Page 67

The room glows. Strings of fairy lights drip from wooden ceiling like constellations tangled in rose stems. Shadows dance along the walls, soft and warm, like a promise.

Pink petals cover the bed in a perfect mess, scattered like they’ve been waiting for us all day. Some have even found their way onto the floor, creating a soft path that leads straight to the heart of the room.

Behind the bed, a long wall frames everything, modern and romantic, creating the impression of even more privacy.

And then… there’s the bouquet.

In the left corner of the room, a massive arrangement of pink peonies sits proudly—one thousand and one blooms, as lush and delicate as the woman in my arms.

I couldn’t let a single day pass without sending her one. Not since the moment she let me in. Not since she looked at me like I was worth breaking for.

And today, on the day that she became mine entirely, the bouquet had to be just as special.

The soft ivory ribbon tying them together bears only two words, etched in delicate gold cursive—“Mrs. Hardy.”

She gasps softly, and I feel it—the way her chest rises against mine, the way her fingers grip my shirt a little tighter.

“Nick…” she whispers, and my heart clenches at the sound—like she’s saying my name for the very first time, and the last, all at once.

Without a word, I carry her inside, slowly, reverently, like I’m walking through a dream I never want to wake up from.

At the edge of the bed, I lower her gently, her back resting against my chest for a moment longer than necessary. My arms wrap around her, holding her there—not because she needs it, but because I do.

I don’t want to let go.

Not yet.

Not when everything inside me is tangled in her.

Because tonight isn’t just about physical attraction or lust.

Tonight is about us. It’s about devotion.

About her soul that has always felt like the missing half of mine.

I rest my hands on her waist and lean in, letting my lips brush the tender curve of her neck. My voice is low, almost a breath. “What, baby?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just steps toward the bouquet, her fingers trembling as she brushes them against the petals—like she’s making sure they’re real, like part of her still can’t believe this is happening.

When she turns back to look at me, her eyes are glassy. But she’s smiling—that kind of smile that breaks me open. Because it holds everything—love, gratitude, and a quiet, overwhelming happiness.

“This is the best day of my life,” she whispers, her eyes fixed on my lips as if they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

I take a breath—slow and deep—and let my eyes linger on her silhouette, bathed in the soft light from the room. She stands still at the edge of the bed, her breathing shallow—waiting.

I come closer.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

My fingers reach for the delicate veil on her shoulders and I lift it gently, letting it slip off like water, falling in a whisper at her feet.

I don’t speak. She doesn’t move. She just watches me, her lips parting, her pulse fluttering in her neck. My throat tightens at the sheer beauty of her.

My hands brush the curve of her breasts—light as air—and she shivers beneath my touch. I press my lips to her neck. Once. Then again, lower. Her skin is soft, warm, alive.

“You’re entirely mine,” I murmur, my voice rasping with need.