There were a hundred things I could’ve said. Something cocky. Something dirty. Something to make the men laugh and put the armor back between us.
But looking at her standing there in that impossible dress, ready to marry me because the world had turned vicious and I was the bastard holding the line, all I could think was that she deserved a better moment than this.
Better than neon.
Better than fear.
Better than me.
I stepped toward her slowly.
The chapel, the brothers, the Elvis impersonator waiting by a fake rose arch—it all blurred at the edges.
Sienna swallowed. “Well?”
My hand lifted before I could stop it, fingers hovering near her cheek. I didn’t touch. Not until she tipped her face the smallest inch toward me.
Permission.
That tiny bit of trust almost broke me.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, voice rough.
Her lips parted.
I shook my head once, because that wasn’t enough. Not even close.
“I never imagined this is the way I’d get married.”
Something flickered across her face. Hurt, maybe. Or panic.
So I closed the last step between us.
“But now,” I said, my voice scraping low, “I can’t imagine it any other way.”
The chapel stayed dead silent behind us.
Sienna looked up at me, pale under the makeup, nervous as hell, hands trembling at her sides. But she didn’t run.
She just whispered, “This is still name only.”
A smile pulled at my mouth, even though my chest felt cracked wide open.
“Whatever you need, baby.”
River muttered from behind me, “Forty-eight hours.”
Without looking away from me, Sienna lifted one hand and pointed in his direction. “A month. Minimum. And I expect my winnings in cash.”
The men roared.
I laughed, but my eyes stayed on hers.
Then I offered her my arm.
After one breath, one last visible battle with herself, Sienna slid her hand into the crook of my elbow.
Her fingers were still shaking.
