Everyone laughs. The tension breaks for a flicker.
I take her hand, slip the gold band over her knuckle. Slim and sure. "Sloane Mercer," I say, "I give you this ring as a sign that your old life can go to hell."
She chokes on a laugh and a sob at the same time.
"Sloane Turner," Judge Mills corrects gently, signing the certificate. "By the power vested in me by the state of Mississippi, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."
No hesitation.
I close the gap, slide a hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and drag her up to me. Her mouth opens under mine as though she's been waiting for this exact second.
The kiss is not courthouse appropriate. It's deep, hungry, and long enough that Frankie wolf-whistles and East mutters, "Jesus fuck."
Sloane fists my shirt again. She presses close, trying to climb into my skin. I taste salt from her tears, mint from whatever Maggie gave her, and something that is just her.
My wife.
I pull back, because if I don't, we're going to traumatize a judge.
Maggie dabs at her eyes. Frankie grins through wet lashes she'll deny later.
"Hi, wife," I murmur against her lips.
She blinks up at me, dazed.
"Hi," she whispers back. A beat. "Husband."
We sign the certificate. Judge Mills shakes our hands, shakes Malachi's, then nods at the others. Dale offers a clumsy congratulations when we pass his window.
Outside, the crew has somehow acquired a tiny cake, a bottle of cheap champagne, and a box of those little plastic bubble wands.
Maggie. She presses a set on everyone and points at us. "Down the stairs. Go on."
We step onto the top stair. The others fan out on either side. Someone, East probably, counts down. "One, two, three!" They blow.
Bubbles drift through the air. Champagne pops. Frankie shouts something about "Don't eat shit in those shoes, Sloane." Sloane laughs, the sound bright and wild and free.
James, with Maggie pressed against his side, holds up a phone. "Smile," he says.
I don't smile. I haul Sloane in, arm tight around her waist, and kiss her again. Bubbles float around us. Sun catches in her hair. Her fingers curl around my leather cut. The camera clicks.
Later, when I see the picture, her fingers are wrapped around my cut and her eyes are closed. Mine aren't.
Chapter 11
Knox
TheclubhousesmellsofMaggie's cooking: frying oil, warm bread, something chocolate cooling on the counter. The place hums louder than usual. That's what happens when The Outsiders get a wedding dropped into their lap before noon.
Sloane stays close to my side as we walk in. All of it pressing in at once: the open space, the eyes tracking us, the noise swelling louder. She's steady, though. Braver than she knows.
Maggie spots her first and makes a sound; the soft, helpless one she probably doesn't know she makes. "There she is," she coos, sweeping in with open arms.
Before Sloane can brace, Maggie cups her face, eyes shining. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."
Sloane blushes so hard I grab her hip to anchor us both.
Then Frankie barrels over, all tattoos and a sharp grin. "Alright, move aside. I need to see the dress again in better light."
