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He could afford it. I’m comforting myself with knowing Sarabeth worked with Dessie to identify local care centers that would wake up to lavish flowers, carefully packaged Belon River oysters from France, and leftover triple-chocolate cake with raspberry sauce and buttercream frosting. It takes some of the sting out of having just spent over three million dollars on an event that won’t last more than eight hours.
A sigh escapes. The question drifts through my mind again—will this marriage, this farce, be worth the price—even though I know it’s too late as I avoid looking at the rings.
I also know the answer. All I have to do is look at Dessie to know it was the right choice. Ever since I told her that Grey House would be mine again, and that I wanted her to move back in with me, she’s been on cloud nine. Catherine, whose daughter Whitney served as the flower girl, told me Dessie’s been putting more effort into her physical therapy appointments and getting out of her room again.
Those reports came in between concerned questions from Catherine about my engagement and upcoming wedding. Aside from Dessie, she’s the only other person who knows why I loathed Lucifer Drakos with every fiber of my being. She’s not convinced about this sudden whirlwind romance with Lucifer’s son.
But even if I hadn’t signed the contract, I would have kept my word. No matter how much I wanted someone to talk to about this crazy scheme I’d landed myself in.
A scheme made all the more ridiculous by my insane attraction to a man I can barely stand. My cheeks heat as I relive that fateful kiss, from the burn of his fingers against my back to that intimate, playful swipe of his tongue against my lips.
Another gulp of champagne fails to cool me off. Not when I’m thinking about how I kissed him back. Just for one second, but the damage was done. That moment when our breaths mingled, when the world around us stilled and we were the only two people caught in the eye of a storm that had been swirling ever since we’d known each other’s names.
What am I going to do? I had envisioned the attraction between us as simple, a little more intense than the couple previous relationships I’ve had, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Except I can still feel his hands on my waist. Can still feel that moment his body went hard and still when I returned his kiss, as if I’d surprised him. Can still see his eyes when we pulled apart, wide and shocked like his world had just been rocked as mine had.
Until he’d turned to face the crowd. Any hints of his true feelings were gone beneath that perfect mask as he’d ordered me to smile.
I’d made it down the aisle and to the cocktail hour with what I’d termed as myelated brideface intact. I’d eaten one smoked trout croquette, greeted a handful of people who had a look of importance about them as Gavriil rattled off names I barely heard, given Dessie a hug, and then disappeared into the night with my champagne before she or Catherine could see past my charade.
I have no idea where my husband is. Which is better all around. After our mandatory two-week honeymoon, I’ll be able to come up with plenty of excuses to keep my distance for the remainder of our contract. My work, overseeing renovations to Grey House, traveling with Dessie once she’s feeling up to it. Anything to keep distance between us, to prevent another kiss from happening.
The salty scent of the sea drifts to me on a breeze. I inhale, my breath a shudder as I admit what I will never confess to another living soul: that Gavriil Drakos, a man who stands for everything I’ve fought against for years, has the power to consume me. He’s the kind of man parents warn their daughters to stay away from. The kind who pulls you so high you know you can fly.
Until they let go of your hand and you plummet back to earth. Alone. Broken.
I press my fingers against the cool stone of the banister. I’ve seen the women left behind by powerful men, the discarded toys that mean nothing once the novelty’s worn off. I may have sold my hand in marriage.
But I refuse to sell my soul to the son of the devil.
Awareness prickles the back of my neck. Above the alluring fragrance of orchids and sea salt, I smell amber and smoky wood. A shiver teases its way down my spine as I fight to keep my face toward the waves.
“You disappeared for so long I wondered if I had a runaway bride on my hands.”
His voice slides over my skin.
“Just needed a break. Lot of people.”
He moves to the banister next to me. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him. Feel the heat of his body, feel his sheer presence.
“Our first dance is in eight minutes.”
My lips quirk. “Sounds like Sarabeth found you.”
“Found me and gave me marching orders. I should hire her.”
I can’t help but laugh. I feel him tense beside me, then slowly relax as a chuckle escapes him. Warm and casual, a sound that fills my chest before I can guard myself against it.
“That’s a beautiful dress.”
Now it’s my turn to tense as I finally look at him. The one thing that is mine and mine alone in this sham of a wedding is my dress.
The pissed-off side of me argued for going to the splashiest dress boutique in California and plunking down a hefty sum on a designer gown. Except everything I tried on felt...wrong. Constricting. Fake. I was drawn back time and time again to the cedar chest tucked into my closet in my little cottage. The one my father gave to me before I left to move in with Dessie. The one with my mother’s initials carved in the lid.
I have only the flimsiest memories of my mom. They’re more impressions than images. Cool glass beneath my hand and the warmth of her body at my back while we watched rain splash the windows of Grey House. A laugh, boisterous and full. A soothing voice when I came home from preschool crying because my best friend played with someone else. But when I pulled out her wedding dress, I felt her. Relived those wonderful, warm memories as her floral scent, mixed with the faint hint of cedar, drifted up from the lace.
“It’s my mother’s.”