Sloane laughs quietly, startled, real. Frankie beams like she won a prize.
At the long table, Sloane ends up wedged between Frankie and me. Frankie steals rolls off her plate. East throws peas at Nash. When Maggie yells at them as though she raised every last one, Sloane looks overwhelmed in a soft way, cheeks pink, shoulders relaxing little by little.
Her gaze finds me every few seconds, checking if this is allowed.
It is.
Maggie sets a plate in front of her with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls, the works. "Eat," she orders gently. "You need fuel after a morning like that."
Sloane obeys. Tentative bites at first, then real ones when she realizes it's good.
I rest my palm on her thigh under the table, thumb tracing circles through the fabric. She stiffens for half a breath, then melts. I settle into it. Let it sit. She's married to me. Sitting here in my world, wearing my ring.
And I've been hard since before we left the courthouse.
Frankie leans in, tapping Sloane's wrist. "So. Wedding ink."
Sloane chokes on her iced tea. "Wedding—what?"
Frankie smirks. "A date like today deserves a mark. Could be tiny, hidden, whatever the fuck speaks to you."
Sloane's eyes go wide. "Today?"
"Tomorrow at the latest," Frankie says. "I book up fast. And your husband"—she jerks her thumb at me—"already told me he's getting something."
Sloane's head snaps toward me. "You are?"
I shrug, sipping my tea. "For you."
Her breath catches. Her gaze drops to her plate as if the potatoes hold the secrets of the universe. A flush crawls up her throat. My dick twitches under the table.
James laughs quietly from across the table, the benevolent old wolf watching his pack. "Young love," he mutters into his coffee.
Maggie elbows him. "They're adorable. Don't ruin it."
Sloane tries to protest. "We've only known each other for—"
Frankie cuts her off. "Time makes no difference when the universe bitch-slaps two idiots together."
East raises his glass. "Cheers to idiots."
Nash grunts, which is basically a toast in Nash-language.
Sloane hides her face in her hands, but the smile trying to escape shows through her fingers. Each person at this table who calls her Sloane Turner is another person she'll have to grieve if she runs. I watch her watching them and wonder if she's doing the same math.
I squeeze her thigh, just enough to remind her I'm here.
When dessert hits the table, warm brownies and whipped cream, she picks at hers, distracted, exhausted, happy in a way I wasn't ready for.
I stand, placing a palm at the small of her back. "We're heading home."
Chairs scrape. Maggie hugs her, then shoves a bag of leftovers into her arms. Frankie squeezes her hand, holds on. East promises to come by tomorrow and "harass her appropriately."
Malachi tells her, "You're protected." It's a vow. Nash gives her one assessing nod.
Sloane's voice is small but steady. "Thank you. All of you."
We walk out.
