Kingston leans into the side of my face. His breath brushes my cheek, warm and infuriating.
“Say the vows, princess. Unless you’d rather be buried in that dress,” he says in a growl just above a whisper.
I offer him a saccharin sweet smile, laced with a hint of disgust.
“Bury me then, asshole,” I whisper back. “At least I’ll die never having endured you as my husband.”
His lips twitch like he’s amused, but I see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his hand curls ever so slightly at his side.He didn’t like my counter. Didn’t like an O’Callaghan standing up to a Viacava.
I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know our families are watching our every move.
My father sits in the front pew like a king on his throne, his expression carved from granite. His silver hair is neat, tailored black suit impeccable, ringed fingers clasped in front of him as if he’s presiding over a business meeting instead of his daughter’s wedding.
In the aisle next to him, Lorenzo Viacava, Kingston’s father, is just as glacial. He holds the silver handle of a cane, gold watch gleaming beneath the sunlight pouring in through a skinny framed window.
Neither man smiles at the union. They don't need to because they’ve already gotten what they needed. Our compliance.
Truth is, this elaborate wedding isn’t about love. It’s about strategy. A way for the Red Tribunal to control our families.
The priest starts the ceremony and chants a bunch of phrases that should mean something.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
That’s it. No rumble of thunder or flash of lightning. No heavy rainstorm to symbolize the unshed tears within me. Just seven words that end one life and signify the start of another.
I brace myself, expecting Kingston to turn away and keep his clenched hands at his sides like they were through the entire ceremony. But the moment the priestbacks up, he steps into me, slides one hand around my waist, the other curling possessively around the side of my neck.
Then he kisses me.
Hard.
It’s not sweet and definitely not romantic. It’s more of a showpiece statement.
The crowd erupts in applause, some louder than others. I hear his brother Bronx’s low whistle somewhere behind us and the click of paparazzi cameras.
But all I can focus on is Kingston’s mouth. How it’s warm, the pressure firm, and the man far too confident in his ability.
Minty-flavored lips sweep over mine again before he pulls away—just enough for his breath to coast over my skin as he mutters, “Eyes are on us, princess. Be a good girl and play your part.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, resisting the urge to slap him. I want to shove him off me and spit in his face for daring to touch me without my permission. Even if he’s my husband and I’m his wife.
But my damn knees are traitors.
They don’t buckle, but theydip, just enough for me to curse myself for the weak reaction. For letting him taunt me.
I school my expression, letting the flutter in my chest pass, and rise to my tiptoes, kissing his cheek with a mocking laugh, pretending I’m into it.
The crowd eats it up.
Of course they do.
All they see is a magazine worthy couple. A dolled-up bride and her brooding groomoffering a glimpse of passion. They believe in the fairy tale even though it’s draped in blood debts and pure silk.
I smile but it's all teeth.
A low chuckle sounds as we walk arm in arm past the front row.
Bronx Viacava.
