I smile. “What am I thinking about?” I ask, kissing the crown of her head.
“Us.” Her eyes flutter open, searching for mine in the dark. “Can we… not think? Not name it, not define it?”
“You want to just see where this goes?”
“Yeah. I don’t want the pressure that—” She pulls away gently and rolls onto her pillow.
“I get it,” I say, even though I don’t fully agree. But if this is what she needs to stay… I’ll take it.
“Thank you.”
I shift over her, hovering, and add, “Wasn’t thinking about that anyway,” I whisper, a wicked grin spreading across my face.
“Oh…” Her cheeks flush instantly, and I lean down, biting her lower lip. “Whatwereyou thinking about, then?”
“Our first time. That night in the cabin.” I slide my cock against the warmth between her thighs, and she closes her eyes, biting her lip harder. “How nervous we were.”
“Yeah,” she breathes, “but once we got past the nerves…”
“We fucked all afternoon. Right next to the fire.”
“Mhm…” she hums, and I trail kisses down her neck.
Until I reach her ear and whisper, “Today’s gonna be a lot like that.”
We’re two days away from the wedding, and my anxiety’s starting to show.
It’s not that I have doubts. There’s zero question about whether I want to marry Emma. She’s it. She’s everything. There’s no one else for me—never will be.
But that’s not what’s eating me alive. What’s got me spiraling is time—time running out before my dad figures it out.
He hasn’t said anything, but there’s something in his eyes lately. That sharp, narrowing look he gets when he’s sniffing out a secret.
He knows something.
I told Emma maybe we should move the date up—just slip it in sooner, before the walls close in. She pressed her hand over mine, shook her head. Said the church was booked. Said everything would be fine.
I wanted to believe her. I tried. But damn—it’s hard.
Last night, I told Silas the plan.
His reaction? A dry laugh, eyes wide, head shaking.“You’re out of your damn mind.”
Yeah. I am. Out of my mind for her. And I don’t care. Screw my family, their money, their power-hungry legacy. I’m not living their version of life—cold, loveless, polished and poisonous.
“LUCA!” My dad’s voice booms through the house, rattling the walls like thunder.
I tense, shoulders locking. The book in my hands nearly snaps in half from how hard I’m gripping it. When Thomas Walker calls, you don’t shoutWhat?!back. You drop what you’re doing and go. Immediately.
I set the book down carefully, forcing my fingers to uncurl, and head for his office.
Mom’s already there, arms folded tight across her chest, hip angled against his desk. That signature look of disapproval is fixed on her face, like perfume she never takes off.
Dad stands behind the desk, posture ramrod straight, eyes blazing. Rage ripples off him, barely leashed.
“What the hell is this?” he snarls, hurling a letter across the desk.
It skids toward me. I step forward, pick it up with steady hands that don’t feel steady at all.
