become another statistic. We'd stay together and—I tried so fucking hard and it wasn't enough."
She thinks she's successfully stunned her husband into silence for once. Made him truly consider the depth of her humanity.
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
She actually laughs at that. A deep, belly laugh that makes her sides hurt, muscles straining against the atrophy of disuse. "Yeah. Fuck. I guess so."