A Family Portrait (Nettle Cypress)

"We are going to be a family again," he had said. Sylvie looked at herself in the mirror of a small vanity, honey-brown eyes and ebony black hair that fell to curls, skin pale like moonlight. She remembered he used to call her his Snow White, cherry red lips and long black lashes. She used to like that epithet. Now, it was a curse, a curse on her heart and her soul. The only family he intended to give her was a sick and twisted one. This was no fairy tale, but a nightmare. When did love become so cruel?

Gently, she dusted off her white dress at the knees, the taffeta and silk heavy against her body. Standing in front of another mirror, this one floor-length, she pondered how she had once hoped for this day, her wedding day. When she was younger, she had dreamed of a white dress and a prince; slightly older, her prince had been her cousin Drake Meredith, platinum blond hair and a know-it-all smirk. The "prince" she was to marry today was not him, of course. It was, much to her inner horror, to her once guardian, her adoptive father and brother.

She saw her soon-to-be husband in a dusty photo on a nightstand, chestnut brown hair cut into a vintage style and cerulean blue eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses. Her younger self, roughly twelve years old, had her small arms wrapped around his waist, his long fingers in her hair. Back then, she was a smiling, cheerful girl, slightly spoiled and in love with her guardian. Now, though--she looked in the mirror again--she could hardly break her melancholy to smile. She knew now that her once-guardian was no saint, but a monster. Weren't brides-to-be supposed to cry for joy, not heartache?

A knock came to the door and Sylvie called the person in. Coming to a stand in front of her was a beautiful woman, tanned skin and gentle yet sad smile: her once nanny, Myrrha. At her side, she took a hold of a silver-handled brush and softly brushed Sylvie's long hair.

"Please don't cry, Miss Sylvie," she said in her Spanish accent. "You'll ruin your make-up. Master Amaranth will take good care of you..."

"That's the problem," Sylvie sniffed. "His idea of care and mine are very different now... He raised me, Myrrha. Isn't this strange?"

"I know, I know, preciosa... But you know how he is when he does not get what he wants..."

Sylvie only sighed, dabbing the sides of her eyes with a piece of kleenex as Myrrha finished brushing her hair. Her nanny was right, of course. Wyn Amaranth was an absolute terror when scorned. That was how she got where she was now. He had threatened her beloved Drake and his father (and a number of her friends) with charges of murder, smuggling narcotics, and a number of other sordid claims. It didn't matter if he didn't have proof, he had said; he would simply "create" facts.

"If you do not come with me, Sylvie, I will crucify your cousin and the rest of his horrid family, Christy and Nika included," he had said. "They'll give him the needle, Sylvie. Do you want that?"

Of course she didn't. Still, if there had been no basis for his claims, she probably would not have acquiesced to Wyn. The truth, however, was much more difficult than that. She and her cousin had initially ran from California BECAUSE his family (and by extension, her biological family) were part of a criminal organization, the Kintala, a ruthless and highly efficient organization ran by Drake's father and (back then) the father of her once friend, Christy Sialirue. They indeed smuggled narcotics across the border between Mexico and California; but they also forced dues on local shops in the city, blackmailed the rich (who were not members), and murdered anyone who got in the way, among a variety of other illicit activities.

It had been Wyn's--and his father's--life's work to take down the Kintala, he a part of a federal organization that Kintala members nicknamed "The Pomana." That Wyn had found and taken in Sylvie after her family's demise had been a small but sore spot for the criminal organization. Of course, no one could have foreseen the future of that decision, especially not Sylvie. At school, she had fallen in love with her cousin and they had intended to leave Metuperi once and for all, but it was family that made them return. Christy had been forced to head the Kintala, a once shy and delicate sort of girl, whose temperament was not suitable at all for criminal activities. Drake had returned to relieve his friend of the torture, but Christy blamed Sylvie for the ruination of her life.

Such a claim was only fair, Sylvie knew that now. Her marriage to Wyn was her penance. She had no other choice if she wanted Christy's life to return to normal, for Drake to undo the work that had destroyed the lives of so many. Even if he didn't see it that way.

"No! You can't be serious, Syl! That man is scum and a pedophile! He'll make you his slave and I can't have that!"

"What else am I supposed to do? I won't see you put in jail for the rest of your life..."

"We'll find another way! There has to be another way!"

But there wasn't. Sylvie knew the lengths that the Pomana would take to ensure victory. The Kintala only meant to provide wealth for the downtrodden, to give hope for those forced into the slums of Metuperi and who had no legitimate means to fend for their families. The Pomana on the other hand cared little for the fate of the ghettos or the people in them, bribing officials when necessary and using even more violence than the Kintala ever used. Wyn was the epitome of that hypocrisy: picture-perfect in his handsomeness, but cruel and twisted underneath the surface. Growing up, she had never known that side of him and she did not initially believe anyone who had told her otherwise. Once she had come into the hands of the Meredith family, she began to see the horrible truth--Wyn lashed out at everyone and everything, capturing and torturing all manners of people and killing them when they did not give him what he wanted: her.

"Come, Miss Sylvie. Master Amaranth is waiting," Myrrha stated quietly, bringing Sylvie back to the present.

"I don't want to go, Myrrha," she confessed between heavy breaths. "But there isn't any other choice, is there?"

Her nanny said nothing, only guided her through the long halls of the mansion to the vast garden in the back. Sylvie had planted trees there, oranges and lemons, as well as the milkvetch lining the border of the house. That was a long time ago, happier times. From beyond a hedge of bushes, she saw a gathering of people. None of them, of course, were family. She assumed they were work associates of Wyn's and other related personalities, maybe even some media. Inwardly mortified, she tried her best to conceal her real feelings and, when Myrrha brought her to the designated spot and handed her a bouquet of beautiful white Madonna lilies, finally forced a smile for the show she was about to participate in.

Walking down the "aisle," the willowy sounds of flutes and violins in the air, she kept her eyes trained on the man standing next to the pastor by the garden's wide fountain. Wyn seemed ageless, the same vintage style haircut and chestnut brown hair as she had seen in the picture only moments before, the only difference being a few lines around his eyes and mouth and a more modern frame for his glasses. To be true, he was less than two decades older than her, she nineteen and he still in his thirties. His vividly blue eyes seemed brighter under the midday sun, a contrast to the stark white tuxedo he wore. It was almost ironic--the white lilies, the white dress, and white suit. Such colors and effects meant purity but she knew better; there was nothing pure about this whole charade.

As she approached, her nerves screamed for her to run, but she stamped down those thoughts, her mind ever present on her cousin and friends. Maybe people would say she had a martyr complex, but she did not want to give her captor any more excuses to persecute the ones she loved. She might not be physically strong, but (she hoped) this was one battle she could fight. Gazing up at Wyn's blue eyes, he still so much taller than her, she certainly prayed that she would have the strength.

The wedding ceremony was as typical as one could expect from a predominantly secular wedding, straight down to the vows which were customary and generic. Still, when the pastor proclaimed them man and wife, Sylvie felt panic rush up her spine. Wyn's steady gaze did nothing to alleviate her colossal misgivings, the vise of his hands on her wrists, as if he knew she were about to run at any moment.

"Smile, Sylvie," he whispered hotly, his body moving close. "Or else people might get ideas and that would disappoint me greatly, wife."

Wyn let go of one of her hands and took her chin with one hand, tilting it up as he came down, his lips pressing to hers. Immediately, Sylvie felt bile at the back of her throat, but Wyn either did not notice or did not care, his mouth opening hers as his tongue pressed against hers. The first violation. Heat rose under her skin and she felt faint, Wyn's arm wrapping around her back to keep her from falling. Could she really become used to this? (Did she really want to?)

Strangely, Sylvie felt comfort with the reality of the wedding reception, held as it were under a wide canopy in another section of the mansion's vast emerald yard. It was, after all, a reason not to be alone with Wyn and she dreaded what would come once they were, indeed, alone. She was not a fool--she knew what newlyweds preferred on their wedding night. So, for her, the reception gave her a little reprieve before the inevitable (did it have to be inevitable?). She did not even mind when he held her close for the first dance, sweeping her in perfect steps, or any of the other dances; anything was better than what was to come. She smiled obediently and made gracious gestures to the multitude of guests, even as every congratulation felt like a nail in her coffin.

In front of the guests, Wyn acted as the perfect husband, obtaining anything she might want as she sat at the head table, whether it was food, pieces of the wedding cake, or drinks. Indeed, he made quite a show of it and so many women and even some men praised him for his performance. Yet, Sylvie noticed after a few drinks that she felt a little tipsy. When she sniffed the latest drink he had presented her, she knew alcohol simmered underneath the sugary mix and she thought of setting it aside, of drinking nothing else for the afternoon. In a strange turn of events, Wyn did not pressure her to finish it when she left it on the napkin in front of her, even going so far as to obtain her water instead. By the time the reception was over, the fog of alcohol cleared from her mind, but she felt more confused than she had been in any of the earlier parts of the day.

Soon enough, the guests began to filter out as evening drew near, the sun setting beyond the horizon as the sky turned purple and pink. When the last guest shook Wyn's hand, Sylvie realized that her horror had faded quite a bit, though it threatened to return as she felt a tingling lingering just beneath the surface of her skin. She was married and she was married to Wyn Amaranth. She was no longer Sylvie Black, she was Sylvie Amaranth. When she looked up again, she found Wyn gazing at her with a curious expression, his head cocked ever so slightly. If she were anyone else, she might have actually loved him in the way he wanted.

"Come, wife," he reached out a hand. "It's time we headed inside."

She nodded slowly, tentatively taking his proffered hand as he lifted her to her feet. When she hobbled a little slower than him, he scooped her up in his arms in one deft motion, carrying her easily into the estate. For the entire long walk from the gardens to the bedroom (his bedroom), Wyn carried Sylvie in silence, only dropping her when he could place her atop the wide bed. Looking around, she noticed that not much had changed since she had been a child--the king-size bed was held by four posts of mahogany, contrasted with white sheets, gossamer veiling the bed from other parts of the room. To the right was a set of double french doors hiding beneath burgundy curtains which lead out to a wrought-iron encased balcony. To the far side of the room was a seating area, a small couch and wicker chair, a chair Wyn used to sit in those very rare lazy nights, where she would sleep in his lap when she was small, snuggled close to him. She really, truly loved him back then.

Noticing her gaze, Wyn sat down next to his new wife.

"A lot of memories here, isn't there, Sylvie?"

"... Yes," she replied, though she tried to hide the fear in the words.

"I promise that I did not love you in 'that' way when you were a child. I just never saw you as my daughter; I was much too young to be a father to anyone. At most, you were like a very young sister, but even that is a stretch. When Meredith took you away from me, I knew that I loved you then and I would have destroyed the world if that meant your return to me."

"Then why the threats," she blurted out before her mind registered the question. Eyes wide, she turned to Wyn, but found him morose, eyes dark as he gazed at a spot on the wood floors.

"Because I had to. Meredith brainwashed you so that you would marry his son, your cousin," he emphasized the last word as he turned towards her. "It was all a ruse, don't you see? I did it to protect you. Our marriage is to PROTECT you."

Wyn pulled off his glasses with one hand and Sylvie stared at him, unsure how to take in this information. Who was she supposed to trust in this situation? If she were honest with herself, Wyn had never done anything untoward to her. He had treated her like an angel as she grew up, cared for her much better than her real family ever had. Was she the one who betrayed him and not the other way around? Her confusion was thick like molasses.

"But you raised me..."

"My mistake was to put you in Ptolmey. I should have known Meredith's son would weasel his way into your heart. If he cared about you, he would have never brought you back to Metuperi. Don't you see that?"

"I..."

"Sylvie," he turned fully to her, taking her hands in his, desperation laced thick in his voice. "I love you, more than anyone could ever love another. I would give up everything if it meant I could have you forever."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Even your work...?"

He looked away at that.

"... Not that. But," he placed his glasses on the nightstand as he returned his gaze, "that is only because they will certainly come for my head. I've killed so many of them, Sylvie. You don't know what it's like, to have the blood of so many on your hands."

"But I do," she confessed, staring hard at his hands. "If I had not run away with Drake, Christy would still be..."

"Shh, my love," Wyn gathered Sylvie in his arms, her cheek to his chest. She saw the stain of tears on his shirt before she registered them having come. "It will be alright now. Just you and me, like it was always meant to be."

The familiarity of his arms around her, Sylvie could not deny the comfort in them. There were so many times in her early years that she had sought this exact feeling, always staying up past her bedtime to sneak into Wyn's room, when she knew he was up late, to sleep in his arms. After her mother's death, it was the first place she had felt safe, nuzzled close to his chest. She supposed that would never change and she relaxed finally, giving up her rigid guard. It would be okay to just feel this, wouldn't it?

Sylvie did not know how long they had stayed that way, Wyn's hands stroking her hair, his strong arms holding her close. When the last of the tears were shed, he pulled away, gently brushing away the wetness at the corner of her eyes. He kissed her then, very gentle at first, before deepening the kiss as his mouth coaxed hers open to him. The fight no longer in her, Sylvie acquiesced easily, the strange salty sweetness of him in her mouth. He pulled away only to reach around her, pulling at the lace holding her in her dress, the silk slipping easily with his fingers. In one deft motion, he tugged the wedding gown off her body, her heels long forgotten with a clatter to the floor. In only her underwear, he marveled at her form, as if seeing it for the first time.

"You've grown so beautiful, my love," he hummed, his hands at her sides. Those same hands traveled up and around again, deft fingers unhooking and taking the bustier away. He reached for the last remnants of her clothing, but she stopped him, her hand over his.

"No, let me."

She was not sure why she continued, an unfamiliar ache inside her that must have been between anxiety and love, but continue she did. She slipped her underwear from her hips, slowly dropping it off the side of the bed. Bare now, more bare than she had ever been with another, she watched his blue eyes gaze at her with intensity and wonder. Swiftly, he pulled the jacket off his shoulders, his hands struggling with the tie around his neck, and she reached for him, gently releasing the tie and letting it slip between her fingers. Surprise in his eyes, it was his turn to watch as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, pushing them to the side to free him from their constriction. She felt as if in a dream, undressing a man, the man who was now her husband and the one who had protected her for the last twelve years of her life.

Both of them nude before the other, Sylvie traced the muscles of Wyn's torso with her hand, the scars of his chest from battles she did not know. With her fingers, she felt the many remains of other old wounds up and down his arms, an errant scar on his thigh hidden under short, soft hairs. It was strange, for once since returning to Wyn and his estate, she finally felt in control, as if everything about the night was up to her. She took his sex in her soft hand, feeling it with her fingers as he groaned.

"Ahh, Sylvie..."

It was then she came down, taking him in her mouth between her crimson lips, tasting the saltiness of his skin. Slowly, she began to move her head up and down and she felt his hand slide down her back, cupping her bottom before his fingers, his skillful fingers, touched her own sex, playing with the sensitive flesh. Almost immediately, she moaned, the feeling of another's hand on her as unfamiliar as anything else. When he slid a finger inside her, she pulled back, shaking and gasping heavily, his free hand brushing her hair from her face to better see her.

"W-Wyn, I've never..." she gasped.

"No...? Well, then," he stated between heavy breaths, "I will have to make this night the most memorable..."

Rolling her onto her back, he spread her legs with his hands, his mouth to her sex as his tongue and fingers worked their magic. Her hips bucked to his face as she cried out his name, over and over, his ministrations electric and unending. Just when she thought she had been spent, he moved atop of her, his lips against hers again. She tasted herself, a different sweetness on his tongue and lips.

"Are you ready, my love?" he asked softly, one hand on each of her knees.

"Y-yes..."

With one thrust, he was inside her and she screamed, the pain intense. In languid motions, he began pushing back and forth inside her, his eyes never leaving hers. Soon enough, the pain turned to pleasure and she rocked her hips to meet his. They found a rhythm with their bodies and Sylvie cried out from the feeling. He ground his body to hers and she arched her back hard, gripping the bedsheets beneath her with tight fists. He lifted her then, straddling her over his lap as she intuitively hooked her legs around his waist, rocking her in time with him. In an explosion that left stars in her eyes, they reached climax together, breaths heavy. Gathering her in his arms once again, Sylvie fell to deep sleep, her body cradled in Wyn's.

The next day, Wyn woke early, as he usually did. Sitting up and glancing back to the body still slumbering in his bed, he smiled warmly, pleased with the turn of events. Sylvie was his again and in ways he had only imagined previously. He almost forgone the shower that morning, relishing in the smell of her on his skin. Two years had been too long to have gone without her. Showered and dressed in a gray suit, he left his angel to her sleep, putting on his glasses and heading to his office down the hall.

Once there, he sat at his desk and pulled a gold key from his pocket. Inserting it into the side of a drawer and turning it with a click, he pulled a large file from inside and placed it atop the cherry wood. He flipped through it in the quiet of the morning, blue eyes gazing leisurely at names, articles, notes, photographs. It was the culmination of the last ten years and, perusing through a desk rotary, he grasped the receiver of the telephone to the side, dialing a number.

"Hi, this is Detective Amaranth... Yes, I have what we discussed... I presume the District Attorney's office is ready?... Good. Make the case. It is done."

Gently, he returned the receiver back to its cradle, hand to his chin as he leaned back in the leather chair. Pulling out a smaller drawer, he extracted a carton and a lighter. With a flick of his wrist, he took a cigarette from the container, lighting it easily. Everything was as it should be and he smiled, ready for a new day.