But I caught it.
“Don’t be.” My words were steady, calm, even as everything inside me burned. “You set the pace. I’ll follow.”
And I meant it. Every fucking syllable.
This wasn’t about dominance or possession—not tonight. This was about showing her that saying yes didn’t mean surrender. It meant choice. And I’d let her make every single one from here forward if it kept her safe.
She turned her head, met my eyes.
Vulnerability stared back at me, raw and exposed.
But she wasn’t weak. Hell no. That look—that moment—was braver than most people would ever be. She wore the ring like a challenge. Like armor. And I knew exactly what kind of target it painted on her back.
I wanted to say more. Wanted to pull all the weight off her shoulders, carry it myself.
But I kept quiet.
Let the silence do its job.
The city blurred past us in streaks of gold and concrete shadows. And all I could think was this: Whatever came next? It wasn’t going to shake us.
It would seal us. Bind us tighter.
We got to the penthouse. I parked. We got out. Easy. Normal.
I held the door for her, watching as she stepped across the threshold.
She hesitated—just for a second—but it was enough to notice. Eyes wide, shoulders tight, gaze sweeping over the space like she didn’t know where to land. My penthouse wasn’t warm, not in the traditional sense. Black steel, glass walls, sharp lines—designed for clarity, control. Not comfort.
Still, the way the golden dusk spilled through the windows made her look like she belonged in every corner of it.
She slid off her heels in the quiet, the softest sound against the polished floor. No words. No explanation. Just that silent shift. Like she was peeling away the last layer of everything that came before. And fuck, did that do something to me.
I moved to the kitchen island and set the marriage license down.
Felt heavier than it should’ve.
That paper—barely thicker than a napkin—held the weight of everything. Every decision. Every risk. Every line we’d crossed to get here. Laying it down felt like placing a blade on the table.
She hadn’t moved. Just stood there, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows and the city trying to glitter behind her. A girl in white and soft lines, surrounded by steel and silence.
Kennedy was always too damn beautiful for this world.
But standing there in mine? She was unstoppable.
I studied her. Not because I wanted to devour her, but because I needed to know her. How she shifted from foot to foot. How her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress like she didn’t know what to do next. How her breath snagged—like maybe she did know.
“You want something to drink?” I asked, keeping my voice easy. Calm. Even as my pulse kicked behind my ribs like it was trying to escape.
She turned to me.
Shook her head slowly.
And said, “No. Just… you.”
Fuck.
Three words—and they wrecked me.
