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Because she said I do.

Because she’s mine now, in name, in law—and by the end of the night, she’ll be mine in every other way that matters.

Lucy Volkov—no, it’s Cruz, now.

My bride.

My goddamn heartbeat.

The rest of the world’s been worshipping her from afar. Drooling over pictures, writing songs, clicking likes like that means something.

They’ve got nothing on what I feel.

They don’t know how she bites her lip when she’s nervous, how her voice gets raspy when she’s tired, how she hums under her breath when she’s thinking—like her thoughts are made of music.

She doesn’t realize it yet. But she will.

I’m in this for good.

This isn’t a game or a fling or some PR disaster control. This is real.

She makes parts of me feel alive that I didn’t even know were dead. Places I’d long buried under scars and silence and code.

And tonight?

Tonight I’m claiming her.

I’m stripping her down—and I am starting with her wedding dress.

“Turn around,” I rumble, eager to do this right.

“O-okay,” she whispers, eyes blazing like blue fire.

She obeys.

And my soul sings.

I reach for the zipper, and I pull. Slowly.

The sound is loud, echoing through the kitchen. But so is our combined breathing.

She wants this. I know she does.

Her entire body trembles as I free her from the lovely white lace and tulle confection.

“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur, tracing one finger down her spine, adoring every inch of her smooth, porcelain skin.

She shivers—not from cold, but from awareness. From me.

The gown slides off her like silk from marble, revealing inch after inch of smooth, flawless skin that practically glows in the golden light filtering through the windows.

There’s nothing beneath it. No lace. No silk. Just her.

Just my wife.

My throat tightens.

My pulse pounds like a war drum in my chest.