No press. No bells. No saints carved into stone. Just a narrow drive cut through hedgerows and frost-silvered fields, the estate rising out of the dark like a held breath. Smaller than the house in the city. Older. Quieter. The kind of place my family keeps for things meant to be finished without witnesses.
The gates open. Close. Silence settles.
I cut the engine and sit there a moment longer than necessary, hands still on the wheel, listening to the tick of cooling metal. The air smells like peat and winter. Somewhere far off, water moves. Nothing else.
We’re alone.
No staff lights glow. No footsteps echo. I chose it that way. Tonight doesn’t need an audience. It needs walls that remember and a roof that won’t ask questions.
I step out first and come around to her side, opening the door without ceremony. She doesn’t look at me when she stands, veil gathered in her hands, the night catching in the lace. The necklace at her throat glints once—mine, now—then disappears beneath the fall of fabric as she straightens.
The house waits.
Inside, a single lamp burns in the hall. Stone floors. Dark wood. A fire laid but unlit, as if the place knew we’d decide whether warmth was earned. I close the door behind us and the latch clicks soft and final.
No vows left to say. No witnesses left to convince. Just the quiet weight of what we’ve done—and what comes next—pressing in from every side.
I turn to her. I hesitate. Not because I’m unsure—but because some things, once asked for, change the air forever.
“May I,” I say at last, nodding toward the threshold, keeping my voice even, careful. “Like a proper gentleman.”
It’s an old thing. A stupid thing. Tradition wrapped around superstition. I shouldn’t want it. But I do.
She lets out a short, disbelieving huff, eyes cutting to mine. “You’re unbearable.”
“Aye,” I agree. “So I’ve been told.”
For a beat, I think she’ll refuse just to spite me.
Then she sighs, sharp and dramatic. “Fine.”
The word lands heavier than it should. I step in before she can change her mind, one arm sliding under her knees, the other at her back. She’s warm through the layers of lace and silk, lighter than she looks, rigid with contained energy. Her hand grips my shoulder—not clinging, not trusting. Ready.
I lift her anyway. Her breath catches. Just once.
The house feels smaller as I carry her inside, the doorway clearing, the door clicking shut behind us with a sound that echoes too loud in the quiet. The lamp throws soft light across her face, the curve of her throat, the glint of gold at her neck.
I don’t rush putting her down. I shouldn’t do that either.
But I do it slowly, deliberately, letting the tension stretch thin between us, letting the moment breathe. Her feet find the floor.My hands linger a fraction longer than necessary at her waist, the space between us charged and humming.
She looks up at me, chin lifted, eyes bright and dangerous. “Happy?” she asks.
I meet her gaze, voice low. “Immensely.”
I don’t step back. I should. Any sane man would give her space after the day we’ve had—after the church, the cameras, the blood on lace like a feckin’ challenge.
Instead, my eyes drop. White silk. Pearls. And there—right at the center of her bodice—a dark, dried smear dragged deliberately across pristine fabric.
The blood.
“Who’s blood is that?” I ask quietly.
Her mouth curves. Not a smile. A smirk sharpened to a blade.
I lift my gaze to her face. “Did my men hurt ye?”
The question isn’t for show. It’s iron. It’s a promise. If they laid a hand on her wrong—She tilts her head, eyes bright, wicked. The light catches the rubies at her throat.Mynecklace. My mark.
