Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He goes stiff beside me.
Neither of us speaks as we continue to walk down the side corridor.
We pass the garden. My peripheral vision catches a flash of the weathered building all the way by the water.
The boathouse.
For a second, my mind plays out a picture, but I shake my head.
Not today, Satan.
I look away and continue toward the fountain. Once there, my father stops, adjusts his sleeves for no reason, and finally looks at me properly. “Whatever you feel, you cannot let it show. Not to him.”
“That’s the funny thing.” I lift a brow. “He already knows exactly how I feel. He’s counting on it.”
The muscle in his cheek jumps. “Smile.”
The air already feels thicker as I take in the makeshift canopy that’s supposed to be an altar.
The priest stands there, fingers tangled together.
Rafe stands near the front, his suit black, tie loosened, as if this is mildly annoying. His gaze slides over us, assessing, as if he’s checking off a mental list.
And at the altar across from the priest is—
Lorenzo.
He turns toward us.
Then he takes me in.
A dark look spreads across his features.
He’s in a black tailored suit, dark shirt, no tie, top button undone. There’s a small cut on his lip, already healing, and a faint bruise under one eye. How did he manage to get into a fight on the one day I haven’t seen him, and what does the person he fought with look like? Something tells me worse than him.
He looks me up and down, and heat crawls up my spine. Not the good kind.
My father’s arm tightens under my hand. “Head up.”
I lift my chin, my gaze still locked with Lorenzo’s as we walk. His mouth curves, lazy and lethal.
Not a smile. A promise.
My heart pounds harder with every step, and I swear my palms are sweating. The dress rustles around my legs.
We stop in front of him.
My father’s fingers tense around my hand, then pry it off his arm. He turns toward Lorenzo, jaw clenched. “She’s yours,” he forces out.
Lorenzo’s brows tic. “She’s mine,” he agrees softly, reaching out.
His hand closes around mine. It’s warm, firm, and most importantly…unyielding.
A flash of memory hits me—his fingers on my skin. Touching softly. Lovingly.
This is none of those things.
The priest clears his throat. “We are . . . gathered here today,” he begins, looking around at the five of us, “to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Rafe snorts under his breath, low enough that only the three of us at the front hear.
Lorenzo’s mouth twitches.
My fingers tighten in his instinctively.
“Victoria Danforth,” the priest continues, clinging to the script like a lifeline, “do you take Lorenzo Amante to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in—”
“I do,” I cut in, voice calm and flat.
The priest blinks. My mother chokes, and Rafe glances away like he’s hiding a grin.
Lorenzo’s eyes flash, dark amusement sparking. “Impatient, Little Bird? Can’t wait to sign your soul away?”
I keep my gaze on the priest. “I’d like to be done before the Stockholm syndrome kicks in,” I reply, sweet and deadly.
A huff of laughter catches in his chest. “You always were impatient.”
The priest flounders for a moment, then stumbles forward. “And . . . and you, Lorenzo Amante,” he tries again, “do you take Victoria Danforth to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health—”
“I do,” Lorenzo answers, eyes never leaving my face. “Obviously.”
The word wraps around me like a noose.
The priest’s gaze flicks between us, sweaty and panicked. “Do you have vows prepared?” he asks hopefully, like maybe someone will start talking about love and save him from this nightmare.
“I think we’ve said enough,” Lorenzo deadpans.
“Yes,” I add, pressing a smile that shows too many teeth. “I wouldn’t want to lie in front of a priest. Something tells me that won’t help my bid to get into heaven.”
My father winces.
The priest swallows hard. “Then . . . umm . . . we will proceed with the rings.”
Rafe steps forward, pulling a small velvet box from his jacket with a resigned little shrug, like even he can’t believe he’s playing ring bearer in this particular tragedy.
He flips it open and offers it to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo takes the first band, cool metal glinting between his fingers. He grasps my hand, turning it palm down, his thumb stroking along my knuckles once in a touch that doesn’t match his eyes at all.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I don’t want to, but I do anyway. Show no fear.
He slides the ring onto my finger slowly, deliberately, like he’s carving his name into my bones.
“This belongs to me now,” he says, voice low.
“My hand?” I whisper, throat tight.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “We both know the answer.”
My lungs forget how to function for a beat.
I pick up his ring from the box. My fingers don’t feel like they’re attached to my body. I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare, and I can’t shake myself awake.