Only difference is, this line ends with a ring, not a registration form.
Bureaucracy can be sexy, I guess.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
Up front, Mac and Logan stand shoulder to shoulder, whispering and smiling like this is just another Tuesday. Clay and Dean flank the side wall, both dressed in black, built like they were born to be human walls. Sam and Chace? Loud as hell, laughter echoing off marble until Mac shoots them a look sharp enough to slit throats. Even Sam shuts up after that.
Then there’s her.
Seraphina.
She looks like a verse in a song I haven’t written yet. Lace drapes over her like it was made for her skin. Her red hair falls in a loose braid over her shoulder with tiny white flowers threaded through it.
Vanilla and cherries. That’s what she smells like. Sweet and forbidden all at once. Probably something Mac picked out, but knowing those fiendishly close Hallmark brothers, it could’ve been them.
I steal another glance, pretending it’s casual. It’s not.
This stranger beside me—this woman who’s about to become my wife.
Fuck. I can’t stop looking at her.
Her fingers are looped through mine, trembling slightly. I tighten my hold, hoping it steadies her. But maybe I’m the one who needs steadying.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
Why am I freaking out? It’s not like I haven’t done crazy before.
It’s not like I’m marrying some random stranger off the street.
Except that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Somewhere out there, her dad has probably already seen the headlines, ready to march down from his holy pulpit with fire and brimstone.
Good thing I’m a better lover than a fighter.
Although, that’s to be debated.
Because the fighter in me?
He’s still there—kept on a tight leash.
It's all just smooshing bodies.
My old man made sure I could fight, trained me to throw punches before I could walk. But the second Braden pulled me out of that underground ring, out ofhishouse, I swore I’d never look back.
I haven’t.
Not until now—standing here beside this girl who makes me want to fight again.
Only this time, it’s not for survival.
It’s for her.
The officiant clears her throat, pulling my gaze forward, but I can still feel Seraphina beside me—feel the warmth of her body, the way her breath catches when everyone looks our way. My chest tightens painfully. I shouldn’t want to pull her closer. I shouldn’t want to trace that delicate line of lace down her shoulder and follow it with my mouth.
But I do.
Every fucking part of me wants to peel that dress from her body, slow and reverent, and memorize the sound she makes when I whisper her name against her skin.
