Her pleasure hit him like a ton of stone, and he almost blacked out from the intensity of it. Without warning, his release hit them both, and he didn’t know if they’d survive it.
Roman didn’t know how long it took to ride out their waves of pleasure; he didn’t know how long he stayed inside her, catching his breath, and he didn’t know when they’d crawled back into bed.
What he did know was that he’d never been happier.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
* * *
Violet listened to Roman sleep, his deep breaths lulling her into her own slumber. The bond had soothed a part of her soul she hadn’t known was raw.
She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been scared the gods would give Roman a second chance mate who wasn’t her, and when she’d realized she could feel his emotions, she’d almost burst into happy tears.
Roman Covington belonged to her, and she belonged to him. She’d always wanted it, but he’d always known it.
And now Violet understood why Roman would kill,haskilled, for her, and prayed she would never have to do the same.
Because she would.
Without hesitation.
38
Violet stood in a small room near the throne room, trying, and failing, to calm down. Today marked her, Roman, and Vivian’s twenty-fifth birthdays, but instead of celebrating Roman becoming king, he’d asked her to marry him instead.
He’d promised they would have a grand celebration and redo the ceremony for the public so she could plan the wedding of her dreams. Violet didn’t need a grandiose wedding, though she’d always wanted one. You couldn’t torture that confession out of her, though, because she wouldn’t risk Roman feeling bad for taking that from her. He didn’t take anything; he gave her everything.
“Are you ready, monkey?” her father asked her.
Smoothing a non-existent flyaway, she turned and looked in one of the large, golden mirrors on the wall of the small sitting room. Turning from one side to the other, she checked that her gauzy white dress looked exactly as it had five minutes ago. The skirt billowed when she walked and dragged behind her. The loose, off the shoulder sleeves attached to the tight bodice, making it appear like she had curves when she absolutely did not. Her satin slippers whispered across the floor as she walked, and her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders.
And on top of her head sat the flower crown Roman gave her last night, perfectly imperfect. And definitely not made by a child.
Satisfied, she nodded once and hooked her arm through her father’s. “I’m ready.”
Her father led her to the doors of the throne room, where her mother waited. The latter dabbed at her eyes for the thousandth time that day and kissed Violet’s cheek. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Mom. You do too.”
Her mother tittered out a stuffy laugh and handed her handkerchief to her husband. “I’m going to let them know you’re ready.”
She disappeared through the door, and Violet’s dad held out her mother’s used handkerchief, looking rightly disgruntled. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Violet tried to not laugh and looked around. “Hide it under that bench and we’ll get it later to throw away.”
The older man tossed it under the bench, grumbling under his breath, and took Violet’s arm again. Two guards opened the doors to the throne room from the inside and stepped aside.
No music played, no flowers or fabric hung from the ceiling, and no large crowd turned to stare at her when she stepped through the doors.
Only the council, Roman and Violet’s families, and their closest friends stood in front of the dais, watching her walk toward them. It wasn’t what she’d planned for her wedding as a girl. She’d been excited about the prospect of planning a beautiful ceremony with her mother and Sarah, but once the bond had snapped in place, she could tell waiting would eat Roman alive.
Violet’s eyes met Roman’s, and a blast of intense love burned through her. It took her breath away. He looked devastatingly handsome in his royal coat, the purple fabric contrasting beautifully with his skin tone.
Wait.
Violet halted and stared at Roman’s coat, then at War, who looked pissed in a matching one. She’d made the beast a coat to match Roman’s green one, but they both wore purple.
“What’s wrong?” her father whispered, following her stare.
