Page 1 of After the Chase

PROLOGUE

CHASE

Three Months Earlier - France

The mayor's office smells like lavender and old paper, the sunlight streams through the windows that overlook fields of purple stretching toward distant hills. It should be peaceful here, romantic, the kind of place people dream about for destination weddings, with photographers and flower arrangements and guests who've traveled across continents to witness love.

But there are no photographers here. No flowers. No guests. Just Noah, standing in front of Monsieur Beaumont's desk with the stillness of a coiled snake, and me, watching my fiancé dismantle a man's resistance with nothing but his voice and his eyes.

"I don't think you understand," Noah says, his tone absolutely devoid of warmth. "We're getting married today and you will perform the ceremony.”

At a guess I would say Monsieur Beaumont is around sixty years old, with his silver hair and kind eyes that are currently wide with confusion and growing alarm. He adjusts his glasses, glancing between Noah and me as if he is hoping I'll intervene.

"Monsieur, this is not possible. There are legal requirements that have to be followed, banns must be posted, documents must be filed and there is a waiting period of ten days…"

"No." Noah says, without raising his voice which made the one word sound more of a threat than if he had shouted in his face. "There is no waiting period for us, this is an exceptional circumstance and I know you can waive those requirements."

"But I cannot simply…"

Noah leans forward, placing both hands flat on the mayor's desk and Monsieur Beaumont flinches away. "You can, and you will. Because I've already made a donation to your town's restoration fund. Fifty thousand euros. The transfer will complete within the hour, contingent of course on your cooperation."

The mayor's face pales. "Monsieur, this is highly irregular. I could lose my position."

"You won't." Noah's eyes don't blink. "Because there's nothing illegal about performing a marriage ceremony for two consenting adults who have provided all necessary documentation. Which we have." He slides a folder across the desk containing passports, birth certificates, proof of residency, all immaculately organized. "The only question is whether you choose to help us, or whether I need to contact the regional prefect and explain how you've been obstructing a legal process. I'm very thorough with my complaints and I will have the evidence to back up my claims."

Noah taps his phone, which sits on the desk between them, recording light blinking red. When did he do that? I should be horrified and pull Noah aside, telling him this isn't how normal people get married, that he can't just bully a French official into performing an impromptu ceremony through intimidation and bribery. But I scoff to myself as this is Noah, what else would I expect?

So instead, I stand back and I watch with fascination how Noah controls the situation, how his body commands the room with its strong presence, the lack of emotion on his face, everything is completely controlled and I'm fascinated. Because Noah isn't doing this for power or ego. He's doing this forme. Forus. He woke up this morning in our rented villa, looked at me over breakfast, and said, "We’re getting married today."

He said it while my eggs were midway to my mouth on my fork. No grand gesture, or asking, it was a simple decision that he had made. I just nodded in response, with the biggest grin on my face as I couldn’t make my voice work because the excitement was too much.

And now here we are, me dressed in a white linen shirt with tan pants and all six-foot three inches of Noah in all black, a black linen shirt with plain black pants looking like a sexy ass panther with all those tattoos on display under that gorgeous, tanned skin. Only his face and ass are free from ink.

After I briefly devour Noah with my eyes, my attention falls back to Monsieur Beaumont's as I notice his hands tremble while opening the folder, reviewing our paperwork with the desperate hope of finding some disqualifying error. I know there isn't one as Noah doesn't make errors. The reason I know this, is because the stuff I pretend he doesn’t do has never come back on him and I’m grateful for that.

"I... I would need witnesses," the mayor says weakly. "Two witnesses are required by law."

"Already arranged." Noah pulls out his phone, types something, and within ninety seconds there's a knock at the door. Two people enter, a dark-haired woman in her thirties wearing a blue sundress, and a man, perhaps fifty, in work clothes, both looking confused and slightly nervous. Noah must have found them in the town square, offered them cash, toldthem exactly where to be and when. Why does that make my stomach flip?

"These are our witnesses," Noah says.

The woman is calledCéline, and as she introduces herself, she glances at me with concern. "Monsieur, are you... is this what you want?"

I smile at her, warm and genuine, because I need her to understand. "Yes, don’t worry."

Noah's hand finds the small of my back, and it feels like a branding touch, all possessive as the physical contact radiates through my entire body.

Monsieur Beaumont looks defeated as he knows he's lost. Noah always wins.

"Very well," the mayor says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation. "If you'll both stand here..."

The ceremony is brief and stripped of all romance except the kind that exists in Noah's absolute determination to claim me legally and for eternity, as that’s what this is really about. Monsieur Beaumont reads the required words, his voice flat, while Céline and the man, who I find out is called Pierre, stand awkwardly to the side.

The room starts to become smaller as I look at Noah, who doesn't look at the mayor. He looks at me. His eyes have deepened in color from his usual intense green to a dark moss, like he has been taken over by another being, and it makes my breath catch. I’m aware from my experience as a therapist and with Noah that this isn’t love for him. He doesn't experience love the way other people do. But there'sintensity. Focus. The same expression he gets when he's inside me, when his hands arewrapped around my throat, when he's whispering that I belong to him and no one else will ever touch me. It’s something more than love, more deadly, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

"Do you, Noah Bryson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."