Sol’s words from last night hit me all at once as I just sigh. I push myself up on one elbow and immediately regret it when my body protests. Saint watches the movement with a satisfaction that makes my face heat before I can stop it.
“Fuck,” he says, stepping closer. “I really marked you, didn’t I?”
I look down despite myself. The sheet has slipped low enough to reveal fingerprints blooming faintly along one hip and a dark mark near my ribs. I don’t need a mirror to know my throat is worse. I feel the pull of it every time I swallow.
Saint comes to the side of the bed and reaches down, his fingers brushing along the side of my neck. The touch is lighter than I expect, his thumb tracing the edge of a bruise, and something in his face shifts for half a second, before the hard mask comes back down over it.
“Hurry up,” he says, hand falling away. “Both clubs are already waiting.”
I blink at him. “It’s not even time for breakfast.”
Saint shrugs as if morning weddings under duress are normal scheduling inconveniences. “What Sol wants, Sol gets until I become president. After today, I basically will be.”
I sit up slowly, keeping the sheet around my waist because some foolish part of me still thinks modesty matters after everything Saint has seen, taken, and left on me. “Is this because of the warehouse?”
“It’s because my father decided waiting gives Canon room to be stupid.”
“And you agree?”
“I agree with removing room from stupid men.”
That is as close to an answer as I’m likely to get. I climb out of bed carefully while Saint watches with a kind of lazy ownership that does absolutely nothing to steady me. He doesn’t touch me again before I reach the bathroom, which feels deliberate enough to be its own kind of touch.
I take a quick shower, just enough to be presentable before taking the meds, brushing my teeth, and stuffing myself into the clothing laid out for me. I hesitate with the cut, though. Yesterday, wearing it felt like betrayal. Today, it feels like a door closing.
When I step out of the bathroom, Saint’s eyes move over me from head to foot.
My skin prickles under the attention. “What?”
His mouth curves. “Looks better on you than your old one.”
“My old one had my family on it.”
The smile doesn’t fade, but something behind it sharpens. “So does this.”
Saint crosses the room, adjusts the front of the cut with one firm tug, then fixes the collar of my shirt where it sits unevenly against my throat. His knuckles brush a bruise he left, and my breath catches before I can bury it.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Means you understand the room.”
Both clubs’ officers are already gathered when Saint brings me into the room. Obsidian stands on one side, Rogues on the other, not neatly enough to look formal but divided enough that anyone blind could feel the line between them. Sol is at the center near the long table, cigar absent for once but thesmell still clinging to him. Canon is near the Rogue side with Varina beside him, Rook at her shoulder, their faces carved into different versions of anger.
I hate this. All of it. It feels… off. The room goes quiet as we approach. I’ve imagined weddings before, in vague, embarrassing ways that belonged to a much younger version of myself. Not white flowers or churches, exactly, but something warm. Someone choosing. Someone looking at me in front of other people and making the choice sound less like obligation than joy. That old, foolish image dies quietly in the smell of smoke, coffee, and gun oil while Sol opens the folder and gestures us forward.
This is not a wedding. It’s an execution with better paperwork.
Sol doesn’t waste ceremony on romance. “We’re here to formalize the alliance already signed between Obsidian MC and the Rogues MC through marital bond. Oisín Caolan Ward transfers legal and club affiliation by agreement of both presidents and the signature of both parties. Saint Solomon Masters accepts the bond, assumes responsibility, and binds Obsidian’s protection and claim to the terms already recorded.”
Accepts. Assumes.Binds.
Every word sounds like it belongs in a shipment ledger.
Saint stands beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes mine, his gaze firmly on me. I can feel Canon watching from the other side of the room, Varina’s anger and humiliation, and every Obsidian member wondering whether I’m going to shake when the pen hits my hand.
Moth taps the document on the table and sets the pen beside it. “Signatures where marked. Saint first.”
