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My fingers tighten on the handle of the gun.

My jaw flexes.

Loni…

I’ve seen her in photographs. I’ve seen her in surveillance camera footage. I’ve watched her live a life from states away so I know what she looks like. I haven’t been rubbing one out to the memory of a seventeen-year-old girl all these years. I’ve become more and more addicted to the woman that she’s grown into.

And all of that pales is comparison to seeing Loni Dougherty like this. Her face expertly made up to hide her adorable freckles, soft hazel eyes gleaming in barely masked distress, her lithe body meticulously tailored inside of a satin dress with lace embellishments and a sheer bit of fabric covering one shoulder. Her strawberry blonde hair is twisted up and out of her face, pinned back by a diamond piece, showing off the column of her slender throat as she swallows nervously.

Standing there, in a wedding dress meant for another man, she looks like a princess.

A motherfucking princess.

Myprincess.

Desmond St. James’s fate was sealed the moment he tried to Claim Loni. As soon as I knew that she was walking out of St. Catherine’s a married woman, so was hers.

I clear my throat as I stalk down the aisle, heading right for them.

Her head snaps over at me. A moment later, so does Desmond’s.

His expression becomes terrified. I swear to God, I see a flash of relief on Loni’s before she shuts that down.

It doesn’t matter. I saw it, and knowing that I did, I smile.

“I hope I’m not too late,” I announce to everyone gathered inside of the church.

Mumbles, whispers, and a general confusion passes over those assembled—but the instant I lift the gun, a hush falls.

And my smile becomes a determined thinning of my lips as I stalk toward the bride. It takes everything in me to rip my gaze from Loni’s loveliness, but I want to see Desmond’s fear. I want him to see the gun and know that, if he’d stayed away from her, this wouldn’t have had to happen.

More than anything, he needs to understand that he brought this all on himself.

So maybe my lips curve a little at the ends, a satisfied smirk, as he holds up his hands, begging, pleading, calling my name the instant before my finger tugs the trigger. It’s too late. Besides, I’m not the one he should’ve been apologizing to?—

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

—oh, no. That’s the stunning beauty whose pristine wedding dress gets dotted with red as the three bullets slam into him withquick succession, spraying his blood all over her before he drops to the aisle—and all hell fucking breaks loose.

Ah, well. I’ve always known how to make an entrance when necessary.

FOUR

I DO

LONI

Idon’t scream.

Someone else does. Probably half the church does. The shouts rattle around my stunned brain, echoing in my ears, but they sound so far away at the same time.

Maybe because the gunshots ringing out deafened me in their wake. Or maybe because a part of me is floating above the scene, taking it in like a stunned spectator, separate but here at the same time…

Shock, I think, my body trembling, my breath coming too, too fast, Desmond’s warm blood rapidly cooling on my skin. Most of it is pooled beneath him where he fell, a pretty crimson pond, with my bouquet lapping at the edge of it.