His loyal old childhood teacher and guardian, Ignacio, had insisted he take one of the Jeeps when he left, but the shot of caffeine and chemicals that the pharmacist had given him for his headache now surged through his body in a hard rush of adrenalin, and he preferred to take the horse. He was breathing as hard as the animal, flying over the bare land stretching to the white-tipped volcano on the horizon, but this time he didn’t feel the freedom that it usually ignited in him. His thoughts were burdened.
His parents had created a woman in a laboratory, a woman who grew up in an icy convent, on the most southern tip of the continent, who had almost never had contact with anyone except for the nuns, and if he wasn’t to see her before the wedding, he feared that his parents had more to hide. What he was going to do when he arrived at the springs, he didn’t know, but he steered his horse in that direction, anyway.
What if they had created a monster? Women, most willing to share his bed, had always surrounded him and they had never fooled him. None of them ever loved him, and he loved none. They liked his money, and his body, mostly in that order. He was always honest and upfront. He never made promises he didn’t intend to keep. His women knew that he wasn’t up for the taking. Not in the commitment kind of way. But he was known as a kind and generous lover, and he enjoyed his short-lived affairs. He was damned if he was going to give them up over an ice virgin. He needed no wife.
He only reigned in his horse when he neared the solitary river that cut away from the oasis. Not far from here, the river disappeared deep into the earth where it was warmed by the active volcano. Where the warm water resurfaced, it accumulated into several natural rock pools, resulting in the hot springs. He left the tired animal to drink from the river before tying it to a lonely tree. From there he made his way on foot along the riverbed. He was approaching the hot springs holiday bungalows from the back, not wanting to advertise his approach from the main dirt road. He was certain that his parents had guards set up at the gates, patrolling the road. He clambered onto the highest point of a rocky outcrop, from where he could see the wooden cabins built next to the river, and the rock pools that formed in the river bends. Each pool was fitted with a wooden deck and bench. In the cooler months the pools were crowded. It was out of season. Too hot. The camp was quiet. A perfect place to hide a virgin, Cy thought.
He was just about to start his careful descent when his eye caught a movement on the deck of one of the pools. Tall weeds sheltering the deck and the pool gave it a measure of privacy, but from the hill where he now crouched, he had a clear view of the wooden bench on the deck. On it sat a woman, her face wrinkled. She wore a nun’s tunic and she was reading a book. The midwife. He quickly lay flat on his stomach on the warm rock to remain hidden. He took his binoculars from the pouch around his neck, and adjusted the lenses.
And then he saw her. The girl. She was floating in the hot water on her back, naked, her long, silver hair fanning around her face, her eyes closed. Cy was hit by a strange feeling that he couldn’t place. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck him, and ignited sparks in his insides. There was a foreign surge in his blood, and yet there was something familiar about it, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He caught his breath. She was pale, paper white, with full, firm breasts, her nipples sitting hard and pink upon them, stiffly contracted by the breeze that rippled the water. Her legs were long and shapely, her delicate ankles touching. Her slender arms were held out from her body, the palms of tiny hands turned up to the sky. Within a second he felt his body pulsing in arousal. The sight of the delicate female, crucified to the water, had the effect of a thunderstorm in a desert on him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She stirred. Her eyes shot open. They were blue, so light, that he could see the darker midnight blue flecks sparkling around the dilation of her black pupils through his powerful lenses, as a look of alarm flickered in her eyes. Her head turned. For a split second he thought that she was looking straight at him, but then a branch cracked on the other side of the rock pool, and they both turned their heads in that direction. A form moved behind the weeds. A whimper of alarm fell from her lips. It was soft, almost inaudible, but the wind carried it to his ears. In an instant, the old woman was on her feet, a white sheet that she held out blocking Cy’s view as the girl quickly stepped into it, wrapping it around her body. It obstructed Cy’s view, but not the figure’s on the other side of the water. Cy’s body tensed, one hand going to the pistol that he habitually carried on his hip, but then a male voice called out and the two women looked up.
“Elena!”
Cy knew that voice. His eyes narrowed. The man came into view. Victor. His half-brother. Elena. He had never bothered to ask for her name. Victor knew her name. With a dismay that he couldn’t explain, Cy noticed that Victor wasn’t a stranger to the girl, because he saw her tensed shoulders relax at the sight of the man approaching. A sudden rush of unknown possessiveness flushed through him. Victor had stalked her. He had watched her, naked. Cy had to clench his teeth, fighting the urge to scramble over the rocks and wring Victor’s neck.
“Elena.” His blond half-brother smiled as he crossed a narrow wooden bridge. “I was looking for you. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you until now.”
Foul lie. Cy tasted blood on his tongue as he bit down, exercising a great measure of constraint to prevent himself from coming forward. The bastard had crept up on her. How did they meet?
The girl didn’t answer. She lowered her eyes shyly, in a manner that Cy found so provocative that he cringed.
It was the old woman who stepped forward. “Señor Augusto, Elena was bathing. Please, some privacy will be appreciated,” she said sternly.
“Of course.” Victor bowed in Elena’s direction, a tight smile on his lips. “Forgive me, I didn’t intend to stumble on you in this way. I just wanted to know if you wanted to visit the water-purifying project with me today. You said that it interested you.”
Cy clenched his fists. Victor was the engineer in charge of the new dam that was being built for the water purifying project a few miles up north. How long had Victor’s friendship with his virgin fiancée been going on?
Elena didn’t answer. Instead, she looked toward the outcrop where Cy was hiding.
The midwife spoke again. “Please, señor Augusto, you have to go now.”
Victor seemed reluctant, but he didn’t argue. “Let me know, Elena, when you wish to go.” He lifted her hand to his lips. He barely brushed his lips over her skin, but once more it took all Cy’s self-control not to jump from his hiding place and knock his blond brother out.
His eyes followed Victor until he disappeared behind the reception area of the cabins. When he looked back, he saw, to his disappointment, that Elena was already dressed in a loose, white robe, following the old witch who guarded her, the women making their way back to the camp.
If Cy brooded over what he had seen at the hot springs, he couldn’t give it enough of his undivided attention to find out what Victor was up to behind his back, because not only was he swiped with interviews and arrangements for his upcoming wedding, but he also had to deal with the strike that finally materialized at his copper mines. The negotiations took every last bit of patience and resolve from him, the long hours of working leaving him little sleep in his tormented nights, where his reoccurring dream stole what was left of his peace. In the moments he lay awake, he thought about the woman who was called Elena, and the feelings he had experienced when he had seen her floating in the water, her arms outstretched, palms open, like a lamb to be slaughtered, a virgin sacrifice.
His mother had meant it when she had said that she had taken care of things. It was going to be the wedding of the year. Vans and delivery trucks poured through his gates, offloading tables, chairs, cutlery, table linen, crystal glasses, flowers, food, wine, and champagne, along with a large group of artisans responsible for the feast, each of them boasting better credentials than the next. His signature was required on more pieces of
paper than what he had ever signed, and the endless interruptions and questions about where he wanted what, drove him insane.
Being the typical male that he was, he never considered that a suit had to be prepared for his new bride, until his mother had informed him that she had given orders for the suite in the west wing, adjoining to the main rooms that he occupied, to be aired, cleaned and readied.
Elena’s belongings were sent a day ahead of her. His mother’s private transport company arrived with trunks filled to the brim with strange, dried herbs, seeds and plants, flasks full of liquids and books, over which Ignacio—the old wizard, as Cy referred to him affectionately—got extremely excited. There was only one small suitcase with clothes. She owned nothing else. Security checked everything upon arrival, as instructed by his mother. His Head of Security, Sebastian Alvarez, informed Cy that there were no dangerous substances or poison in her possessions, only herbal medicine and tinctures. Great, Cy thought. The last thing he needed was for his future wife to be some kind of a witch. Like everyone else, he had heard the rumors: that the strange place where Elena was hidden and educated in icy Patagonia was some kind of cloister where the old witches were reputed to perform an ancient and forbidden magic in secret.
Elena herself was brought to Cy’s Atacama estate on the morning of their wedding ceremony only. She was to be married to a man whom she had never seen. She was filled with fear for a future that seemed foreign, and longing for the only home she ever knew. Even if the cloister wasn’t much of a home, it was known to her. For two months she had slept in a strange place, in a strange bed. Her cold, stony chamber had been swapped for a hot, wooden cabin. And now she stood in her new bedroom, where she will become señora Ciro Augusto Dominguez, in so much luxury, thick wool carpets, heavy wood furniture and antique embroidery, that her throat tightened.
Not only did she feel disorientated, lost and terribly doomed, but her body was still suffering from severe heat attacks. It was difficult to find an appetite. The smell of food alone was enough to make her sick. There was something in the purified water that made her stomach clench. She constantly felt like fainting from the altitude. Her head ached and her muscles were slow. The fertility treatment didn’t help. Francisca’s doctor injected her with hormones to stimulate her ovaries into producing eggs, and it made her feel sick–a natural reaction to the treatment.
On top of that, the never-ending blood tests to monitor her hormone levels left her anemic and weak. And standing in the air-conditioned room, she shivered thinking about the visit that she had had from Francisca Augusto Dominguez. She had only seen the woman twice. Once when she was ten years old, and the week before she left Patagonia. There was no doubt about her future mother-in-law’s darkness. It dripped from her sugar coated words. Elena could almost smell it on her, oozing from the other woman’s pores. Francisca had been clear on what was expected of Elena, although that she already knew. She had been raised to understand and submit to her destiny from the day that she was born.
She was terrified of her wedding night, although her midwife had ensured her that her future husband was a kind lover, known to be gentle, and that she had nothing to fear. Yet, she feared. She feared him. She had never seen him, but now, being in his house, she felt his dark, male strength, and his disapproval. She feared Victor’s words about the monster her future husband was. She feared that they held truth. She had been well trained on her future husband’s person, his likes and dislikes. She knew all there was to know about the man they lovingly called Cy, except his face. The nuns had never shown her any photos. They argued that the physical was of no importance. Only the spiritual mattered.
Elena wondered about men, what they were like. She had had very little dealings with men. She had met a few travelers who passed through the convent, and some who supplied their food and other living commodities, but the nuns never allowed her to speak much with them. Even in the fleeting greetings, she could feel their difference. The first man to ever befriend her was Victor. He seemed kind and bent on showing her favors, but her strongly developed instinct warned her that he wasn’t to be trusted. Yet, she couldn’t help but to fear his detailed description of her husband-to-be’s dark character.
She had never been loved. She didn’t know the emotion, but she knew that it lurked in the deepness of her soul; that she, too, was capable of loving, like the stories that she had read. She didn’t fantasize about her wedding day. She was realistic. But she was hoping, even if it was only a flutter in the depths of her being, that she would be measured and not found too light by the man who was, from that day on, taking legal responsibility for her future.
A renewed sadness filled her senses. She wanted to go home. She missed the eerily illuminated blue glaciers, the familiar iced paths under her feet, the coldness of the nights, and the long darkness in which she got accustomed to dream.
She feared for her new imprisonment. But she knew it was only her mind reacting to the unknown. She refused to give in to pitiful feelings, to feeling sorry for herself. She was lucky to have been chosen, created, for such a privileged purpose. She turned her practiced mind to consciously counting her blessings. She never went hungry. She always had a place to rest her head. She had clothes. Now, she will have family.
She stood in the room that was hers, looking out over the garden–a small speck of green in a vastness of sand–which was lavishly decorated for the wedding reception. Subconsciously she rubbed her arm where the fresh feeling of the needles that had probed and pricked her skin still ached. By now she was used to the weekly tests. But they had been relentlessly drawing her blood and taking every imaginable kind of sample daily for the past week. The test results had made Francisca happy–it confirmed that her mother-in-law had timed the wedding perfectly. She was ovulating. And tonight she would perform her duty, the very thing that she had been created for. She should not fail. She shivered at both thoughts–duty; and failure.
She had been bathed by a maid, coiffured by a hairdresser, dressed by the wedding dressmaker, and her pretty features expertly highlighted by a professional make-up artist. Francisca herself, wearing a breathtaking figure-hugging burnt orange silk dress, had come to hang her family diamonds on Elena’s neck, and to clip the teardrop earrings onto her ears. Now, with all these precious stones, Elena had two armed guards at her side. The maids and the dressmaker milled around her, pulling at the fabric of the bodice, tucking a curl back into place.
She looked down into the green garden, where everything was drowned in an abundance of imported roses. Her eye caught a tall, dark figure, dressed in a black silk suit, talking to someone. He had pitch-black hair, a tanned skin, and his broad chest was tight with an air of agitation that emanated from him. There was anger in the way his long, muscled legs stalked around the area, and something disturbing in the way he waved his arms about in an unsatisfied manner. His strong features were distorted with an unhappy growl. The servant in front of him cringed. She knew instantly that it was him. She felt it. Her soul recognized him. It was Ciro Augusto Dominguez. Her destiny. Elena suddenly felt weak with the strong reaction that electrified her body. She felt her knees trembling. His rejection of her rang through the dry air. She could hear it as clear as a bell. If she had any hope before, her future now looked as dark as the man who tainted it with the force of his unhappiness.
She aimed for a stuffed chair in front of the dresser, but the dressmaker, who was taking a veil from his assistant, prevented her.
“No, darling,” he said, alarmed, “you’ll crease the dress.”
Instead, she held onto the dresser to prevent herself from sliding to the floor, and prayed for strength to get through the day, and the rest of her life.
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