Rouge steps forward with the little velvet box like he’s carrying a crown instead of two bands of gold. He smirks at me liketry not to drop them, Devil.
I take the ring meant for her. Slide it onto her trembling finger. “With this ring,” I say, “I bind myself to you. In every life, in every way.”
Her breath catches. Then she takes my ring. Her fingers shake so badly I help guide it onto my hand. “With this ring,” she whispers, “I take you as you are. As you’ve always been. As you’ll be for the rest of my days.”
Someone sniffles loudly. Probably Rouge. Maybe half the church.
The priest lifts his hands. “By the authority of the Church and the blessing of God, I now—”
Siobhán laughs under her breath, tiny and disbelieving and beautiful. And me? I’m staring at her like I just witnessed my own resurrection.
The moment the priest says the words—“You may kiss your bride”—I don’t wait. I can’t wait. I pull her in with both hands, one at the back of her neck, one at her waist, and kiss her like every vow I just made is sealed on her mouth. The church erupts around us—chairs scraping, gasps, laughter, cheers—but all I taste is her. All I feel is her hands clutching at my jacket like she’s trying to keep from melting into the floor.
And then— the bells explode. All Saints’ tower shakes the winter air with a roar of sound, drowning out everything for a breathless, holy heartbeat. And beneath the thunder of the bells, a deeper roar rolls through the stone walls.Dublin.My city. Our city.
The crowd outside must feel the moment like a pulse, because they’re cheering so loudly I swear the stained glass trembles. Siobhán laughs into my mouth, breathless, shining, the veil slipping down her back like falling snow. She tries to come up for air; I kiss her again, deeper, hungrier, because
Christ above—my wife.My wife.
I break just long enough to touch my forehead to hers. Her eyes are wet, her smile trembling, and I’ve never seen anything more devastating. The priest clears his throat like we’ve committed some mortal sin. Someone whistles. Someone else sobs audibly. Rouge shouts something wildly inappropriate. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the woman whose heartbeat I can feel through her dress.
The applause rolls through the church like a wave as I turn us toward the aisle. She barely has time to blink before I bend, scoop her clean off her feet, and lift her into my arms. The churcherupts. Laughter. Screams. Clapping so loud it shakes dust from the rafters.
She throws her arms around my neck, half laughing, half crying, her veil cascading behind us like a comet’s tail as I carry her down the aisle—our families reaching out, brushing her hands,blessing us, sobbing and cheering all at once. Somewhere behind us, someone rings a handheld bell like a madman. Someone else shouts“Sláinte!”at the top of their lungs.
And Siobhán—my brilliant, golden girl—presses her face to my jaw and whispers, voice shaking from joy: “Cill… we did it.”
I hold her tighter, heart pounding like I’m twenty again and fighting the whole world just to keep her safe.
“No, dove,” I whisper back, stepping into the blinding winter light as the doors swing open and Dublin’s roar crashes over us—“We’re just getting started.”
The second the doors of the church close behind us, the world shifts. Outside, Dublin is roaring itself hoarse—bells, cheers, music, shouting, the kind of joy you can feel in your ribs. Inside, it’s warmth and candlelight and the echo of her name dissolving into the vaulted ceiling.
My wife.Christ, I’m never getting tired of that.
The drivers hold the door open for us, breath fogging in the cold, and Siobhán laughs—a breathless, disbelieving sound that’s half-sob, half-song—as I lift her into the back of the car like she weighs nothing.
Her dress is a miracle, all lace and light and holy-looking nonsense, and I’m terrified I’ll crush it. She cups my face, still laughing, still crying, and shakes her head like she can’t believe any of this is real. “Cill…”
I kiss her before she can finish. I kiss her like I’m sealing a pact with God Himself. The car door shuts, muffling the roar of Dublin until it’s nothing but a thunderous heartbeat outside. Inside, it’s just her. Her flushed cheeks. Her veil pooling around us like a cathedral built only for two. Her hands in my hair, pulling me close because distance is a sin neither of us intends to commit ever again.
She breaks first, breathless, smiling so wide it’s unfair. “We’re married,” she whispers, like she needs me to confirm it. Like she’s afraid the universe will take it back.
I drag my thumb along her jaw, wiping a stray tear. “Aye,mo ghrá. We are. You’re mine now.”
She smiles. “I was always yours.”
The car starts moving, slow and smooth through the stone courtyard. Snowflakes drift past the windows, catching golden from the streetlamps. The world looks enchanted—like somebody shook a snow globe and whispered a blessing over Dublin. We pass crowds still gathered on the steps—people waving scarves, lighting sparklers, crying, shouting her name, my name, “The Devil’s Bride!” “Our golden girl!” “Happy Christmas!” “Sláinte!”
She presses her hand to the window, stunned. “They’re all here…”
“For you,” I murmur. “Always for you.”
She turns her head then, eyes shining through the remnants of tears, and it hits me in one brutal, beautiful blow: This is the happiest she’s ever been. And I got to give it to her.Christ save me.My chest knots so hard I have to look away, pretend to adjust her skirt, pretend I’m not two seconds away from embarrassing myself in front of the woman I just married.
She nudges me gently. “Cill?”
I breathe out once, shaky. “I didn’t think I’d survive loving you.”
