At least someone’s taking this lightly. If I looked at my father now he’d probably be fixing me with a death glare for misbehaving.
“May we proceed?” Benedict asks, amused, and I look at Amelia, who glances up at him, embarrassed.
“Ready, Goldilocks?” I ask and she nods silently.
Good.
We turn toward the altar as the priest begins. Millions of people around the world are watching this centuries-old ceremony live, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. All this pomp irritates me. I’d much rather look at my wife and take in how beautiful she is.
Why is this taking so long?
The urge to show everyone that she belongs to me now is almost overwhelming.
When I finally hear him say, “I now pronounce you husband and wife before God and this church,” I manage to pull myself together just enough to cup her face in my hands instead of pressing my lips to hers, and I look deeply into her sparkling eyes.
Married. We are officially husband and wife.
Unbelievably gently, I kiss her forehead.
A strange mix of pride and happiness swells in my chest. I wink at her, and she gives me that smile I would still kill for. Then, slowly, I turn around.
As the organ begins to play, everyone rises, and we walk slowly, painfully slowly, because the flower children’s little legs can’t move any faster, down the aisle and out of the church.
Where that fucking mob waits.
As we step outside, all hell breaks loose, but I don’t wait for the first insults to hit.
Kissing like this in and in front of the church is usually frowned upon, but screw it. I pull my stunned wife close, and before she can protest, my lips are on hers.
Fuck.
Tasting her after last night is both heaven and hell, because there’s nothing I want more than to strip her dress off and bury myself in her, fucking her until she can’t walk and finally understands deep down that she belongs to me now.
The kiss is chaste, despite these thoughts, but effective. Both for the crowd and for my wife.
She looks at me completely dazed and confused, and I can’t help but grin widely. Then I turn to the crowd, to the flashing cameras and the mob, and raise our entwined hands high. I kiss Amelia’s fingers and pull her toward the limousine that will take us through Harlington.
I don’t pay attention to my parents or anyone else. I focus only on Amelia, who looks visibly relieved as the car door closes behind her and we are finally alone.
We drive off and put on a show for Harlington’s population, even though I clearly see the signs in the crowd insulting Amelia. My little wife smiles bravely and waves, though the other hand resting in her lap trembles slightly.
Damn it.
I want to kill them all for being so stupid and gullible. I want to grab my wife and take her far away, to protect her from all this crap.
“Goldilocks, you know they’re just talking bullshit. None of it’s true.” She flinches briefly when she hears my voice and glances at me. She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Yes, yes, I know. But that doesn’t make it any less painful. Richardson wants to silence me. He wants me to look like a liar and a schemer, so I won’t be dangerous to him.” She clenches her hand into a fist, and I take it, pressing it to my lips.
“We’ll prove he’s connected to the accident and is deliberately ruining your reputation. You’re my wife now, not just behind closed doors or for show, Lia. We just got married in front of the whole world. That means you’re the future queen of this country, and I protect what belongs to me, even if we don’t like each other.” I wink at her briefly, and now she really laughs. That’s exactly what I want to see. That laugh is addictive as hell.
“Unfortunately, that won’t convince anyone here. They didn’t respect the engagement when it was public, so they won’t now. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re just pawns in a game our parents set up. Now we have to figure out how to play it.” She shrugs helplessly, and I don’t like how pragmatic she sounds about everything.
“Just because we didn’t want any of this doesn’t mean we can’t make it bearable for ourselves.” I wrap an arm around hershoulders and pull her closer, frustrated by how distant she’s being. We’re married!
“No, no, it doesn’t mean that. But it won’t be easy. There’s so much to figure out, and so far our relationship, whatever you want to call it, hasn’t exactly been under a lucky star,” she adds, and I narrow my eyes.
What does she mean by “whatever you want to call it”?
