I look away and continue toward the fountain. Once there, my father stops, adjusts his sleeves for no reason, and finally looks at me properly. “Whatever you feel, you cannot let it show. Not to him.”
“That’s the funny thing.” I lift a brow. “He already knows exactly how I feel. He’s counting on it.”
The muscle in his cheek jumps. “Smile.”
The air already feels thicker as I take in the makeshift canopy that’s supposed to be an altar.
The priest stands there, fingers tangled together.
Rafe stands near the front, his suit black, tie loosened, as if this is mildly annoying. His gaze slides over us, assessing, as if he’s checking off a mental list.
And at the altar across from the priest is—
Lorenzo.
He turns toward us.
Then he takes me in.
A dark look spreads across his features.
He’s in a black tailored suit, dark shirt, no tie, top button undone. There’s a small cut on his lip, already healing, and a faint bruise under one eye. How did he manage to get into a fighton the one day I haven’t seen him, and what does the person he fought with look like? Something tells me worse than him.
He looks me up and down, and heat crawls up my spine. Not the good kind.
My father’s arm tightens under my hand. “Head up.”
I lift my chin, my gaze still locked with Lorenzo’s as we walk. His mouth curves, lazy and lethal.
Not a smile. A promise.
My heart pounds harder with every step, and I swear my palms are sweating. The dress rustles around my legs.
We stop in front of him.
My father’s fingers tense around my hand, then pry it off his arm. He turns toward Lorenzo, jaw clenched. “She’s yours,” he forces out.
Lorenzo’s brows tic. “She’s mine,” he agrees softly, reaching out.
His hand closes around mine. It’s warm, firm, and most importantly…unyielding.
A flash of memory hits me—his fingers on my skin. Touching softly.Lovingly.
This is none of those things.
The priest clears his throat. “We are . . . gathered here today,” he begins, looking around at the five of us, “to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Rafe snorts under his breath, low enough that only the three of us at the front hear.
Lorenzo’s mouth twitches.
My fingers tighten in his instinctively.
“Victoria Danforth,” the priest continues, clinging to the script like a lifeline, “do you take Lorenzo Amante to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in—”
“I do,” I cut in, voice calm and flat.
The priest blinks. My mother chokes, and Rafe glances away like he’s hiding a grin.
