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Someone clears their throat. Probably the officiant, who’s trying to get through the ceremony while I’m wobbling like a drunk sorority girl at last call. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t far from the truth right now.

Zeke’s hand steadies me, his grip firm but gentle on my elbow. The touch sends an unwanted shiver through me. Even three sheets to the wind, my body betrays me, responding to his nearness like it always has.

“Focus, love,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “We’re almost done.”

I snort, earning another round of concerned looks from our small audience. “That’s what you think. We haven’t even started.” The room tilts dangerously, and I grab his arm to stay upright. “Why is everything spinning?”

Olivia leans forward in her seat, her expression a mix of amusement and worry. She catches Lydia’s eye and mouths something I can’t quite make out.

The officiant clears his throat again, louder this time. His voice drones on, but the words blur together, washing over me in waves I can barely comprehend. Something about sacred unions and lifelong commitments. I stifle another giggle. Lifelong. Right.

“Dearly beloved …” The rest fades into a pleasant hum as I sway slightly, grateful for Zeke’s steadying grip on my elbow. The gin has turned everything soft, making this feel less real, more like some bizarre dream I’ll wake up from tomorrow.

I chance a glance at Zeke’s face. His jaw is set, dark eyes intense as he listens to every word with grave attention. Like this matters. Like any of this is real and not just some elaborate protection scheme. The contrast between his solemnity andmy alcohol-induced levity strikes me as hilarious, and another bubble of laughter escapes before I can stop it.

“The rings, please.” The officiant prompts, and I blink in surprise. Are we at that part already?

Zeke’s hands are warm and steady as he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s gorgeous—platinum with diamonds around the band. His touch lingers, thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.

I fumble with his ring, nearly dropping it. “Oops.” I giggle, earning a sharp look from the officiant. Zeke’s lips twitch, but his eyes remain serious as I manage to get the band onto his finger.

“The vows are simple,” the officiant continues. “Do you, Ezekiel King …”

I watch Zeke’s face as he responds, his “I do” resonating with conviction. When it’s my turn, I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I drank entirely too much, and despite myself, I feel bad about that.

“I do,” I manage, the words slurring. More than one person in our small audience shifts uncomfortably.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

The words barely register through my gin-soaked haze before Zeke’s hands cup my face. His touch is possessive, demanding, and sends electricity racing across my skin. Before I can process what’s happening, his mouth claims mine with devastating intensity.

This isn’t the chaste wedding kiss I expected. This is raw need and desperate hunger. His tongue sweeps past my parted lips, tasting of coffee and something darker, more dangerous. A small sound escapes my throat as he pulls me closer, one hand sliding to grip my hip.

The room spins faster, but now it’s not just the gin. It’s the way he kisses me like a man starved, like he’s been aching for this moment. Like he actually wants me, and dammit, I wanthim too. My hands fist in his jacket, unsure if I’m trying to push him away or pulling him closer.

I shouldn’t respond. I should fight it to protect myself. But my traitorous body melts against him anyway, remembering all too well how good we were together. How perfectly we fit. How he could set me on fire with just a touch.

Someone wolf-whistles—probably Seb—and a few nervous laughs ripple through our small audience. The sound barely penetrates the fog of sensation. Zeke’s kiss has turned gentler now, but no less possessive. Like he’s marking his territory. Claiming what’s his.

“I now pronounce you husband and—”

The officiant’s words cut off abruptly as the atmosphere in the room shifts. Zeke breaks the kiss, his body tensing as his eyes fix on something behind me. A chill races down my spine, and Zeke goes rigid against me.

Even through my alcoholic haze, I register the change. The air is heavier, charged with an electric tension that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Zeke’s arm tightens around my waist, pulling me against him in an instinctively protective gesture.

I turn my head, following his gaze to the back of the room where a tall figure stands in the doorway, silent and watchful. The stranger’s presence sucks all the oxygen from the room, leaving nothing but cold dread in its wake.

The mood shift in the room sobers me faster than a shot of espresso. Through my gin-hazed vision, Zeke’s expression shifts from tender possessiveness to pure unadulterated hatred. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.

I’ve seen that look before, on the faces of cornered suspects right before they strike. It’s the look of a man calculating odds, weighing options, preparing for violence.

Zeke’s breathing changes, becoming measured and controlled. The hand at my waist trembles—not from fear, butfrom restraint. Like he’s holding himself back from launching across the room.

“Nicolo,” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through his chest.

The name hits me like a bucket of ice water. Nicolo Moretti. The head of the New York crime family. The man Olivia had to get permission from to leave her abusive husband. What the hell is he doing at my wedding?

Zeke shifts his stance, pulling me close to his side with his arm tight around my waist. The gesture seems instinctive, protective. But there’s something else in the way he holds himself—a coiled tension that speaks of deep anxiety.