Page 21

“ A re we late?”

Andres Ramirez unfolds himself from the driver’s seat of his sleek, silver and black Mercedes-Maybach, his tone casual as he surveys the situation. But his eyes are anything but as he takes in the bruise blooming across Sammy’s cheek.

It’s a beautiful car, obnoxiously powerful and ridiculously expensive, and for a second, I get lost in watching the sunlight as it glitters across the hood like something out of a story.

Fairy dust or some such thing.

Sammy says nothing as his father rounds the car and opens the door for his mother, Ellie, with the kind of gentle reverence that makes my stomach flutter.

I know Andres is technically Ellie’s second husband and Sammy’s stepfather, but you would never know it watching them. The three of them are as close and solid as they are with Sammy’s sisters.

He has four. Andrea, Elena, Merida, and Julia. Only Andrea came to Vegas on this trip. But I know them all, of course.

“Fuck,” my dad mutters, jarring me from my wayward thoughts.

And just like that, I am here in the moment.

Mom elbows him sharply in the side, making him grunt.

“That’s what you get,” she says, giving him a pointed look before catching my eye and winking at me.

I barely have time to react before, “Sammy!”

Ellie practically shrieks his name, closing the distance between them faster than I thought possible in those designer heels.

Sammy barely has a chance to brace himself before his mother crashes into him, throwing her arms around his broad chest.

He lets out a soft grunt, arms instinctively coming up to hold her, his voice sheepish, small in the way only a grown man can sound when his mother is fawning over him.

“Hi, Mom.”

He’s a good son. Bending down so she can kiss his cheek on one side and slap him on the other.

“How could you keep this from me,” she says sharply, but the smile and tears that follow tell me she isn’t angry. Not really. And that is a relief.

She turns to me.

“Aella!”

Suddenly, I am yanked into the same embrace, my face squished against Sammy’s back, inhaling his clean, woodsy scent as Ellie smothers both of us in motherly affection.

“I am so happy you two have finally come together. I just wish I was there!”

She’s crying.

Oh God. She’s actually crying.

Somewhere in the hurricane of emotions, my own mother has joined in the chaos, hugging, sniffling, speaking in half-sentences as they congratulate us and each other like they’re the ones who just got married.

Meanwhile—the men?

They are definitely not hugging.

No, they’re standing a few feet away, engaged in some silent testosterone-filled standoff, eyes locked, bodies tense, like they’re about to throw down right here on the tarmac.

For fuck’s sake.

“Oh my God, will you two stop staring at each other and congratulate this beautiful couple already?!” my mother yells, her patience clearly evaporating.

She reaches behind my father, and I am pretty damn sure she pinches his ass.

Which is also something I never, ever, ever want to see.

Like ever.

“Ouch! Dammit, Koukla,” my dad mutters, his gruff tone betrayed by the way his eyes go soft when they land on her.

And just like I’ve witnessed my entire life, his entire expression changes.

Like he’s completely fucking gone for her.

Andres finally breaks his glare, stepping closer to Sammy, ignoring the still-awkward tension between him and my dad as he looks his son over.

“You okay?”

Sammy nods, but wince-smirks when his dad grabs his chin, tilting his face, examining the damage like a seasoned doctor inspecting a wound.

“You couldn’t duck?” Andres asks, raising a brow.

Sammy grumbles, shifting uncomfortably.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

He sounds chagrined, and I can’t help but stare at the ruddy flush creeping up his cheeks, the way he looks genuinely embarrassed that my dad got the better of him.

He shouldn’t be.

My father is still a powerful man. Fit. Tough as nails.

“Okay, I need an explanation,” Mom interrupts, her arms crossing over her chest.

I feel my stomach drop.

Shit.

“What do you mean?” I try playing dumb.

Mom narrows her eyes.

“How did this happen? When did you two decide to get married?” Ellie adds, eyes twinkling, far too amused.

“Oh! Uh,” I hedge.

My face burns.

Because everyone is looking at me now.

Staring.

Waiting.

And I swear, I feel like I’m stuck in that dream.

You know the one.

Where you go outside and do all the normal things— walking, talking, living life —only to suddenly realize halfway through that you forgot to put on pants.

Yeah.

That dream.

I clear my throat, stalling for time, brain scrambling for a lie that won’t immediately fall apart.

Because what am I supposed to say?

That Sammy practically dragged me to a chapel so he could punch my V card?

That he was so hellbent on making me his wife before taking me to bed, he got us legally fucking bound?

That we spent all night christening our marriage in ways that are probably illegal in several states?

No.

Definitely no.

So instead, I do the only thing that makes sense.

I laugh awkwardly.

And pray to God Sammy figures out how to answer before I die of secondhand embarrassment.

“Talk can wait, Lupina,” Andres says to his wife.

His tone is calm but firm, as if he can already feel the mounting tension thickening the air.

“How about we let these two get settled and have them over for dinner tomorrow night?”

He looks at my parents now, expression unreadable.

“Angel, Sisi, you too, of course.”

“Oh! That sounds great!” Mom exclaims, already delighting in the idea.

Ellie squeals.

She is so happy and excited, she actually squeals, and I grin. I can’t help it. Sammy’s mom is awesome.

But I still feel nervous.

Both moms are grinning and laughing like this is some big romantic fairytale and not a complicated, overwhelming, potentially very short-lived marriage that I am actively trying to figure out.

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

I don’t know what Sammy wants.

I don’t know how long he intends to stay married to me.

I don’t know if this is temporary or forever.

And meanwhile?

My mother and his mother are already planning parties.

Receptions.

Future celebrations.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m dying over here.

Drowning.

Because if this is just a moment, a fleeting thing that will end as quickly as it began, I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive it.

My father crosses his arms, his stance shifting into something even heavier, even more immovable.

“No way.”

His voice is gruff, and immediately, the atmosphere changes.

I tense.

Sammy’s fingers twitch against my waist.

“I’m not leaving Aella until I know she’s okay with all this,” Dad grunts, his gaze cutting toward Andres and Sammy before settling on me again.

I stiffen.

He says it like there’s actually something to not be okay with.

Like I’m some helpless little girl who got lured into a bad decision she can’t take back.

“If she’s okay with what?” Andres asks, his voice slow, even, but edged with curiosity.

Angel jerks his head toward Sammy.

“With going home with him .”

And there it is.

That final challenge.

That last line drawn in the sand.

I don’t get the chance to react before Sammy’s entire frame tightens, his posture straightening, solidifying.

His jaw locks.

His eyes darken.

And just like that—he’s not just Sammy, the man who kissed me stupid in a Vegas chapel.

He’s Sammy Ramirez, a son of Wolves, a soldier trained for war, a man who doesn’t take kindly to someone questioning his claim.

“Aella is my wife, Mr. Fury.”

His voice is low, edged with a dangerous finality.

“She goes home with me. And only me.”

My father growls menacingly. Thunder booms in the sky and lightning flashes. It’s going to rain any second now.

But none of that matters.

Sammy’s entire body goes taut like he’s waiting for the attack my father is so loudly threatening with his own posture.

My stomach drops.

Tension snaps through the air like a live wire.

Dad takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing.

“How do I know you didn’t coerce her?”

The accusation is terrible. And I am insulted for many reasons.

It shouldn’t bother me, shouldn’t dig into my skin like barbed wire.

But it does.

Because Dad doesn’t trust Sammy with me.

Doesn’t trust that I made this choice myself.

And that hurts.

More so, I’m angry at what he insinuates about my husband. Sammy doesn’t deserve that.

Everyone gasps.

“Dad!”

I step forward, my voice sharper than I intend, my pulse pounding painfully in my throat.

“How dare you say that about him! No one coerced me!”

My heart is racing, the sheer weight of everyone watching, waiting, judging pressing down on me.

I step closer to Sammy, pressing my palm against his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath my hand.

“Sammy is the best person I know. He is honorable and honest. And I won’t let you talk about him that way,” I say.

“It’s alright, Pixie,” Sammy tries to calm me.

His arm tightens around my waist instinctively, as if to shield me from my father’s doubt.

“It’s not alright,” I tell him before turning to my father.

“Sammy is my husband, and I’m going home with him. Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez, thank you for the invitation, I hope it’s still open,” I say, my voice sure, unwavering.

“Of course,” Sammy’s father says, offering a slight bow.

My parents are having a heated, whispered conversation, and I know the second my mom wins because my father’s face is purple.

Whatever.

I don’t care what my father thinks.

I don’t care about his reservations, his old-school sense of control, his need to always be the protector.

I made my choice.

And I’m standing by it.

For however long this thing with Sammy lasts.

Even if it’s only for right now.

“Okay then,” Ellie interrupts, her voice smooth and firm, the kind that brooks no argument.

“The sky’s about to open up. Let’s leave this till tomorrow. 7 o’clock?”

I nod.

She smiles warmly, gives my hands a gentle squeeze, and then turns to kiss Sammy’s cheek.

Like everything is normal.

Like my father didn’t just try to knock my husband’s head clean off his shoulders.

Like I’m not standing here, still reeling from the entire fucking day.

“Come on, Pixie,” Sammy murmurs, his voice steady, grounding, as he takes my hand.

The simple touch sends warmth spreading up my arm, settling low in my stomach, like somewhere, deep down, I already belong to him.

I barely register the goodbyes, the murmured see-you-tomorrows, before he leads me to a black luxury SUV waiting just past the curb.

It’s sleek, tinted, powerful— just like him.

Sammy opens the passenger door, his big hands settling on my waist as he lifts me into the seat with ease, like I weigh nothing.

It’s not until he hands me a paper towel that I realize it’s raining.

Soft, steady droplets streak across the windshield. They already caught in my hair, dampening it and my skin.

I blink down at the paper towel in my hands, then back up at him.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything else in the back,” he mutters, climbing into the driver’s seat, his fingers running through his damp hair as he exhales.

“This is fine,” I whisper, my head still spinning, my body still thrumming from everything that just happened.

Sammy starts the engine, turning the heat on low, his gaze flicking to me, careful, assessing.

“Look, Aella, I’m sorry about all that.”

I stare at him, frowning.

“You’re sorry?” I scoff, disbelief thick in my voice. “What for? That was my father acting like a Neanderthal.”

Sammy shakes his head, lips quirking slightly, his hands flexing over the steering wheel.

“Nah. He’s just looking out for you. Protecting you. I can’t blame him for that.”

My mouth opens, then shuts.

Because, seriously?

I lean back, crossing my arms, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Sammy, are you really this good?”

He frowns, genuinely confused.

“What?”

“I mean, my dad punches you in the face, accuses you of coercing me into marrying you, and you’re sitting here apologizing?”

I shake my head, huffing a humorless laugh.

“Seriously. I’m not worth all this trouble.”

The second the words leave my mouth, Sammy goes still.

Not just physically still, but predatory still.

Like I’ve said something I shouldn’t have, like I’ve crossed some invisible line I didn’t even know existed.

His hand moves quickly, firm and decisive, fingers tilting my chin up, forcing me to face him.

His hazel eyes burn into me, dark and wild and full of something so intense it makes my breath catch.

“What did I tell you about talking bad about my wife?” he growls.

His voice is low, rough, full of unshakable conviction.

And fuck me if that doesn’t do something dangerous to my insides.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering as he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath against my lips.

His fingers tighten just slightly, his grip possessive, claiming, absolute.

“For the record, I’d let your father punch me in the face every day for the rest of my life, if it means I get to keep you.”

Holy. Fuck.

Did he just say that?

Does he mean it?

God, I hope so.

Because whatever stupid crush I had on him before we got married?

It’s nothing compared to what I feel right now.

He doesn’t give me time to respond, to process, to do anything but want him more because the next second, he’s kissing me.

And oh my.

It’s one of those panty-melting, spine-tingling, ruin-me-completely kisses that leaves me breathless.

Then he slows it down, shifting the rhythm, deepening it, dragging me under so completely I don’t think I’ll ever surface again.

But Sammy has more control than I do. He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine, his breath still uneven, his voice rough with need.

“Let’s go home.”

I nod before I can even think.

“Okay,” I whisper, not daring to break the spell.

I pause—and it’s a moment of quiet realization.

“Um, where is home?”

Sammy grins, something dark and pleased flickering behind his eyes.

“You’ll see, Pixie.”

I lick my lips and nod because I know from this moment on my life will never be the same.