Her fingers find my wrist, right over my pulse, the same way she did last night before she fell asleep.
Behind us, East whispers, "He's feral."
"Worse," Nash says quietly.
I lean closer, lips near her ear. "You okay?"
She swallows. "Terrified."
"Of the courthouse?" I breathe. "Or of me?"
"Yes," she says, honest as always.
I huff a not-quite laugh. "Stay glued to me. You don't take a single step today without my hand on you. You hear me?" She nods. "Words, Sloane."
"I hear you," she whispers.
My hand tightens on her waist. "Good girl."
Her breath catches.
Behind us, someone clears their throat. Malachi straightens from the counter, James sets his mug down, East pops up ready to move, and Nash shifts his weight, a loaded anchor. The air shifts.
I press a kiss to Sloane's temple. "Give me five."
Maggie swoops in instantly, adjusting some piece of hair that looks perfect.
I head down the hall. Shirt comes off. Jeans traded for dark slacks. I grab the black button-down, the one I've only worn to funerals and court dates. Roll the sleeves up to my forearms. Pull on my boots.
A glimpse in the dresser mirror. Jaw tense, eyes too bright.
I shrug on my leather cut last. It feels right. Settles into my shoulders. I rake my hair and head back to her.
East mutters, "Well, shit, he cleans up."
Nash gives one measured nod, which is basically applause from him.
But Sloane? She turns, sees me, and her eyes drag down my shirt, the rolled sleeves, the cut over it, then back to my face as though she's memorizing a before-and-after she never saw coming.
I step in behind her, dip my head to her hair, and say, low and steady, "Let's go get married."
Her fingers curl back into my shirt, tighter than before. "Okay."
Malachi throws a leg over his bike first, the engine growling to life. East rolls out next, sunglasses on. Nash doesn't make sound when he moves. You just look up and he's closer. James settles his helmet, gives me a chin-tip that lands heavier than words.
Maggie and Frankie take Maggie's SUV, loaded with makeup, dresses, and whatever mysterious "girl shit" they packed that I'm smart enough not to ask about. Frankie leans out her windowlong enough to flip East off when he whistles at them. Maggie swats him with a glare.
I take the truck. We'll use the bike later.
Sloane settles into the passenger seat carefully, smoothing the dress over her thighs. There’s a flash of black lace beneath the hem where the dress has ridden up, and my vision whites out for a second.
She stares straight ahead as I start the engine. I reach across and lay my palm over her thigh. She jumps.
"Hey." I squeeze gently. "Breathe."
She twists to look at me. "I am breathing."
"Liar."
