Page 35 of Ruined By a Devil

“We need something sharper,” Malachi directs the jeweler, his voice calm and unbothered.

The jeweler hurriedly clears the tray and pulls another piece from a locked drawer. He sets down a striking ring featuring an elongated, oval-cut diamond bordered by small, trapezoid-cut side stones. It’s bold, elegant, and possesses a sharp, dangerous brilliance.

Malachi picks up the ring and without asking, he takes my left hand and he slides the platinum ring onto my finger.

The metal is cool, but the heat of his touch makes my skin prickle. He holds my hand in his, inspecting the fit, his knuckles lightly grazing the side of my finger in a slow, deliberate motion that makes my breath catch in my throat.

“Much better,” He decides, his eyes flicking up from my hand to meet mine. “This one suits you. It’s cold, beautiful, and sharp enough to draw blood, just like you.”

He thinks I’m beautiful?

I hold his gaze, refusing to pull my hand back, even though the brush of his thumb against my knuckle is making the now familiar heat pool between my legs.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” I say, keeping my tone dry. “Though I doubt you bought it for my personality.”

“I bought it because no one who sees it will ever doubt who you belong to,” he says, his voice dropping into that quiet, commanding register that makes my stomach dip.

“I don't belong to anyone, Malachi,” I remind him smoothly, leaning in just enough so my lips are inches from his ear. “We signed a contract, remember? Separate rooms, limited interference.”

Malachi smirks as he proceeds to slowly slide the ring off my finger, his skin dragging against mine just long enough to test my composure, before handing the band back to the sweating jeweler.

“Prepare this one,” Malachi instructs the man. “And two matching platinum bands for the ceremony.”

“Right away, Mr. Kavanagh,” The jeweler says, taking the ring and quickly retreating to the back room.

Once we’re alone in the private suite, Malachi turns back to me. He steps directly into my space, forcing me back an inch until the edge of the glass display counter hits the back of my thighs. He doesn't touch me this time, but the sheer presence of his body, and the memory of how hard he was against my stomach last night, fills the narrow gap between us.

“Contracts can be renegotiated, Jade,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips before rising back to mine. “Especially when some of us are lying to ourselves.”

“I'm not lying about anything,” I say, my voice steady despite the betraying flutter in my chest.

“No?” A faint, dark smirk touches the corner of his mouth. “If you say so.” He steps back, breaking the suffocating tension instantly, and gestures toward the door with absolute, effortless grace. The jeweler returns with our rings packed and we leave the store.

“After you, future Mrs. Kavanagh.”

The priest’s secretary calls before we even reach the car. I watch Malachi talk with her, darkness growing in his eyes, until he eventually hangs up the phone call and turns to face me.

“The priest can’t make it,” Malachi says smoothly, slipping his phone back into his inner jacket pocket as he opens the passenger door for me. “Something about an emergency parish matter. We'll have to reschedule the consultation.”

“How inconvenient,” I say, stepping past him into the leather interior, though I don't care in the slightest.

As he rounds the hood to the driver's side, my gaze catches the grand display window across the cobblestone street. The golden mannequin silhouettes are standing behind crystal-clear glass, all draped in cascading silk, delicate lace, and heavy satin.

A bridal boutique.

I step back out of the car before he can even shut his door. “Since we're already out and the priest cleared our schedule, we may as well buy the dress,” I say, nodding toward the shop.

Malachi halts, his hand resting on the top of his door. His green eyes track from the store back to me, unreadable as usual.

“You know that seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding is bad luck?” He asks.

“Bad luck?” I let out a soft, dry laugh, my lips curving into a sharp smile. “Malachi, this isn't a romantic movie. Our wedding isn't real anyway.”

His jaw tightens, a faint tick forming along his cheekbone as my words hit. He hates being reminded of the boundaries, hates any implication that he isn't in complete control of the narrative. For a second, the quiet menace I got to witness in the kitchen last night, flashes behind his pale eyes as he, without a word, shuts his car door with a heavy, decisive thud and follows me across the street.

“Let’s get inside.”

The boutique staff clears the floor the moment Malachi steps through the door, his presence instantly drawing all the attention in the soft, floral-scented air of the room. I pick three gowns, rejecting anything overly sweet or traditional. If I’m going to get married, I want to do it right, and I have known for as long as I can remember that I want my wedding dress to be structured, sharp, and commanding.