Egon carried me through the broken doors and out into the afternoon sunlight. The brightness made me squint. Outside, a row of white production vans and several black SUVs lined the curb, their engines already running. Crew members hurried around them with cables and equipment while cameras swung toward us the moment we emerged. The lenses followed us like predators. Capturing everything. The alien Warlord carrying his stolen bride through the wreckage of her wedding.
"I will not release her." Egon's voice cut through the activity with calm authority. The production crew froze instinctively. "Not to your staff. Not to your wardrobe department. Not to anyone," he continued, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "She stays with me. If I am not with her, she will have Coalition protection. Armed warriors."
Chet opened his mouth to object. Then he paused. His eyes flicked from Egon's massive frame to the possessive way the Warlord held me and apparently reconsidered his options. "Fine," he said quickly. "We'll bring the wardrobe to you. Mobile makeup. Honestly, this might be better anyway—exclusive access, behind-the-scenes footage…" He was already typing furiously into his tablet again, muttering under his breath about lighting setups and camera angles and viral marketing. Egon ignored him completely.
He carried me straight to the nearest black SUV. One of the camera operators rushed ahead and yanked the door open. Egon ducked inside without setting me down, settling onto the wide leather seat while still holding me securely in his lap. The long train of my wedding gown spilled out the open door behind us. Two production assistants scrambled to gather the yards of fabric, bundling silk and tulle and stuffing it carefully into the vehicle before slamming the door shut. The hem was already dirty. Probably ruined. I didn't care.
My body felt strange. Light. Unsteady. The shock of everything that had just happened settled over me like a strange fog. Numbness crept through my limbs. Underneath it, something heavier stirred. Guilt.
Technically, I hadn't lied to Egon. The thought circled quietly through the haze in my head as the SUV door thudded shut behind us. I stared down at my hands resting against Egon's broad chest, my fingers curled instinctively into the warm, glitter-dusted skin as the vehicle shifted into motion. I hadn't told him I wasn't married. I told him I didn't love Derek. And that part was absolutely true.
4
Tori
* * *
The ink on our marriage certificate was barely two days old. We had signed the paperwork in a quiet courthouse office with two bored clerks as witnesses and a lawyer hovering nearby with a stack of additional forms. It had felt like signing a business contract, nothing more. Derek had never touched me. Not once. No kiss. No hand on my waist. Not even a lingering brush of fingers. Our marriage had been exactly what we'd agreed it would be—a business arrangement designed to solve a financial problem for him and a future problem for me. Nothing more. Nothing real.
Still, a faint knot of guilt twisted low in my stomach as I rested against the enormous alien warrior now stealing me away from my own wedding. I would fix it. First thing tomorrow morning, I would call a lawyer. Derek's lawyer. My lawyer. Any lawyer willing to answer a phone call at dawn. Annulment. Divorce. Whatever paperwork needed to exist to undo what had been done. It was just legal language. Technicalities. Nothing that couldn't be corrected.
The SUV's sliding door locked with a solid click as the vehicle pulled smoothly away from the curb. I shifted slightly in Egon's lap, the movement making the heavy skirts of my wedding gown rustle softly across the leather seats. Only then did I realize he still hadn't stopped touching me. Not once. One massive arm remained wrapped securely around my back, the other braced beneath my legs as if he had no intention of releasing me anytime soon. His body radiated heat through the thin lace of my dress, the warmth seeping into my skin in a way that made my thoughts blur pleasantly around the edges. The scent of him filled the small space of the SUV. Something dark and deeply masculine that made my lungs pull in deeper breaths without permission. My cheek rested against the solid wall of his chest, and beneath my ear I could hear the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. Slow. Strong. Unshakably steady.
The driver didn't seem the least bit surprised by any of it. She sat behind the wheel in a sharply tailored black suit, her posture perfectly upright as she guided the SUV through afternoon traffic with calm, precise movements. If she noticed the seven-foot alien Warlord holding a kidnapped bride in the back seat of her vehicle, she gave absolutely no sign of it. Not even a glance in the rearview mirror. Apparently, this sort of thing was just another workday in the reality television industry.
Chet Bosworth occupied the front passenger seat. He had twisted around halfway in his seat to face us, his grin wide enough to split his face as he watched the scene unfolding in the back of the vehicle. The sequins on his ridiculous suit flashed in the sunlight pouring through the windows, scattering tiny reflections across the interior. He looked delighted. Like a man who had just stumbled onto the greatest television moment of his career. And he didn't stop grinning the entire drive to the hotel.
Twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting on a velvet chaise lounge in what had to be the most expensive hotel suite I had ever seen in my life. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, the glass reflecting the growing shimmer of Miami's city lights as evening settled over the skyline. The suite itself looked like something out of a billionaire's fantasy—sleek white leather furniture arranged around a low glass table, polished marble floors that gleamed under soft recessed lighting, and art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire college education.
Through an open doorway I could see the bedroom. The bed alone could have slept six people comfortably. Or a beast and his new mate. My brain immediately tried very hard not to focus on that. And the bathroom… when the door shifted slightly, I caught a glimpse of white marble, gold fixtures, and a bathtub so large it might have qualified as a small swimming pool.
I turned my head slowly toward the enormous alien warrior standing beside me. "This is your suite?" I asked. Egon stood less than two feet away, his massive frame positioned slightly in front of me as if he had instinctively placed himself between me and the rest of the room. His arms were folded across his broad chest, glitter still dusting the golden skin stretched over thick muscle. The pose made him look less like a reality-show contestant and more like a guard dog prepared to attack anyone who came too close.
"It is ours now," he corrected calmly. His golden eyes moved over my face with quiet intensity. "I told you. You are mine. I am not letting you out of my sight." Okay. That was… intense. After years of Derek's distracted, half-hearted attention—texts answered hours later, conversations interrupted by phone calls, meetings, or whatever deal he was working on that week—the sudden weight of Egon's focus was overwhelming. The attention wrapped around me so tightly it was almost suffocating.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. Egon's reaction was instant. His head snapped toward the sound with predatory speed, his entire body shifting subtly as tension rippled through his shoulders. "Enter," he commanded.
The door opened immediately. A silver-haired woman marched into the room with the brisk confidence of someone used to controlling chaos. "Marguerite" was embroidered across the pocket of a pristine white coat that looked halfway between a fashion stylist's uniform and a doctor's lab coat. Behind her came an entire army. Assistants rolled in a rack loaded with dresses that glittered under the lights. Makeup cases followed. Hair equipment. Garment bags. Marguerite's sharp eyes landed on me instantly. She paused for exactly one second, assessing me from head to toe like a sculptor evaluating a block of marble. "We only have an hour to transform you from 'runaway bride' to 'celestial goddess,'" she announced briskly.
Her gaze slid to Egon. "Warlord, you will need to step out while we dress her."
"No." The answer came immediately.
Marguerite blinked. "Warlord?—"
"I will turn my back," Egon said after a brief pause, his voice calm but utterly immovable. "But I will not leave this room."
Marguerite looked at me. I gave a small shrug. Honestly, if Egon had his way, he'd probably see me naked sooner or later anyway. The thought slid through my mind before I could stop it, and heat crept up the back of my neck. Did I want that?
My eyes drifted briefly to his shoulders—those impossibly broad, sculpted shoulders—and the thick muscles of his arms. Yeah. I definitely wanted to touch that. And I definitely wanted him touching me. "It's fine," I said finally. "He's… protective."
One of the younger assistants leaned closer to another girl beside her and whispered in an excited voice that was absolutely not as quiet as she thought. "It's an Atlan thing." She sounded like a fan. A very enthusiastic fan. I couldn't blame her.
"It's an 'if anyone harms a single hair on her head, I will destroy them and tear this building down brick by brick' thing," Egon corrected. His tone was casual. His eyes were not.
Marguerite's eyebrows lifted slightly as she moved behind me and began working on the endless row of tiny buttons down the back of my wedding gown. But she didn't argue. "Turn around then," she said briskly to Egon. "And no peeking unless she asks."
She gestured sharply toward two additional assistants who had just entered the suite. "You two—fix him up. He's smeared his glitter and his hair is wrong. Get busy. We do not have time to waste."
