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"But you're also right that we were circling the same drain," she continues. "I've been trying not to think about you every second of every day since that first night, and it's been completely impossible. You've gotten under my skin in a way that's terrifying and exhilarating and absolutely maddening."

Her fingers tighten on mine.

"I don't know what this will look like. I don't know if we'll make it a month or a year or the rest of our lives. But I know that right now, in this moment, I'm choosing you. I'm choosing to trust you. And I pledge my loyalty to you—not because I have to, but because you've earned it. Because you gave up everything to keep me safe, and that means something."

She pauses, and a small smile plays at her lips.

"Also, the sex is really good, so there's that."

I laugh—a real laugh, surprised out of me by her irreverence in the middle of what's supposed to be a solemn moment. Even Judge Reynolds cracks a smile.

"By the power vested in me by the state of New York," the judge says, clearly ready to wrap this up, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

I don't hesitate. I pull Elara to me, one hand coming up to cup her face, the other sliding around her waist. Our mouths meet in a kiss that starts gentle—appropriate for the moment, for the witnesses—but quickly deepens into something else entirely.

She tastes like mint and coffee and promises we're both terrified to keep. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel her trembling against me. Whether from fear or desire or some combination of both, I can't tell.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Congratulations," Judge Reynolds says dryly, sliding papers across the bench. "Sign these, and you're officially married."

We sign in a daze—Elara's new signature now reading Elara Draven, a name she'll have to get used to. My hand is steadier this time, muscle memory from years of signing documents as Alexander instead of Atticus.

The bailiff witnesses, Judge Reynolds stamps everything with finality, and just like that, it's done.

We're married.

"You're free to go," the judge says, already moving on to her next case.

We walk out of the courtroom in silence, down the hallway, past the depressing waiting area and the clerk who never looked up from her computer. The morning sunlight is harsh when we step outside, making me squint after the fluorescent gloom.

"So," Elara says, her voice slightly unsteady. "We're married."

"We're married," I confirm.

She looks up at me, and something in her expression makes my pulse spike. Heat. Want. The same hungry need I've been seeing in her eyes for weeks, but sharper now. More urgent.

"Take me home," she says, and it's not a request.

We barely make it into the house before I have her against the wall, my mouth on hers, her legs wrapping around my waist. She tastes like forever and right now and every bad decision I've ever made that led me to this moment.

"Bedroom," she gasps against my lips.

"Too far," I growl, already moving us—not toward the stairs, but toward the nearest door. The powder room off the entryway, barely big enough for what I have in mind but it'll have to do because I can't wait another second.

I kick the door shut behind us, setting her on the counter between the sink and the wall. Her dress rides up around her thighs, and my hands are already there, already touching, already claiming.

"We're married," she says again, like she's testing the words. "I'm your wife."

"You're my wife," I agree, my mouth trailing down her neck. "Mine. Legally. Binding. Forever."

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "You said you'd be the best husband you could be."

"I did."

"Prove it."

I see the challenge in her gaze, the flicker of desire she’s barely holding in check. I take a deliberate step back, letting the cold air rush in between our heated bodies. My voice drops into a low, commanding register. It’s a tone I save for the boardroom and the bedroom. “If I’m to prove it, we do it my way. Understand?”