“It’s my funeral,” I mutter, casting a sidelong glance in Raf’s direction.
“But with cake,” she reminds me.
I bite back a laugh as Raf’s eyes shift in my direction, locking on me across the room with an intensity that gives me the unnerving feeling that he knows what we said.
Then my pulse kicks into a sprint as he approaches.
God, I wish my body didn’t respond to him like it does.
But as he prowls closer, I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.
He moves differently than he used to—no swagger, no reckless, boyish confidence. He’s sharper now, controlled, haunted around the edges.
Trauma changes people.
So does war.
And he’s seen both firsthand.
“Callum, Lindsey.” He acknowledges my parents as he arrives beside me. Then his hand ghosts down the inside of my lace-clad arm to capture my fingers, my skin tingling in his wake. “Come, Wife. It’s time.”
My heart hammers at the smell of amber, bergamot, and cedarwood that fills my nose as we line up for the first dance, and I brace myself for another storm.
“Relax,” Raf murmurs as he takes my waist, pulling me into a perfect frame, and starts to sweep me around the room. “I’m not going to devour you on the dance floor.”
“You have before. What’s stopping you?” I taunt in little more than a whisper, wanting to get under his skin as a vivid memory floods my mind—the memory of me swaying on Portentia’sdance floor, moving to the rhythm of a song, of Raf coming up behind me, his arms encircling my waist, his hands possessive on my hips as he pulled me to him, his lips finding the tender spot behind my ear as we moved together…
Of his kisses that turned into sinful nips as they traveled lower, raising goosebumps on my skin?—
I bite back a groan at the unwanted recollection, then swallow a snarl as Raf’s mouth curves, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.
“You used to like that,” he rasps, his deep voice throaty and laced with wicked promise.
I step on his foot deliberately.
He winces but keeps smiling. “Still fierce, I see,focosa.”
I suspect Raf just insulted me in Italian, but I refuse to rise to the bait. Instead, I lift my chin, squaring my shoulders as I say, “Still arrogant, I see.”
He spins me effortlessly, ignoring the barb, and my heartbeat stumbles because my body is reacting without my permission again—remembering how it used to feel to be wrapped in him, moved by him, undone by him.
The music swells, and his hand slides to my lower back, the thin lace doing little to form a barrier between us.
His breath brushes my ear. “You look beautiful, Aisling.”
Honeyed words to soften me up—likely so I won’t try to stab him in his sleep on our wedding night—and I scoff. “I look expensive.”
“That too.”
The moment could be soft, real. But I pull away because softness is dangerous.
It breeds hope.
And hope ruins people.
So, as soon as the last lingering notes of our song fade and people join us on the dance floor, I quickly extricate myself from his arms and replace him with Riley so I have an excuse not to dance with my husband again.
The night blurs into laughter, speeches, toasts, and too many eyes watching us, judging, speculating about our rushed union.
