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And suddenly, I hate the champagne in my veins and the lump in my throat.

“Hey,” I say, voice soft and uncertain. “How come you didn’t invite your mom or dad?”

He stiffens, just slightly. A hitch in the breath I feel against my skin.

“What?” he says, tone guarded. “Oh. Uh, my mom passed away when I was a kid. My father died about ten years ago. But even if he was alive, I’d never invite him anywhere.”

The words land heavy. I blink up at him, my vision suddenly too blurry.

“Balor, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. She was great. While I had her, she was great. My grandmother raised me after that. She was the real deal. Hard as nails, soft when it mattered. I lost her when I was twenty-three.”

I press my cheek to his chest, fingers curling against the fine fabric of his shirt.

He smells like cedar and heat. Like something solid and unmoving. Like safety.

“There’s a few uncles and cousins left, but Connor’s the only one I talk to. The only one who acknowledges me. See I’m not a real Callahan, I’m the bastard son of an affair that apparently tore my father’s marriage up.”

My heart aches.

Because, for all his strength, all his unshakable presence, Balor is more alone than anyone I’ve ever met.

And I want to change that.

“You’re not the bastard anything,” I tell him firmly. “You’re Balor Cruz.”

“That I am. And now, you’re Mrs. Cruz.”

“That I am,” I repeat, and I swear, shivers race up and down my body as his gaze glitters down at me.

But then the old fear creeps in—quiet and insidious.

I ran from danger once. When I had no choice. And is that what I’m doing?

Running from danger into the arms of the one man strong enough to shelter me?

Is this marriage a shield? A temporary fix?

Is he planning to walk away once the heat dies down?

God, I don’t want that. I want this to be real.

I want him to be real.

Because the way he’s looking at me right now—eyes fierce, jaw tight, like I’m something sacred—is unraveling every wall I’ve ever built.

And I know the truth.

I’m not hiding in him.

I’m choosing to be with him.

He’s not an escape.

He’s the destination.

I lift my head slowly and find his mismatched eyes—one glittering, one stormy.