Free The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty by Sierra Simone

jail on such ridiculous charges.” This brown eyes were practically embers now; I could feel their scalding heat.
    I ignored it. “That you think Cunningham’s behavior doesn’t merit punishment is one of the worst things about you.”
    Hugh yanked me closer to him, forcing me to stumble in my steps and balance against his chest. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your little outburst, Molly. Because, believe me, after we are married, I won’t allow it to happen again.”
    And then the music ended, Hugh’s ominous words hanging in the air as we separated. But I didn’t mind. I’d reached a place of utter numbness, of not caring, because what consequences could be worse than anything else I’d already endured? I floated away from Hugh and the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd as they swarmed back in pairs to dance and drink and twirl under the chandeliers as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
    I slipped through them all, feeling drunk on my numbness, feeling—in a sick way—proud of my stoic forbearance and practicality in the face of my new life. And now I would go find some gin and become actually drunk, and maybe I would fall asleep before I had to endure any more of this terrible party. When I glanced over one shoulder, I saw Hugh and Mercy dancing together, Mercy looking characteristically congenial in her sultry way, Hugh whispering furiously to her…no doubt relating all of the things I’d just told him.
    I was numb to it. In fact, I was grateful for their camaraderie. Maybe they’d fuck each other and I’d avoid Hugh’s inevitable advances, which tonight would no doubt be laced with menace. I turned back to my path, searching for gin the way that a falcon searches for a mouse in the field.
    I narrowed in on a waiter in the corner of the room, who was carefully pouring drinks. As he hoisted his tray into the air and moved into the fray and bustle of the crowd, I brushed past his station, swiping the decanter of gin off of the butler’s buffet. Then I ducked between two thick curtains by a window nearby, relishing the cool air seeping through the glass. The window was deeply inset into the wall, enough that I could step easily behind the curtains without feeling too claustrophobic. I wasn’t completely hidden, but I was mostly obscured from and I had gin, so that was good enough for now.
    I took a swig straight from the decanter, savoring the botanical burn as it traveled down my throat, and then the decanter was lifted from my fingers.
    “I’ve found the blushing bride, I see,” Silas said.
    I turned. “You’re here,” I whispered, joy clawing up my chest like pain. “You came.”
    He took his own drink from the decanter and then set it gently on the waist-high windowsill. “Yes. I came.”
    I licked my lips—a unconscious response to his nearness, his maleness, as he took a step closer to me. His clean Silas smell came over me, soap and citrus and gin, and his eyes dropped down to my mouth as I bit my lower lip.
    “Where’s Hugh?” Silas asked.
    “He’s off dancing. With—” I waved a hand, the gin suddenly making the world brighter and fuzzier. “—With Mercy.”
    Silas blanched a little at Mercy’s name, a blanch of guilt and regret, but he quickly recovered. “Good. I want you to myself right now.”
    I glanced around. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Somebody might see.”
    “Mary Margaret, I would love it if someone saw.” Something in his tone made me look back to him as heat flooded between my legs. His voice was a low growl when he said, “I want them to see me take what’s mine.”
    Oh, God. It was this Silas, and I was helpless against this Silas, numb or not numb. My newfound pseudo-peace as an automaton resigned to her fate slowly filtered away, replaced by a liquid warmth pouring into my core.
    “But Hugh,” I protested weakly as Silas walked behind me, wrapped an arm around my waist, and tugged me deeper into the recess formed by the heavy,