The night unfolded in a blur of food and wine and laughter. Toasts were raised until I lost count, each one more heartfelt than the last.
Thessa’s speech made everyone cry. She talked about her brother, about watching him fall in love, about how she’d known from the first moment she saw us together that I was the one for him. Her voice cracked when she talked about gaining a sister, and by the end, even the stoic wolf nobles were dabbing at their eyes. I was a mess. Caelan was worse.
Patt’s speech, thank the goddess, made everyone laugh instead. It was mostly embarrassing stories about Caelan’s childhood, including one involving a pond, a dare, and a very angry goose that had apparently chased young Prince Caelan halfway across the castle grounds while he screamed for his mother. By the end, Caelan was hiding his face in his hands while the guests howled with laughter, and I was mentally filing away every detail for future teasing purposes.
“I’m never living that down, am I?” Caelan muttered.
“Absolutely not. That goose is my new hero.”
Sloane gave a speech that included several creative threats about what she’d do if Caelan ever hurt me.
“I have werewolf friends now,” Sloane announced, slightly drunk, pointing at Thessa. “I can and will use them.”
“She would,” Thessa confirmed.
The night wore on.
I found myself on the dance floor again, swaying in Caelan’s arms. The music had slowed, the crowd had thinned, and the wild energy had mellowed into warmth.
“Happy?” he murmured against my hair.
“Mm.” I nestled closer. “Very.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pulled back to look at him, my husband, my king, my mate. The crown sat on his head perfectly. Which, I supposed, made sense. It had been made for him. “I’m happy, Caelan. Really, truly happy.”
His smile was soft. “I still have more groveling to do.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Years of it, probably.”
“And how exactly are you planning to grovel?”
His eyes darkened with promise. His hands tightened on my waist. He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear.
“I was thinking,” he said, voice dropping low, “of spending the rest of the night on my knees.”
My stomach flipped.
Heat pooled low in my belly. Suddenly the crowd, the music, the celebration, all of it faded to background noise. All I could see was him. All I could think about was that promise.
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hm.” His thumb traced circles on my hip. “If you’re interested.”
“I might be interested.”
“Just might be?”
I grabbed his face and kissed him, thorough, decisive, a kiss that left no doubt about exactly how interested I was.
When I pulled back, his eyes were molten gold.
“Celebration be damned,” he growled.
He swept me into his arms, literally swept, bridal-style, exactly like the heroes in my books, and strode toward the exit. The man had zero shame. I respected that.
