The Wedding: Raphael
Raphael Mirabaud
Everything.
Raphael drew a deep breath, bringing the cold air all the way down into his body, and repeated after the minister, “—to be my wife, and these things I promise you: I will be faithful to you and honest with you; I will respect, trust, help, and care for you; I will share my life with you—”
Flicka’s emerald green eyeswere shining in the sunlight, a little glassy as if from unshed tears, and she was smiling so widely that he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and laugh with her.
“—I will forgive you as we have been forgiven; and I will try with you to better understand ourselves, the world, and God, through the best and worst of what is to come, and as long as we live,” he said.
Every word felt like it overflowedfrom his heart, a promise like he’d never made before.
She repeated the same words, grinning at him, clutching his hands.
Instead of a tiara, she wore a cluster of white gardenia flowers in her golden hair. They were beautiful.
He watched her gorgeous, green eyes. They remained steadily on him, looking between his eyes, as she smiled broadly, showing many white teeth.
Flicka wasn’t lookingfor the cameras.
For once in her life, she wasn’t posing for the photo shoot, schooling her expression to be like a serene and beautiful porcelain doll, like during that other wedding, the royal event to benefit the charities.
Her smile was over-wide and wrinkling her cheeks, and her eyes were so smushed that they were almost shut. Far from standing straight with her hips turned away from thecameras and her hands clasped in front of her, a regal pose meant to look good in photographs, she was nearly wiggling with excitement as the sunlight sparkled in her hair and glowed on her skin, silken with the colors of cream and roses.
He’d never seen her look so beautiful.
The priest was still talking.
He slid his fingers from her neck up into her hair.
She closed her eyes and leaned hercheek against his hand. Her dark lashes fluttered on her pale cheek, and her skin cooled his palm.
Distant squawking from the minister floated past him.
He tilted her jaw up and kissed her, brushing his lips over hers because he couldn’t resist her, and this moment was for them, for love, and for the rest of their lives.
Her lips moved under his, and she stepped into his arms.
The ministerstammered that he pronounced them husband and wife.
With the sunlight blazing all around them, with the woman he loved more than his own life in his arms and pressed against his body, with her mouth under his lips and the moment flowing around them, he desperately wanted to live and to have that life with her.
But saving Flicka and Alina would be enough for him.
At least he was able to marryher. In this terrible universe where evil always triumphs and good men always lose, at least she was his for a few minutes of joy.
With that, he stepped back, held her hand, and led her down the aisle toward the doors that led to the small, stone courtyard that overlooked the sea.
Alina ran to him, and he swept his baby into his arms as they walked into the brilliant Mediterranean sunshine.
He drew a breath of cool sea air and sunlight with Alina snuggled against his shoulder and his arm around Flicka’s waist.
Russian guards surrounded them.
The hired soldiers ushered them to the cars and drove them away from the church.
