I’m too stunned.
Katarina would snort with derision at my naiveite, but it had not occurred to me, until right this moment, that being married would mean being physical.
I’ve never been with a man before and I…
I stare up at him, my eyes wide.
It’s not that he’s unattractive.
But I know I’m particularly sensitive and every part of this man is rough.
I feel my knees wobble, but he seems to notice, and his hand remains tight around my waist as we face the small crowd, a demure clap filling the church before Ryker is half carrying me down the aisle.
I kind of appreciate this move. I can hardly move in this dress.
But as we step outside onto the church steps, the sun blazing down on us, I realize I’m going to have to talk to his family.
Do they know our marriage is a farce? That Ryker has blackmailed me into being his bride?
I feel myself go numb. I’m terrible at lying like that.
But Ryker and I don’t have a moment for me to ask before Dimitri appears, his face black, as he carries Anna in his arms, his hand laced with Ava’s. “Congratulations,” he rumbles, sounding pissed off.
I cock my head. I don’t trust my brother. He’s got his own agenda here in Vegas. But for the first time I wonder if he holds some kind of affection for me.
Maybe?
He moves on, Ava hugging me, looking really worried, before the Smiths start filing by. Most of them politely congratulating me before slapping Ryker on the back.
I only half pay attention.
I have no idea what comes next, but I know it’s nothing good.
A limousine pulls up, long enough that the entire array of guests can pile in. They do, Ryker and I getting in last, which is a good thing considering I can hardly move in this dress.
I look down at the ill-fitted gown and draw in a ragged breath. It’s like everything else about this day. It’s wrong for me.
All wrong.
There’s enough room for Ryker and myself, but I’m pressed against his side. I try to stiffen away, but I’m only so successful.
We wind from the Vegas chapel into a swanky neighborhood with gated houses. Naturally, we pull up to the largest, the iron gates swinging open as the car pulls in.
Around me, the car is filled with chatter, but I don’t participate, don’t listen as I sit in silence assessing the large house with the perfectly manicured lawn. “Where are we?” I ask my…husband.
“Triston’s home. Smith central here in the states,” Ryker says back.
How telling is it that I didn’t even know where the reception was being held.
I don’t ask more as the car pulls up to the portico, the door to my right opening. Gathering up the skirts, I do my best to step out with some semblance of grace and then wait.
It’s not like I can enter the house. I don’t even know the person it belongs to. Not really.
The sheer ridiculousness of all this overwhelms me again and I find myself pressing my hands into my stomach even as Ryker’s hand comes to my back. “Let’s get inside, sweetheart, and out of the heat.”
Calling me his love is one thing. It’s just one of those terms Brits use. But I am not his sweetheart.
I’m the woman he blackmailed into marriage.
