Father Barclay pauses, frowning up at me until I manufacture something resembling a smile and he continues.
“Aria…” He checks his notes, “Aria Elizabeth King, do you take Lachlan Callum MacTavish as your lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health until death do you part?”
“I… do.”
Saying that last word is physically painful.
Lachlan procures a ring from somewhere and grips my left hand, sliding it on my finger. When Father Barclay repeats the lines to him, he gleefully says “I do!” and squeezes my ass before attempting to hand me a ring. When I glare at him, he chuckles and puts it on himself.
“Bless in Christ the consent you have declared before the Church, so that what God joins together, no one may put asunder,” the poor priest says, slamming his Bible shut with an aggrieved sigh.
Lachlan’s hand slides behind my neck, the other landing on my ass again and pulling me against him.
“If you kiss me I will bite your lip and make you bleed all over your fancy shirt!” I hiss, but he laughs, loud, and raucously.
“I’ll take my chances, Mrs. MacTavish.”
My mouth is open, ready to hurl another threat when his lips come down on mine, firm and sure.
Damn him.
The evil bastard knows how to kiss, one thumb stroking my cheekbone as a guttural noise of satisfaction rumbles through him. I can feel the vibration pass through his chest and into my own, sending a bolt of lightning right down to my center and making me press my thighs together.
When he finally lifts his head, I’m horrified to realize I’m sagging in his grasp. I didn’t fight him. At all.
Lachlan smooths a wisp of hair off my forehead and whispers, “Now you’re mine.”
Chapter Eight
In which Aria celebrates the worst wedding night ever.
Aria…
“You can stop carrying me around like I’m a purse pooch any time now.”
Lachlan is carrying me out of the elevator and into the entryway of his penthouse.
“Purse pooch? Are those the yappy little dogs women carry around?”
“Yes.” My squirming turns into thrashing. “And I’m not one so put me down.”
Chuckling in that infuriating way that made me want to punch him in the dick, he does, gently placing my feet on the marble entryway.
My family’s net worth is easily in the billions. However, my parents were always careful not to appear that way in our hometown. “A lifestyle that is blatantly and almost obscenely higher than the rest of the community invites too much notice,” my father had been fond of saying, “it breeds resentment.”
So, while we had homes in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, an apartment in Manhattan, and a couple of vacation homes in Greece and the Virgin Islands, the King family estate was never flashy, never ostentatious.
Lachlan’s place, though, should be on the cover ofI’m Rich As Fuck And Don’t You Forget Itmagazine.
The building’s at least a century old, a brownstone that reminds me of New York City. The penthouse is beautifully restored, the herringbone wood floors glow, stretching out ahead of me, inviting me to look out the massive windows in the main living area. The furniture fits the space, large, antique wooden cabinets and tables, leather couches, and armchairs. Yep. Giant-sized to accommodate the man who just made me marry him.
Oh, my god. Giant. Does that mean he’s got a dick that matches the rest of him?
The entire, bizarre day crashes down on me with the force of a hurricane. I stare at the ring on my hand, really seeing it for the first time. It’s heavy. A glittering square diamond in a platinum band.
I married Lachlan MacTavish. At gunpoint.
A snort escapes me before I slap my hand over my mouth. This is alternately hilarious and horrifying. I should be home, commiserating with Zed and Elana, helping my brother take on the mantle of leadership.
