And somehow, that makes them heavier than any decree ever could. Because this time, it isn’t about survival or duty. It’s about choice—our choice—and that makes all the difference.
When Marcus leans down and kisses me, the hall erupts. This time, when he dips me, he isn’t doing it to hide the fact he isn’t kissing me. He’s doing it to hide the fact that he’s devouring me with his mouth. When he lets me up, a wicked grin lights his face. The cheers crash like thunder, raw and jubilant, rolling over us in waves. Our families stand, clapping, whooping, voices breaking with laughter and relief. Someone even shouts for us to kiss again, and the room roars with agreement. I don’t mind obliging. Not today.
But none of it touches me. Not really. Because for once, it doesn’t feel like we’re performing for them. His mouth on mine isn’t duty, or survival, or politics. It’s just him. It’s just me. It’s real.
And boy, I kiss him back like I’ve been waiting lifetimes for this. Maybe I have. Every battle, every scar, every night spent wondering if we’d survive long enough to see tomorrow… it all narrows to this one breath, this one kiss.
The world doesn’t fade. It splinters into nothing but the taste of him, the press of his hand at my back, the thrum of his heartbeat against mine. Time itself could stop, and I wouldn’t care. Because after everything, after stone prisons and blood-soaked halls and choices ripped from us, this is ours.
Chosen.
Claimed.
Irrevocable.
Mine.
This time, we take photos. And Marcus tells me about how he ruminated on the fact that they didn’t take mugshots. When I punch him in the arm, he merely grins. Everyone piles in, hugging, laughing, jostling for space, cheeks pressed together while tears streak down faces. My cheeks ache from grinning, but I don’t care. I want proof. I want it all framed and hung and sticky with fingerprints from too much touching.
At the reception, Marcus and I can’t stop smiling. Or at least, I can’t. Marcus tries to hold onto that stoic composure of his, but it’s useless. There’s a giddy tilt to his mouth he can’t quite hide, a softness in his eyes every time they meet mine. And that? That betrays him completely.
And for once, I don’t tease him for it. I let myself fall into the warmth of it, into him.
When we take the floor for our first dance, Marcus stands a few steps away from me.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
“I just remembered how dangerous it is dancing with you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Get over here, or you’ll be the first groom in history not to get lucky on his wedding night.”
“Good thing I wore steel toe caps then.”
He steps in and wraps a hand around my waist.
“You’re awfully brave, Mr. Benyamina.”
“Love does that to me, Mrs. Benyamina.”
I grin. “Wanna know a secret?”
“Did Min finally confirm Leonard wears woman’s underwear?”
I swat his arm. “No, silly. I actually don’t mind being called Mrs. Benyamina.”
“That’s not how it went on our honeymoon.”
“No, but I got you back really well, didn’t I?
“Telling the concierge I was a virgin was quite genius. But tell me, wife, as a man as inexperienced as myself, how do I fare?”
He’s smug as sin, and I hate how much I love it.
“Are you asking me to stroke your ego?”
The moment the words are out my mouth, he gives me a wicked grin. I raise my hand. “Don’t even say it. Wrong choice of word.”
He laughs into my hair, the sound warm and obnoxious. “I can’t fault it myself.”
