And for the past three hundred and fifty-something days, they’ve been nothing short of perfect: endlessly patient as I’ve learned my new magic, sweet and supportive when I’ve struggled, and my soft place to land after the hard work of trying to save a whole-ass realm. And the regular immaculate, imaginative railing. I did mention that, didn’t I? But most of all, they want to wife me up. Steal-y, stabby, snarky me. And that means everything to me.
They deserve a wedding, and while I’m not remotely cut out for this shit, I’m going to damn well give them one. It’s the least I can do, right?
So, I stay up late and read the bridal magazines that Rez sneaks into our grocery cart, and I cut out articles and tips and pictures to put in my little vision board scrapbook thing. Never mind that it’s held together by as much Nutella as it is rubber cement.
Speaking of magazines.
“Hey, Rez?”
Reznik looks up from the old tome he’s been leafing through and looks me over with a slow, sultry grin.
Oh, right.
My demon warrior was getting me ready for a hang-and-bang when we got word from Yaelyn that he’d be a little late getting back and not to start without him. So, I’m butt-ass naked, strung up in a masterpiece of knots with just my hands free, two vibrators lightly buzzing away inside me, getting personally, pointedly, repeatedly and thoroughly attacked by bridal magazines.
“Yes, Spark?”
“Would you say my arms are toned?”
Big Apple Bridesays I should begin an upper-body toning program six months before my big day, so my arms look sleek in my dress.
“Your arms are perfect, Lucy. Every inch of you is perfect.”
“But are theytoned?”
“Is this because Yaelyn had to help you open your new jar of Nutella this morning?”
“I got it started for him!”
And then I stress-ate half the jar.
“Of course, love. I’m sure you did.”
I glare at him.
Look, we can’t all be as ridonkulously sexy like my two demonkin. Not all of us have asses you could bounce a quarter off of. Strange use for an ass. And a quarter. Anyway, muscles come as natural to them as breathing, while I still get winded after a long bout of swordplay with my lightsaber. They’re going to be so stupidly sexy on our wedding day that they’re going to have to spend most of it trying to keep my hands out of their fancy pants.
“What’s bothering you, Lucy?” Rez rumbles, setting his book aside and coming over to me, wings unfurling behind him.
Dingdong. I know he doesn’t intend to loom, but fuck. Effortlessly, ridonkulously sexy.
I flip the magazine around and show him the exercise plan. It’s illustrated in cutesy line art, awash with sweet pastels, and I resent every stupid step and rep it says it’ll take to get me sleek and walk-down-the-aisle ready.
Fuck. I have to practice my bridal walk, too.
Reznik looks over the magazine spread, takes it from me and tosses it aside. “Spark, you don’t need bridal bootcamp. I told you, you’re perfect.”
But I’mnot. Because perfect would mean checklists and, I don’t know, like charts and shit? In place of my Nutella-smudged scrapbook thingy, I’d have a well-organized binder with soft watercolor florals on the cover, filled with calendar pages, menus, swatches and dark gods even know what else.
Honestly? When it comes to binding and filling? The only ones I enjoy are the ones that should be happening right now. Bound up for and by my men, filled with them.
Rez scoops up his book and hands it to me. “It’ll still be an hour before Yaelyn gets home. Here, something more titillating for you to read until then.”
“Titillating would be an orgasm or two to tide me over,” I suggest lightly, squirming a little in Rez’s ropes.
“Patience, Lucy,” he says, before vanishing from the room, presumably to grab a new book now that I’ve pouted my way into his. I stick my tongue out at him behind his back because I am the epitome of maturity, and also, weallenjoy it when I act like a brat, and they have to take matters—and me—in hand.
I sigh because I know I won’t be able to goad Rez into a little nookie pre-gaming. The man is ungoadable, but I guess waiting for your whole purpose in life to return for centuries makes you pretty patient. Especially when that purpose is me. Me and my rack full of rocks, and my penchant for relocating shiny things into my pockets.
