“Obviously.” She giggles, stealing the Sharpie back. “Let me add something.”
She flips the napkin over, scribbles something, and hands it to me for approval.
Ryker Noire promises not to wear pants for said public wedding.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Insurance,” she declares. “If the king shows up without his clothes, I’ll know he really wants me.”
Nonsensical and ingenious at once. That sums up my Mercy.
I’m not sold on the idea—a wedding with or without pants. I’ve never pictured myself as a husband, not after the tumultuous marriage my parents had. But I’m riveted by the prospect with her. So, I sign, and she does too.
She pours the last of the champagne into her flute. “But now you can’t call me Viper anymore.”
Not wanting her to wake up with a massive hangover, I rise to get her some water. “If you ever decide to sayfuck offto all thevanillamen who would be threatened by our relationship and you want to come to the dark side—where praise, whips, wax, and orders are doled out freely—ask for your nickname back.”
No idea what the hell I’m doing. But I have more than a decade to worry about it, and most likely, neither of us will remember any of this by then.
“Like a code. Deal.” She swallows, and there’s a tentativeness to her words that’s rarely there. “And … if you ever …”
Uncertain or not, I fill in the part she isn’t willing to voice. “If I’m ever prepared to offer that and more, I’ll call you Viper again.”
The memory of that night dissipates, and I’m left with the same aura I carried for years after it, that maybe it was all in my head. The heat. The hope. The possibilities and promises. It all hovers out of reach, like a fever dream of delusions Mercy and I aren’t meant to hold.
It makes sense that she was taken aback by me throwing the nickname out there yesterday, even though both times we kissed, her responsiveness was zealous. She sliced through that euphoria with her admission that I was on that fucking floor with her.
But we’ve spent our time in hell, and …
I toss my dice into the air, struck by what lands in my palm—seven and five. As gratifying as that is, it’s nothing compared to what I see next.
Mercy rounds the corner in an elegant black crepe cocktail dress. It’s soher—off the shoulders, belt defining her waist, pockets in the skirt, which hits mid-thigh, shimmery legs for fucking days. Her dark blonde locks kiss her bare skin, a fine chain necklace drapes her collarbone, her diamond La Lune Noire–access bracelet adorns her dainty wrist, and my ring sparkles on her finger.
Sophisticated and sexy.
My plus-one. No, my goddamn fiancée.
Mine.
Hope is the last thing to die.
RYKER
My pulse ratchets higher. I fight the urge to bite my fist and release a pent-up growl at the sight of her. Visions of ripping that dress to pieces, devouring every radiant inch of her, and thrusting my cock inside her until she’s undone, screaming, and she doesn’t fucking remember her goddamn name assault me.
Not tonight.
Axel and I went round and round last night. He thinks I should back off. Let her come to me when she’s ready. And when Maddox showed up a half hour later, he laughed until he nearly cried about me threatening to kill everyone and then told me I sucked at playinghard to get.
He had a fucking point.
But despite the feat it is, I keep my reaction as even-keeled as I can manage. “Breathtaking, Mercy. You’ll be the talk of the party.”
She blushes, extends a quick, “Thank you,” and sashays to the door, waiting for me, her posture ramrod straight, chin held high, face impassive.
Remy was our buffer today. We had a wonderful time, playing games, exploring the passageways, and relaxing. Without him, she’s closed off again.
Fine. All business. We’ll go with that.
