The moment Axel glimpsed me in my dress, he clutched his chest and beamed with glistening sapphire eyes. “I know I probably messed a thousand things up. But you—I am so proud of you. Mom would be so proud of you—and not just today. Every day raising you was … an adventure”—he chuckled—“and a gift. You were always the strongest of us all.”
Maybe he had believed that all along, or perhaps it was seeing me apart from them that had done it—viewing meas an integral member of Ty’s family. Either way, it’s what I’d longed to hear from him for years.
I cried in his arms and thanked him for everything he’d done for me before I redid my makeup and let him escort me into a new life.
Wells, Ryker, and Gage personally frisked every guest who entered. Ivy, Celeste, and Tessa were my bridesmaids. Maddox, Cash, and Liam kept everything flowing and all the guests entertained with their typical antics. Jax was my wingman—a title he preferred to man of honor, so we rolled with it. He claimed it was fitting because he was the reason Ty and I made it this far, something about his insight surrounding demons. I wasn’t sure where he had gotten that idea, but I decided to let him have it.
And Natasha sweetly assumed the mother-of-the-bride-and-groom duties, stating again and again how grateful she was to be there for us since she hadn’t been able to be present for Ivy and Wells. It wasn’t the same as having my mom there, but her maternal affection was a comforting gift that Ty and I both needed.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Well, not among the Noires or the KORT crew. It was one of those joyous occasions that almost hurt because it was the culmination of so much hope and yet it couldn’t be held. After everything that had happened, we all recognized the transient nature of the celebratory occasion, which compelled us to embrace it all the more.
But fleeting or not, it was a more magical wedding than I could have ever imagined. My husband, of course, doted on me, showering me with adoration, but it was the unadulterated joy in his eyes that had butterflies swarming me the entire day.
We ended the night with only the people from my two families on the dance floor—everyone so happy and carefree. Ty, Wells, Liam, Gage, and all my brothers took turns spinning Ivy, Celeste, Felicity, and me around. And when the speakers crooned the final song, “Dancing in the Moonlight”—one of my mom’s favorites—it was like she was there with us. No matter how corrupt or formidable the nine men in my life are—or even the girls and me—thesmiles, love, and laughter in that ballroom were a representation of the freedom my mother craved for us.
The depiction of all that couldn’t be burned. And all that is blooming from those ashes.
But today is even better.
My fingers thread with Ty’s as we lie on a blanket, staring up at the early evening violet sky. Streaks of tangerine ribbon around the cottony clouds—floating with an unfettered boasting beside the setting sun. A humid blanket drapes us, and scents of earthy musk and a fruity sweetness waft on the slight breeze. I haven’t managed to utter a word yet. My husband-twice-over is simply too much, and I prefer to be quippy over sappy. But that’s not happening.
Because we’re smack in the middle of a literal blueberry field, planted behind the French chateau that is now my New Orleans home.
I’m not ready to acknowledge the boulder of emotion swelling in my throat, so I finally muster the strength to deflect. “We need to discuss something really important.”
His lips hitch up at the corner as he lolls his head toward me, astutely not sweating the impending discourse. “Lay it on me.”
“What’s with the slicking?”
“The slicking?” he retorts, mouth twitching in mirth.
“Yeah.” I widen my eyes to showcase just how bizarre his ritual is. “The weird shower thing you do—where you shed all the clingy water droplets off your skin with your flattened palm.”
He bursts out laughing, the canorous bellow snaking around the berries to enwrap me in his warmth. “Why is that weird? It’s efficient. Otherwise, the towel would be instantly soaked. Wasted.”
“Such a philanthropist,” I quip. “Are we super concerned with towel preservation?”
“You probably aren’t,” he volleys, tapping my nose. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d have more clothes on the floor than in the closet.”
I bite back a smile, the normalcy of this conversation seepinginto my veins to pump new energy into my soul. “Hey now, don’t knock the floordrobe.”
Another ring of his laughter cocoons me as he kisses my cheek. “The floordrobe?”
“Trust me when I say, it makes a hell of a lot more sense than the slicking,” I contend. “By picking up the clothes, you’re messing with an ingenious organization system.”
“I’m all ears,” he rasps. “Please school me on the innovative purpose of the floordrobe.”
“Sometimes, clothes aren’t dirty, but they aren’t quite clean enough for a full day of wear. It would be inefficient to dedicate time to hanging them up and utterly irresponsible to wash them. Think of all the unslicked water we’d be squandering.”
He raises his gaze back to the sky, cheeks lifted in a buoyant grin—an authentic one. “I can’t argue with that. You saved energy and water. Better than my measly towel.”
“I suspect that’s how all our arguments will go,” I gloat, but before I celebrate too much, I tack on, “Are you going to stop tampering with the floordrobe?”
“Definitely not.” He squeezes my hand, thumb sweeping tenderly over my skin. “Makes me fucking crazy.”
“Fine. I’ll give up my groundbreaking organization methods when you forgo the slicking,” I concede.
“Never gonna happen.” He chuckles. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with a stubborn, slicking neat freak.”
