I leaned back on the bed, looking up at the stale white ceiling, ignoring his cocky smirk.
I was so pissed at him. Furious. A dark, simmering rage bubbled beneath my skin, and all I could think about was tearing him apart. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat, to squeeze the life out of him, feeling his struggles weaken under my grip.
“We had sex once,” I said, teasing coldly, "and you married me immediately after.”
He shrugged, a crooked, reluctant grin twitching at his lips. “What can I say? It was the best I’ve ever had.”
“The only thing you’re getting for the rest of your pathetic life,” I whispered, “and if you even think about stepping out of line..." I leaned in, voice sharp as a blade, “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”
He swallowed hard, throat working, eyes darkening with fear and something darker.
“Do you understand me?”
"Yes... Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, voice trembling, obedience replacing the earlier bravado.
“Good,” I said, a slow, menacing smile curling at my lips. “Because you belong to me now. Entirely. And don’t even think about arguing."
He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, but there was no doubt in his eyes. He knew I meant every word.
About 12 days later,once I could walk on my own and had been discharged from the hospital, we made it official. The chapel smelled musty, with the harsh scent of old wood polish mixing with the faint, lingering incense. A single stained-glass window let fractured, sickly morning light spill across the pews, casting jagged, distorted shadows that danced unevenly across the cold stone floor.
We were in the hospital chapel. It was just us and a justice of the peace. Despite already being married, it didn’t take much to convince Agent West to do this for me. He looked troubled, guilt gnawing at him for his impulsive decision.
Fucker.
Fuck them both.
He made sure we had clothes, but they offered little comfort. My dress was cheap. I could feel the thin lining and the itchy seams biting into my ribs. A dull ivory that caught the faint, unnatural light each time I moved. The skirt fluttered just enough to mimic innocence, yet it offered no warmth or solace. Lace sleeves brushed my wrists, fragile and delicate, hiding the bruises from the IV.
My hair was pulled back with a simple clip, hiding my tattoo and the fresh scar beside it. No veil, no bouquet—just me, exposed, honest, trembling.
The pain was relentless; I moved carefully, painfully slow. Max had been surprisingly dedicated. He never left my side, sleeping on a pullout in the room, only rising for the restroom or cafeteria. He walked me through the halls daily until I was gasping for breath. He monitored everything I ate and drank with an obsessive precision. He read to me, watched movies, did everything a husband should. But nothing could erase the sickening truth. He had married me while I lay unconscious, as if I were some prize to claim in the darkness.
Max was already waiting at the foot of the altar when I stepped inside. He was clean now, scrubbed raw from the hospital shower. He complained about the water pressure but refused to return to camp.
Despite my anger toward him, I froze in place when I saw him. He was wearing a cream-colored suit, the jacket slightly too broad at the shoulders. His towering height made it difficult for Agent West to find a suit on short notice that fit his frame. His bruises, though fading, were still visible. Grim reminders of the fight. His damp hair curled at the edges from the shower. No blood stained him now, only sharp lines, unblemished skin, and eyes that seemed to fixate where I stood.
The moment his eyes locked onto mine, he froze, too. His jaw clenched tightly. His chest heaved and stuttered as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He stared at me as if I were a ghost, a specter that might vanish if he blinked.
The way he looked at me, as if I were his salvation, burned through the frigid silence of this cold, empty chapel.
As soon as I made it halfway down the aisle, he surged forward, grabbing my hand and yanking me toward the altar with frantic urgency.
The officiant began, asking us to recite our vows, and Max opened his mouth first.
“I, Max?—”
I raised a hand, palm flat like a command. “Stop.”
Max stopped mid-sentence, brows clenched in confusion.“Mackenzie…”
“No.” My voice sliced through the tense silence. I took two deliberate steps forward, the silk hem of the dress dragging along the chapel floor.
“You don’t get to start this. You tricked me into a contract while I was unconscious. You stole my agency. My freedom, my choice. If you want me, Max—,” I cocked my head, savoring the way his jaw twitched, lips parted in helpless anticipation, “—you’re going to fucking earn it.”
His throat worked furiously, Adam’s apple bobbing as if he were choking on his own panic and shame. I pointed down at the ground at my feet. “On your knees.”
The justice of the peace sputtered, voice trembling. “Miss, this isn’t exactly?—”
