"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 LIEtangled 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
