The murmur of guests ripples through the room, uncertain whether to be amused or horrified.
She stops at the altar and holds up a small velvet box like she’s presenting the crown jewels.
“You forgot this,” she says, her tone flat with just enough exasperation to make a few people chuckle under their breath.
The priest adjusts his glasses, clearly flustered. “Ah, yes. The ring…”
Alya doesn’t wait. The box snaps open with an almost dramatic flair, and inside rests a diamond wedding band.
She doesn’t hand it to me right away. No, she stares me down first, issuing a silent warning.
“Don’t drop it,” she says.
I hold her gaze for a beat, letting her think she’s won this round, before I take the ring from her hand.
“Thank you, Alya.”
She smirks—an expression much like my own—before looking at Isabella. Her eyes scan her, calculating, assessing, before she leans in slightly and mutters low enough for only Isabella to hear:
“Good luck.”
With that, she turns on her heel and heads back down the aisle. Her job is done.
I shake my head slightly before turning back to the woman standing before me.
She looks rattled.
Good.
I lift her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger, and her throat works as she swallows. She’s not stupid. She knows this isn’t a wedding band—it’s a collar, a lock, a binding.
And she just handed me the key.
Her fingers twitch slightly in mine, testing my grip. I tighten it just enough to remind her.
It’s done.
Isabella Marquez is mine.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t protest.
Smart girl.
“There,” I say, my voice final.
The priest straightens, finding his place again.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And this time, when he says, “You may kiss the bride,” I don’t hesitate.
I lean in, taking my time. Let her sweat. Let her feel it coming.
Her breath catches as I brush my lips against hers, firm but unhurried. This isn’t a kiss—it’s a lesson. A warning. A claim.
She doesn’t pull away.
No, she stays perfectly still, caught in that space between resistance and surrender.
Her mouth is soft and parted just enough for temptation to slip through. I can feel the heat of her skin, the faint tremble in her breath. Every nerve in me sharpens with the contact. Blood surges low, pooling with brutal urgency. My balls tighten, and I bite down the urge to deepen it—to show her, here and now, what happens when she tempts me.
