The gold ring on your finger sparkled beneath the dim lighting of the singular lamp in this enclosed tent. It was oddly home-like. Not something you’d expect from a band of criminals.

This arranged marriage wasn’t happy, as most were. If anything, you were more of a little prize that the infamous Dutch Van Der Linde could show off. A trophy.

“My lovely little dove.” The man himself whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before shifting his attention back to a novel.

Disgusting.