Mason Cross.
And beneath it, waiting like a dare:
Sienna Cross.
Her face changed, the color slipping again as the reality of it settled over her shoulders.
I moved closer, blocking the room a little with my body.
“You don’t have to take my name,” I said quietly.
Her brows drew together. “What?”
“My last name. Cross. You don’t have to use it. This is protection, not ownership.”
She stared at me.
The pen trembled in her fingers.
“I know that,” she said.
“Just making sure.”
Her gaze dropped to the paper again.
For a second, I thought she might break. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just fold under the weight of too much happening too fast.
Then she pressed the pen to the page and signed.
Sienna.
My wife.
Something hard and ancient shifted in my chest.
Mine, the darkest part of me said.
Protected, the better part corrected.
Both felt true. Only one deserved to be spoken.
The officiant checked the papers and grinned. “Congratulations.”
The chapel exploded again.
Regan swept Sienna into a hug. Edge slapped my back hard enough to move me a step. Tank pulled me in next, his voice low at my ear.
“You did good.”
I didn’t answer.
Because Sienna was standing a few feet away, surrounded by noise, looking down at the cheap gold band Regan had somehow found for her. It was simple. Tiny. Nothing like what I would have chosen if this had been real.
No.
That wasn’t right.
It was real.
