Hearing her say that, seeing the guilt consume her, breaks something inside me.
“Melinda, look at me,” I urge, waiting until her eyes meet mine.“You are not to blame for Wyatt's actions.And marrying me, it's not something I’ll force you to do.It's me wanting to spend my life with you, wanting to make you happy.You'll never be a prisoner with me.If one day you decide to leave, or even decide to turn me in, I'll accept that.But I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that day never comes.”
For a long moment, she's silent.She looks past me toward the bookshelf, like an answer is tucked between spines.Then, slowly, defeat shadows her features.“If you think this is the best way to keep us safe…then I'll marry you.”
Her acquiescence isn't the victory I imagined.Instead, it feels like a hollow agreement born from her despair, not her desire.I want to deserve her for real.I never will.I plan to take it anyway and spend the rest of my life paying for the privilege.I also want her to want me—wantme, not the protection my name buys.And as I look at her, I make a silent vow to myself to prove that this decision can be the start of something beautiful, not a reminder of darkness.
“I promise, Melinda, I'll spend every day making sure you never regret this decision.I'll keep you safe.I'll work every day to earn your trust.You're not my prisoner.You're my equal.”
Her mouth tips like a smile tried to start and thought better of it.“Okay.”
By evening, the garden is quiet.The Nevada sun slides down the spine of the mountains.Adrian, Caleb, and Atlas stand off to the side in suits, not looking much different than they do every day.It's a small affair, my three brothers and a priest.Yet, the weight of the day feels monumental, a pivotal moment in a life otherwise marked by shadows.
I adjust my tie.
“You sure about this, Cassius?”Adrian asks, his brows knitting together in the familiar way he does when he's worried.
“It's the best way to protect us both,” I reply.“And it's not just about protection.You know that I care for her.”
Caleb claps a hand on my shoulder, a solid, reassuring presence.“You do know thatcareandobsessare not the same words, right?”
Atlas laughs, but still says, “If she's joining this family, we'll make sure she's looked after.Same as any of us.”
When Melinda steps out, my breath catches.She chose a sleek, off-the-shoulder dress from the boutique options I had delivered.The dress is simple, yet elegant, its lace fabric hugging her form in a way that speaks of grace and strength.She looks radiant as she walks toward me, even with anxiety in her eyes and the weight of the situation pressing down on her.
We sign at my desk first.My brothers approach her before the ceremony begins.
“Welcome to the family,” Adrian says, his smile genuine but measured.Caleb and Atlas echo his sentiment, polite and kind, but the reserve in their demeanor speaks volumes.They're protective of both me and the precarious balance we maintain.Melinda smiles, a fragile thing, and thanks them, her voice barely above a whisper.
Adrian shakes my hand last.To her, he says, “We’ll keep you safe.”To me, “Provided you keep your head.”
The priest begins the traditional vows, and we repeat them, a promise to one another.But as we say “I do,” I feel a need to add more, to make a personal vow to Melinda.
“From this minute,” I tell her, taking both her hands, my thumbs over the delicate bones, “I belong to you.I’ll be faithful.I’ll be your protector.Your weapon when you need one and your shadow when you don’t.I’ll never take this ring off.”I twist the band she slid on my finger.“Because it means you.”
Tears well in her eyes, and one escapes down her cheek.She doesn't speak, but her reaction tells me all I need to know.This moment, this promise, is perhaps the first step toward healing, toward a future we can build together.Yet, as I watch the tear trail down her face, a pang of doubt gnaws at me, a silent whisper questioning if I'm truly offering her a future or anchoring her to a life shadowed by my own darkness.
We’re married.
The part no one sees is the weight that drops into my chest after.My selfish desire to keep her close constantly battling with the gnawing fear that her proximity to me puts her in constant danger.It's a tormenting paradox—the closer she is, the more she's exposed to the demons who lurk in the corners of my life, yet sending her away is like sentencing my soul straight to a desolate hell.
So I make another promise silently, where only whatever God still bothers with me can hear it.I will spend the rest of my life making sure that being mine never feels like a cage.
And if it ever does, I’ll be the one to open the door.
But the truth under that vow is filth and bone-deep.If she ever walks away, I won’t survive it.There isn’t a world where I keep breathing without her.Because if she walks away, there are only two paths left: put a bullet in everything I’ve built and follow her light, or eat a bullet myself.Either way, my empire, my pulse, all of it, ends where she does.
fifteen
Imarriedhim.
I’m not sure what shocks me more, the fact that I’m married or that it’s to a man that I’ve never even had sex with.When we get to the end of the ceremony, before the priest can tell Cassius to kiss the bride, he squeezes my hands and lightly shakes his headno.It’s only his brothers in attendance, so it isn’t all that embarrassing, so why doesn’t he want to kiss me?
The garden behind his house smells like rosemary.Adrian’s cane ticks on stone.Caleb stands with his hands behind his back like an expensive bodyguard.Atlas is the only one who smiles at me.And at the very edge of the lawn, where shadows start, the man in the dark Bolo-Hat leans against an olive tree and tips the brim at me.Beside him, another figure holds his chin at a wrong angle, as if a hand still has him by the forehead; a darker stain spreads down his shirtfront that wasn’t there, couldn’t be there.
Wyatt showing up to my wedding might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.He hangs in the corner like a stain the room can’t scrub out, the gash at his throat still working, breath whistling through a pipe that isn’t there.The blood on his shirt blooms, slow as mold, and when I look too long my own collar feels damp.His lips shape words the air refuses to carry, but the space learns them anyway.Steam beads, then strings, then spells out fragments in my head:London.Girls.Ask him.
Cold settles on me in fingerprints—five points along my shoulder, a thumb at my jaw—showing me how a head is held still.My breath fogs; I count three, then five, until the prickling in my scalp lets go.When Wyatt leans closer, the temperature drops hard enough to ache in my teeth.Turn him in,his mouth says without sound.Before you disappear too.
