Sean's jaw clenches. His eyes are on Father McCleary, not on me, and I can see the muscle jumping beneath the scar. For a moment, I think he might refuse. Might finally say no to this farce of a marriage.
"I do," he says, his voice rough and low.
The words settle over me like a chain. Father McCleary turns to me. "Maeve Catherine Connelly, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"
Sean flinches visibly when Father McCleary says my middle name. As if that humanizes me somehow. Makes me more real to him.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. This is it. My last chance. I could say no. Could refuse. Could walk out of this church and face whatever consequences come. I could try to run from all of this, out into the rain, a runaway bride with nothing to her name and nowhere to go.
But there's no such thing as freedom for girls like me. There's only choosing which cage you'll live in, if you’re lucky enough to get a choice at all. And this is a choice, such as it is.
At least this cage comes with the Council's protection. At least Sean, for all his coldness, hasn't actually hurt me.
Yet.
"I do," I whisper.
"The rings," Father McCleary prompts.
Connor McBride stands and brings forward a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal two golden bands—one fine and thin, one thicker. I hadn't even thought about rings, but of course the Council thought of everything.
Sean takes the smaller ring and reaches for my left hand. His fingers are warm and calloused when they touch mine, and I can't suppress a small shiver. For some reason, I thought his touch would be cold, but instead it’s delightfully heated, warming my own chilly flesh. He slides the ring onto my finger, his movements careful and deliberate.
"With this ring, I thee wed," he says, his voice low and deep and rough, his accent thick. That strange feeling squirms through my stomach again, and suddenly, I’m not cold any longer. I feel almost too warm, my skin oddly hot.
Then it's my turn. I take the larger ring with trembling fingers and reach for Sean's hand. His hand is so much larger than mine, scarred across the knuckles, strong and dangerous. I slide the ring on, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it.
"With this ring, I thee wed," I manage.
"By the power vested in me by the State of Massachusetts and the Holy Catholic Church," Father McCleary says, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He pauses, and I can hear the reluctance in his voice when he adds, "You may kiss the bride."
My heart stops.
I'd somehow forgotten about this part. About the kiss. About having to kiss Sean in front of everyone, to seal this marriage with an intimacy I'm nowhere near ready for.
Sean is looking down at me. I didn’t opt for a veil, but now I wish I had, just to get a moment more to ready myself before he touches me. I wait for him to reach for me, to cup my cheek, to show the smallest hint of gentleness, but instead he only takes one step closer, destroying any space that was left between us.
His eyes meet mine, green and intense and unreadable. He's so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and the sheer size of him is overwhelming this close.
He's going to kiss me. Right now. In front of everyone.
His lips brush mine, soft and brief. A chaste kiss, barely more than a touch. But I feel as if I’ve been shocked, as if that one moment of contact sent jolts of electricity chasing over my skin. My heart is suddenly beating rapidly, and my skin feels hot, my cheeks painfully flushed.
Sean steps back, his expression closing off again. We're married.
The reality crashes over me like a wave. I'm married. To Sean Flannery. The Wolf of Dublin. A man I don't know and who doesn't want to know me.
The congregation applauds politely. Annie looks as if she might have tears in her eyes. Ronan’s jaw is tight. Connor McBride looks satisfied. And Sean… Sean looks like he wants to be anywhere else.
We sign the marriage certificate in the vestry, our signatures side by side. Sean Flannery and Maeve Connelly Flannery. My new name looks wrong, foreign, like it belongs to someone else.
Then we're being ushered outside for photos. The photographer—another person I never met or hired—positions us in front of the church, the rain having stopped as if it's on their side, not mine. Sean stands stiffly beside me, his hand on my lower back because the photographer insists, his touch burning through the fabric of my dress.
"Smile," the photographer instructs.
I try. I don't think I succeed.
—
