I pressed my lips to her cheek.
Chaste.
Controlled.
Calculated.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a seal.
Not affection—possession.
The moment my mouth brushed her skin, she flinched.
Barely.
But I felt it.
That tiny, instinctive recoil.
That little tremor that whispered: he’s still the monster under the bed.
Because what was marriage without a little honest terror?
From the side, Gideon stepped forward, the witness papers in hand like some relic salvaged from a bloodied altar. “Let’s get this over with before I need a bottle of champagne or an exorcist,” he muttered, flashing that smirk he wore like armor.
I shot him a look that said not now.
He just grinned wider. Of course he did. He was the devil’s court jester—always laughing, always watching.
He scrawled his signature with a flourish that would’ve made a signature cocktail jealous.
“Congratulations!” he announced. “You’re officially shackled. I mean, married. Enjoy the paperwork.”
The officiant followed, folding the documents like he couldn’t wait to be rid of them.
The staff vanished behind him—those silent little shadows who’d been flitting at the edge of the garden, pretending this was normal.
And then… silence.
The kind of silence that was thick enough to wrap around your ribs and squeeze.
It was just her and me now.
No more eyes.
No more interruptions.
Just the garden.
The stars.
And the weight of what we’d done.
She stood there in white silk, back straight, breath tight.
A bride by law.
A prisoner by design.
