"I do."
They were just two words.
But the way he said them—like a true vow, like a promise he intended to keep—made something twist in my chest.
Then the priest turned to me.
"And do you, Gemma Maria Moretti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The church held its breath. Three hundred witnesses, waiting for the words that would bind me to this man, this family, this life I had never chosen.
I looked at Dante. At his tight jaw and his gentle hands and his eyes that saw too much.
"I do."
My voice came out steadier than I expected. Clear and sure, ringing through the silent church like I meant it.
The priest smiled. The congregation exhaled.
"You may kiss the bride."
My heart, the traitor, pounded in my chest. The rhythm was frantic. I turned to face my husband—my husband, God, that word—expecting what I'd seen at a dozen society weddings: theperfunctory brush of lips, the polite performance of intimacy for an audience that didn't really care.
That wasn't what happened.
Dante stepped closer. His hands came up, and for one disorienting second I thought he was reaching for my shoulders, steadying me the way someone might steady a nervous horse.
Instead, he cupped my face.
Both hands. Warm palms against my cheeks, his fingers sliding into my hair, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a tenderness that made my breath catch.
No one had ever held me like that.
I had one second to register the heat in his dark eyes—the way his pupils had blown wide, the way he was looking at me like heneededme—and then his mouth found mine.
The kiss was supposed to be nothing.
But it was everything.
His lips were warm and firm and impossibly gentle, moving against mine with a patience that felt almost reverent. Not demanding. Not taking. Asking. Offering. This soft, careful exploration that unraveled something in my chest I hadn't even known was knotted.
I gasped against his mouth.
A tiny sound. Involuntary. Swallowed by the kiss before it could escape.
His hands tightened on my face.
Not hard. Not painful. Just—more. Like my gasp had broken something loose in him, like he'd been holding back and now he couldn't quite manage it anymore. His thumbs pressed firmer against my cheekbones. His mouth slanted over mine at a different angle, deeper, and a shiver ran through my entire body.
The church disappeared.
The three hundred guests, the priest, the white roses and the candlelight—all of it dissolved into nothing. There was only this:Dante's mouth moving against mine. His breath mingling with my breath. The shocking intimacy of being held like I mattered, like I was something to be savored rather than consumed.
My hands found his chest without my permission. My fingers curled into the lapels of his tuxedo, holding on, because I was suddenly certain that if I let go I would fall.
The kiss went on.
Too long. I knew it was too long. Somewhere in the fuzzy distance, I could hear murmurs rippling through the congregation—the scandalized whispers of old women, the knowing chuckles of men who thought they understood what they were seeing. A wedding kiss wasn't supposed to go on this long. Wasn't supposed to leave the bride flushed and breathless and clinging to her groom like she'd forgotten how to stand.
