King Rafe arrived fashionably late, sauntering in with his own small entourage. He was decked out in what looked like a designer suit, probably Armani, looking more like a retired linebacker than a king. His presence quieted the crowd; you could feel the power rolling off him. I walked over to meet him. He clapped me on the back and said, “Damn good turnout, son. Who’s the artist over there?” He asked, pointing at Aspen.
I told him Aspen was my mate, and his eyebrows shot up.
“Nice catch,” he said, with genuine warmth.
I wanted to be certain he understood she belonged to me. Rafe was an unmated wolf. Didn’t want him getting ideas.
By 5:45, the clearing was full. The crowd amazingly co-mingled together; vampires sat with wolves, and different packs sat together. This was a time for celebrating love, and everyone seemed to share the spirit of the occasion.
The last arrival was the most anticipated. Archon Seraphael entered with no fanfare, just a ripple through the crowd as every head turned at once. He was seven feet if he was an inch, dressed in white linen, his hair shining like spun glass. He moved with the ease of a man who had never in his entire existence, fearedanything. He nodded at Bronc, then at me, then fixed his golden gaze on Aspen. She froze. For a moment, she was so still I thought she’d turned to stone. Then, he turned back to me.
“It’s good to see you again, Jonas. Much better circumstances this time, I’d say,” he said, his voice a song and a commandment.
I had no idea what to say, so I just nodded. “Thank you for coming, sir.”
He left me standing there as he found his seat.
I took my place next to Bronc, squared my shoulders; it was almost time.
Chapter 24
Aspen
The clearing looked like a fairy tale had blown through it and gotten drunk on moonshine. Strings of Edison bulbs arched over the makeshift aisles, their warm gold tangled through the branches of pine and mesquite. Folding chairs fanned out in a lazy half-moon facing the altar, which was really just a raised platform swaddled in white linen and covered with wildflowers. Someone—probably Maddie—had set up a hand-lettered sign at the entrance: “Welcome to the Mating Ceremony of Bronc & Juliet.”
The wedding cake sat on a separate square silver pedestal, its four tiers bristling with buttercream rosettes and piped inlaysof lemon curd. Oscar had insisted on a band of candied violets for the bottom layer (“for contrast, miss!”) and a tiny fondant motorcycle perched at the very top. A pair of matching sheet cakes—one chocolate, just in case someone was opposed to the lemon—waited behind the main event, ready for deployment.
I ran my hand around the cake stand, feeling the cold sweep of nerves. Papa had dropped me off an hour ago, the van packed tight with cakes, pastries, and Oscar’s emergency “warding kit” of salt and chalk. After setup, I’d floated to the edge of the clearing, watching guests trickle in to take their seats. They looked different from when I’d met them earlier. Now they were all dressed to the nines. No casual looks were to be found here. The first to arrive were the pack officers and their families, then out-of-towners, and finally, the parade of a few supernaturals who made my pulse skitter.
Menace was first. Savannah, his queen was impossible to miss: long auburn curls, eyes like rain-washed moss, a forest-green dress hugging every curve. They shook hands with Bronc and Juliet, then worked the crowd, Menace’s laughter cutting through the cold air like a power tool.
Next was the vampire king. He glided up the path with his daughter on one arm, and for a second I thought they might float off the ground. He was beautiful, carved from marble, sharp in a black suit with a long purple overcoat that caught the light just so. He startled me when he approached the dessert table. I hadn’t expected him to speak to me. His eyes, bright blue and slightly mocking, and I remembered I’d heard about the time he’d snapped a wolf’s wrist at a business lunch and then complimented the local wine. But he was kind and surprisingly complimentary.
Rafe Mayfield—the king of the southwest—rolled in with an entourage of giants. He wore his power like a favorite shirt: comfortable, a little frayed, impossible to ignore. Papa spokebriefly to him and nodded to me. The king then pointed at my cake as he passed and gave me a thumbs up, the gesture so corny I laughed out loud.
But then, at the last possible moment, the clearing changed. The air shimmered, and every sound—from the drone of the crowd to the wind in the trees—shrank into a hush. And there he was, the angel king. He walked out of the darkness like he’d built the stars himself, bigger than life, white linen suit, with hair long and gleaming like silk, eyes molten gold. Even the wolves stepped aside as he moved. I’d never seen anything like him. No one had.
Oscar scrambled up my skirt and perched on my shoulder, his voice trembling. “He’s real, Miss. The stories were true. He’s not even trying to hide his power.”
Archon stopped, scanned the whole crowd, and then locked eyes with me. He smiled, slow and kind, and nodded once in my direction. I clutched the edge of the cake table, knees weak.
“They say angels can see your soul,” Oscar whispered, fluffing his fur.
“What did he see?” I managed.
“Everything,” Oscar replied, and that was that.
People began to sit, the noise creeping back in like someone had turned up the volume by degrees. I scanned the seating, hunting for my spot, and found Maddie waving at me from the second row. She’d left an empty chair between herself and Queen Savannah, who was busy fixing the curl of her hair with a tiny gold compact.
I walked up, wiping my hands on my dress, and Savannah scooted over, beaming. “Aspen! Come sit with us. We need a buffer in case the vampires get feisty.” Her accent was pure Midwest, honeyed and sharp at the same time.
I slid into the chair, my skirt hem rising to my knees. “Is it always like this?” I asked, watching the supernaturals jostle for seats.
Savannah snorted. “Lord, no. This is twice as many kings as you’d ever see in one place. Bronc just demands this kind of respect without even trying.”
Maddie reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t let them scare you, sugar. You belong here as much as any of ‘em.”
I tried to believe it. I wasn’t the daughter of a line of shifter royalty, or a vampire princess, and even though my mother was a powerful witch, I sure wasn’t. I was just Aspen Waters, a witch from the woods of Georgia, who’d only recently found her magic, who spent more time scraping burned sugar off baking pans than practicing spells. But for the first time, the idea didn’t make me want to hide. I belonged here, even if I was a little weird around the edges.
