White lace and silk, draped over blonde hair. I can see the shape of her—the outline of features I can't quite make out—but not her expression. Not her eyes.
I saw enough when she first walked through those doors. The moment her gaze found me. Found the wheelchair.
She froze. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for me to recognize the look I've seen a hundred times since I woke up.
Shock. Confusion. The rapid calculation of what this means.
Now she stands in front of me, and I can't read her face through the veil. Can't tell if she's horrified or relieved or something in between.
Doesn't matter. I know what she's thinking.
The priest begins speaking. Latin words that wash over me without registering. I've heard them before. At my first almost wedding. The one that ended with bullets and blood and two years of darkness.
My hands rest on the armrests of my wheelchair. Steady. Controlled.
But my eyes won't stay on the priest.
They keep drifting to her.
The dress is simple. White silk that skims her body without clinging. Modest neckline. Long sleeves. Nothing provocative about it.
Except.
Except the way the fabric moves when she breathes. The way it hints at curves underneath—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She's not trying to be seductive. The dress wasn't designed for that. But her body...
Fuck.
Her body could make an angel turn to devil.
I shift in my chair. Subtle. Just enough to adjust.
My legs might not work. Not completely. Not yet. But everything else functions just fine. And right now, my cock is straining against my pants like I'm a goddamn teenager who's never seen a woman before.
Two years.
Two years since I've let anyone touch me. Since I've wanted anyone to touch me. The nurses who help me in and out of bed—I tolerate them because I have no choice. But women? Sex? I shut that door the moment I woke up and realized what I'd become.
I release myself when I need to. Quick. Efficient. No fantasy. No longing. Just a physical function, like eating or breathing.
But now.
Now I'm staring at the curve of my future wife's neck, visible just above the collar of her dress, and my mind is going places it hasn't gone in years.
What does her skin taste like?
What sound would she make if I put my mouth there?
Would she arch into me or pull away?
Stop.
I force my gaze back to the priest. Force my hands to stay relaxed on the armrests.
She's trembling.
I notice it now. The slight shake in her shoulders. The way her fingers clutch the small bouquet of white roses like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
She's scared.
