Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
"I owe you an apology."
I blink. That's not what I expected.
He turns to face me. "The dress. It occurred to me as I watched you walk toward me. The fit was wrong. It was made for someone else, and I put you in it without thought."
I'm still processing the fact that he noticed. That he was watching closely enough to see what I felt.
"I was not raised to be sensitive to such things." The words come out stiff. Formal. "But on this, I could have done better. For that failure, I ask your forgiveness."
The apology hangs in the air.
I shake my head.
"I think," I say slowly, "I'd rather you stay exactly as you are."
His brow furrows. Confused.
"You don't care about the material things." I take a step toward him without quite meaning to. "The dress, the decorations, the flowers. None of that matters to you. But you care about what matters most." My voice softens. "Like flying my mother all the way from Oregon so I wouldn't have to be alone today."
Something happens to his face.
It's subtle. If I weren't trained to read micro-expressions, I might have missed it.
A flush stains his high cheekbones.
My eyes widen.
"Are you—"
"Say another word," he says, his voice low and rough, "and you'll regret it."
"Blushi—mmph!
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Nothing like the kiss at the ceremony.
This kiss is a man staking a claim. His mouth is demanding, insistent, swallowing whatever I was about to say. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and his other arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him.
My toes curl.
My brain empties.
I grip his shirt because my knees have forgotten how to work, and he kisses me deeper, harder, like he's punishing me for making him blush, like he's been wanting to do this for days and finally doesn't have to hold back.
When he finally pulls back, my heart is pounding against my chest.
And when he guides me backward, toward the bed, I don’t say a word.
He guides me backward, toward the bed. Gentle now. Patient.
I have read love poems. I have photographed brides glowing with anticipation. I thought I understood what they were feeling.
I understood nothing.
What happened between us...
It’s a garden I have never walked in. A language I have never spoken. He leads and I follow, and every touch writes something new on my skin. His heartbeat races beneath my palm, matching mine, two rhythms finding each other in the dark.
The contrast between us steals my breath. His strength. My softness. The way he holds me like I'm precious, like I'm fragile, like I'm the most valuable thing he's ever touched.
I am remade with each breath, each whisper, each moment that stretches into eternity.
I am his, and he is mine.
Something in me shifts. Opens. Becomes his in a way I cannot undo, would not undo, will carry with me always.
I will never be the same again.
AFTERWARDS, WE LIE tangled together in the dark.
My head rests on his chest. His arm is wrapped around me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.
I feel different. Not just physically. Something deeper. Like a door has been opened that can never be closed again.
"The marriage is unbreakable now," he says quietly. "In the eyes of my court. In the eyes of the law. You are mine, and I am yours, and nothing can change that."
I don't respond. I'm still floating.
His hand stills on my shoulder.
The silence stretches.
And then, so quiet I almost don't hear it:
"Who sent you, Bailey?"
Chapter Seven
I WAKE UP SLOWLY.
Not the sharp jolt of alarm I've been experiencing every morning since I arrived here, where consciousness hits like cold water and I spend the first thirty seconds trying to remember where I am and why. This is different. This is warmth seeping through my bones, a cocoon of silk sheets and something solid behind me, and a hand splayed across my stomach like it belongs there.
Devyn.
His chest is pressed against my back. His breath stirs my hair. His arm is wrapped around me, possessive even in sleep, and I can feel his heartbeat through my skin—steady, slow, the rhythm of a man who isn't worried about anything.
I lie very still, cataloging the sensations like a photographer sorting through shots. The heat of him along my spine. The weight of his arm. The way my body fits against his like we were designed to slot together, which is ridiculous because we weren't, we're strangers who got married yesterday, strangers who—
His arm tightens.
I stop breathing.
He pulls me closer, a sleepy, instinctive motion, and his mouth brushes the back of my neck. Not quite a kiss. Just contact. Just his lips against my skin, warm and soft, and every nerve ending I have sits up and pays attention.
"Mmm." The sound vibrates against my neck. "You're awake."