Page 19

S o, Vegas with the family?

Fun. Super. Crazy.

Telling everyone Sammy and I got hitched?

Holy. Fucking. Anxiety.

I pause just outside the private dining room, the one Andrea reserved specifically for this gathering—because, you know, nothing screams low-key family dinner like a private dining experience complete with a karaoke DJ.

I can already hear them.

The laughter, the shouting, the chaos, and the godawful hair band music to which Andrea is painfully belting out the worst version of Sweet Child O’ Mine the world has ever heard.

Still, my stomach flip-flops violently, threatening to send me running back to the elevator.

Then I feel it. Sammy’s hand.

Big. Warm. Solid.

He’s got the most incredible hands. But it’s more than that. It is all of him.

Hero bod .

That’s what I’ve come to call it in my head.

Because Sammy is all kinds of hard. But his aren’t gym muscles.

He’s not pretty in the soft way of movie stars or personal trainers.

He earned every delicious bulge and curve of his muscled frame the hard way.

In the last twenty four hours I have seen, kissed, and traced every mark, scar, and tattoo on his body.

Sammy is beautiful, for sure.

But he is also real .

Strong, capable—the kind of body that’s seen violence and destruction, the kind that should scare me.

B ut instead? I love his body.

And the hand I feel on my back anchors me.

His fingers press firmly into my flesh, and he leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice low and reassuring.

“It’ll be fine, Pixie.”

I glance up at him, and just like that, my nerves settle.

At least for a second.

Then, the panic creeps back in.

“What if they think this is a joke? What if someone laughs?” I whisper.

I know it sounds stupid.

But looking at Sammy, standing next to me in his custom gray suit and black shirt, all chic and powerful and impossibly fucking fit— and then looking at me.

Short. Chubby. Cute at best.

We are not the same species.

But I tilt my head, examining us together.

And okay. I have to admit we kind of match.

My top is silver and glittery, catching the light every time I move.

My silk pants? Wide-legged, sheer panels up the sides, provocative as hell.

I look good .

He looks gorgeous.

But I mean, I’m not ugly.

Still.

Sammy squeezes my fingers, pulling me from my self-doubt spiral.

“No one is gonna do that, Aella,” he says, absolute certainty in his tone.

Then—his eyes darken, warm and smoldering as he lifts my hand to his lips.

His gaze locks onto mine, and suddenly, I am aware of just how much I wish we were still alone in our suite.

“Did I tell you how gorgeous you look?”

I lick my lips, heat flooding my veins, and seriously— who decided we had to do this family thing instead of staying in bed for the rest of our lives?

But these people? Our family and friends. They came here for me.

To celebrate me.

And I can’t stand outside the door like a chicken-shit coward.

I square my shoulders, inhale deeply, preparing myself for whatever may come.

“Ready?”

Sammy watches me carefully, his knowing expression borderline smug.

Because he knows I’m lying before I even say it.

But I say it anyway.

“Yeah.”

He grins.

And opens the door.

The moment we step inside, chaos erupts.

Smiles. Cheers.

A blur of faces. Laughing. Happy.

And the first person to reach us?

Nico Jr.

My cousin grabs me first, his arms wrapping around me briefly before he pulls back, giving me his usual mischievous smirk.

“Congratulations, cuz.”

Then, softer, with genuine warmth, “You look beautiful.”

I barely get the chance to thank him before he’s already gripping Sammy’s hand, shaking it in that way men do when they silently communicate threats, respect, and warnings all at once.

Then the floodgates open.

The rest of our insane, loud, borderline unhinged family descends.

“AELLA! SAMMY!”

“Finally!”

“Congrats, you two!”

Hands. Hugs. Laughter.

Someone— probably Jade or Cora —squeals loud enough to shatter glass.

And just like that, I know everything’s gonna be okay.

“You want a turn?” Andrea asks, handing me the mic.

“Oh, uh?—”

“Hell yeah.”

Sammy’s voice is firm, sure, leaving no room for argument as he grins and takes my hand, leading us toward the karaoke monitor.

He whispers something to the DJ, and for a moment, I panic.

Because me and sing-alongs with words flashing on a screen?

We don’t mix well.

Old self-doubts start to creep in, and I close my eyes to push them away. Coming to terms with my dyslexia took most of my life.

I’m not that same easily embarrassed teen I used to be. I worked hard to get where I am, and karaoke sure as heck isn’t going to break me.

But I don’t have to worry.

Because Sammy knows me.

Even if this is new, even if this is wild and unexpected, he knows me well enough to keep me steady and pick the right song.

And the second those first few notes hit—the unmistakable opening chords of Warren Zevon’s Werewolves of London —I relax.

Because everyone knows the words to this song.

I smile, glance at Sammy— damn, my husband is hot.

I throw caution to the wind. Then we sing.

And everyone sings with us. When we are done, Coral takes the mic.

We laugh.

We eat.

We drink.

By the time we leave the restaurant, my stomach is full, my head light, and I am giddy with happiness.

And it doesn’t end there.

After dinner, we go to a nightclub.

More drinks.

More laughing.

More dancing.

And Sammy?

He never stops touching me.

Never stops holding my hand.

Not once the entire night.

And it’s— perfect.

At some point, Sammy walks me to the restroom, and a bunch of the girls come with me—because apparently, that’s still a thing, even as married women.

Inside, I barely have time to fix my hair and check my lipstick before the interrogation begins.

“So, Aella, what the heck happened?” Coral asks, arms crossed, her head tilted in pure curiosity.

“What? I mean, uh, we kind of got married,” I say, shrugging as I wash my hands.

“Are his lips firm ?” Coral asks.

“What?” I laugh.

“Does he know how to kiss?” she insists.

“Um, he knows how to do everything ,” I admit and rub my lips together.

“Okay, gross. That is my brother,” Andrea says, and makes gagging noises.

I laugh harder, but then Michaela steps closer, and I feel like I’m being judged. Her smile is warm, but it’s still scrutinizing.

“Sweetie, I am so happy for you. I just hope you’re ready for this,” she says, but and there’s something in her look that I don’t understand.

“Thanks?” I reply, cautiously.

Shelly claps her hands together, practically bouncing on her heels.

“I can’t believe it! I mean, you and Sammy. Wow!”

Jade scoffs, rolling her eyes like everyone should already know how this was inevitable.

“What are you talking about? She’s always crushed on him,” she says flatly, like it’s obvious.

Clementine nods in agreement.

“True. I just didn’t expect it to happen like this. I mean, what are the parents gonna say?” Coral asks, fixing her lip gloss.

“I know Mom and Dad will be happy,” Andrea chimes in, and I appreciate her. I really do.

“Look, I understand how emotions can overwhelm, but Aella, have you thought about how your father is going to react?” Michaela asks.

“Ooh, yeah. I mean, you know I love all your parents, but Angel Fury in an actual fury. That’s gotta be rough,” Shelly replies.

“Well, I think it is terribly romantic. Like Romeo & Juliet—” Leanna starts but is cut off by several moans.

“Don’t say that! They both died,” Andrea reminds us, unnecessarily.

Suddenly, I want to be anywhere else.

Because while I’ve been floating on cloud nine, everyone else has been analyzing my marriage like it’s some kind of science experiment.

And I don’t like it.

Not at all.

But before I can say anything, Coral steps in, rolling her eyes at the others.

“You guys, come on. Leave her be. This is all new.”

And thank God for her.

Because right now, I don’t want to answer questions.

I just want to get back to my husband. Away from all the noise.

I exit the bathroom first and almost bump right into him.

Sammy.

Standing there like he was waiting for me, like he knew I’d need him the second I walked out.

“Where you going so fast, Pixie?” he murmurs, his rough, familiar voice grounding me instantly.

I don’t answer.

I don’t think.

I just throw my arms around his neck, pressing myself flush against him, seeking him, needing him in a way that should probably terrify me—but doesn’t.

Sammy doesn’t question it.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong or why I’m clinging to him like a lifeline.

Nope.

He just wraps me up in his embrace, powerful arms caging me in, shielding me, protecting me.

And suddenly, just like that—I am safe again.

I am grounded.

His fingers stroke the small of my back, a slow, lazy movement that tells me he’s in no rush to let go.

After a few moments, he leans back just enough to meet my gaze, searching me.

“Wanna dance some more?”

I shake my head.

“No.”

His brows lift slightly. “Then what do you wanna do, Pixie?”

I take a breath, release it slowly.

“I wanna go home.”

His expression shifts, sharp and focused.

“Back to the room?”

“Yes, for now, but I want to leave Vegas. I’m ready to go back.”

“A day early?”

I nod.

His fingers tighten slightly on my waist, but not in protest. Just in acknowledgment.

“Are you sure? What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “The girls made some remarks, and they made me feel anxious.”

Sammy’s jaw tics.

I place my hand over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath my palm.

“It’s just that I know we’ve got music to face back home, and I want to meet it head-on,” I tell him, watching for his reaction.

He studies me for a second, then nods.

“Okay. Want to leave tonight or in the morning?”

Just like that, he agrees.

No protests.

No convincing me to stay.

Just pure, unshakable support.

My chest tightens.

“Morning is fine,” I say. Then— unable to help myself —I smirk up at my sexy-as-sin husband.

“I have other plans for tonight.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes.

Something dangerous.

Then he’s moving us toward the exit, his hand firm on my lower back, his body shielding mine from the crowd as we weave through the club.

I don’t even care that we didn’t say goodbye.

Because Sammy is guiding me to the limo, and it’s like all his focus, all his energy, all his concentration is for me and me alone.

Nothing else matters.

Not the club.

Not the people.

Not the questions waiting for us back home.

Just me and him.

Just us.

Someone carelessly steps into our path, a large man, loud and oblivious.

Sammy growls.

A low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest, and before I even register what’s happening, he pivots his body, moving me to the other side so I don’t so much as brush against the stranger.

“Hey, watch it,” the guy grumbles.

Sammy doesn’t bother responding.

Doesn’t acknowledge him.

Just glares, all quiet, controlled menace, and that’s all it takes.

The guy shuts up.

Moves out of the way.

And Sammy? He just guides me forward, steady and sure, like nothing ever could stand between us.

God, I hope he’s right.