Page 47 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

I stand under the little floral arch in the back garden of my top hotel in the city, Black Diamond, my brothers by my side and my subjects before me as I wait for the woman who’s about to become my wife.

Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years I’ve been waiting for this moment, and I have not a single doubt in my head that I’m making the right decision.

A slow string quartet starts playing, drawing my attention to the hotel’s back doors that exit into the garden.

Katie walks out first, and Christ, if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under right now.

Her face is twisted in pure disdain, like she’d rather be getting a root canal than watching her best friend marry me.

Couldn’t talk her out of it, could you?

As she comes to a stop across the arch from me, the quartet shifts into the traditional bridal march. My pulse kicks into overdrive as I fix my gaze on those doors, every nerve ending crackling with anticipation.

This is it. Fifteen years of obsession, fifteen years of wanting, fifteen years of patient hunting—and finally, finally , she’s about to be legally, irrevocably mine .

The doors open again.

And there she is.

Her beautiful honeyed hair is swept up in an intricate masterpiece, secured with the diamond pins I specifically demanded her stylist use.

Two perfectly curled strands fall to either side, softening her features and drawing the eye to her pretty face.

The gossamer silk veil is held firmly in place by her crown, which glimmers in the evening sun.

The light dances across the jewels, casting a soft halo that makes her look almost ethereal.

Untouchable. But she’s not—she’s mine. Every glittering thread of that crown, every shimmer of that veil, tells the world exactly who she belongs to.

Look at her. Look at my queen.

Let it blind every bastard watching until they get it drilled deep into their skull that she’s my queen.

My eyes travel down to her dress, and fuck me, she chose perfectly.

It’s slightly off-shoulder and looks as if it was crafted from the most delicate material.

The bodice clings to her body, the neckline plunging a little but managing to show not a single hint of cleavage.

Still, my mouth waters as I follow the line of the dress flowing gracefully out and cascading into an enchanting train behind her.

She’s absolutely stunning.

And then she stops walking.

My hands automatically slip into my pockets as my heart starts hammering against my ribs. She’s frozen just a few steps from the exit, clutching that bouquet of pink roses like a lifeline, her face tight, looking so goddamn forlorn.

No. No, don’t you dare run from me now.

My chest constricts, everything inside me swelling with the need to go to her.

I take a small step forward, catching her eyes across the distance.

Come to me, beautiful. Trust me. I give her what I hope is an encouraging nod, and I swear I see some of that tension leave her shoulders.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I want to believe my presence alone can calm the storm inside her.

But then Romero’s hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing once before he abandons his post beside me and makes his way down the aisle towards my bride.

Whatever he says to her makes her smile, and when he offers his arm, she takes it.

The sight of her face lighting up makes a warm, possessive pride spread through my veins.

She must be drowning in emotions right now.

If Stacey wasn’t such a vindictive bitch, determined to make me her personal enemy, I might have invited her today.

She could have walked Emilia down the aisle, given her that family connection she’s missing.

Perhaps that would have made Emilia feel less alone.

But Stacey made her choice, and now my brother is stepping up to fill that void.

Thank God for Romero and his instincts.

“Fucker,” Michael grumbles, and then he’s moving too, joining Romero and offering Emilia his own arm. This time, she actually laughs as she slips her free hand into the crook of his elbow.

Maximo sighs heavily, his face carefully blank as he makes his way towards the little group as well. Since both her arms are occupied, he positions himself behind her like a bodyguard.

The entire garden seems to hold its breath as the four of them begin their slow procession towards me.

This is perfect. Better than perfect. My brothers are sending a strong message to every person watching: she has their approval, their protection, their loyalty. She’s one of us now.

My lips curve into something that probably looks more predatory than pleased, but I don’t give a shit. The satisfaction that spreads through me is almost overwhelming.

When they reach me, I keep my focus locked on Emilia’s face. She looks better now, more centered. Less like she’s about to bolt .

Romero places her right hand in mine while Michael transfers her left. The warmth of her skin seeps through my palms as my brothers resume their positions beside me.

“Hello, wife.”

“Technically, I’m not your wife yet.” Her response is soft but carries a hint of that sass I love so much, and I have to suppress a grin.

Amusing . I squeeze her hands in mine, then turn her towards the makeshift altar, and together we walk up to the officiator, who adjusts his glasses nervously as we stop in front of him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice booms through the mic clipped to his collar, “we’re gathered here today to join Rafael Moretti and Emilia Rossi together in holy matrimony.

Before we proceed, permit me to remind you of the solemn and binding nature of the relationship you’re about to enter. Marriage is a sacred covenant?—”

The man drones on and on for what feels like hours about the sanctity of marriage, the bonds of love, the commitment of souls. But I let him. I want all the bells and whistles, every traditional element, because I’m only doing this once. Only claiming my queen once.

Now that I have Emilia, I’m never letting her go.

I keep my gaze locked on her throughout the entire sermon, watching pink splotches bloom across her cheeks and down her throat. She doesn’t look away—she’s gotten really fucking good at holding my stare. I wonder if it still bothers her the way it used to.

Finally, the officiator finishes his little sanctimonious lecture and turns to face us. “Are you both here willingly and without coercion?”

“Yes.” Our voices blend together, and I feel that familiar jolt of rightness when we’re in sync.

“Wonderful. Now, groom, if you’ll repeat after me?— ”

“Actually, I have my own vows.”

His face lights up like I’ve just made his day. “Of course! Please, proceed.”

I turn to face my wife fully, rubbing my thumbs across the backs of her hands as I speak the words I’ve been carrying all these years.

“Emilia, I promise to protect and cherish you. I’ll be your shield and defender. Always. I promise to honor and sustain you in sickness and in health. I’ll be true to you until death alone separates us.”

Brief, concise, but every word is carved from my soul.

Her lips tremble a little as she smiles, but when she speaks, her voice carries a strength that makes my chest swell with pride.

“I, Emilia, promise to protect and shield you, Rafael. I promise to stick with you through thick and thin and never to betray the sanctity of the bond we create today. You own my loyalty, and I promise to be true to you as well.”

You own my loyalty.

Not just love, not just fidelity— loyalty .

Christ, I love this woman.

Our vows are short, but they’re true to us. True to our situation.

“Who has the rings?” The officiator glances at my brothers, and Maximo steps forward with the ring box already extended towards him. The man gives me Emilia’s ring first.

My breath catches as I slide the diamond-studded band onto her finger, settling it snugly against her engagement ring. “With this ring, I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife. I take you to be none other than yourself.”

Her brown eyes go luminous, and I realize she’s fighting back tears. This moment is everything—fifteen years culminating in this single exchange of metal and promises.

She takes the plain black titanium band from the officiator, her voice incredibly soft as she slides it onto my ring finger. “ With this ring, I take you to be my lawfully wedded husband, to trust and protect your interests above all others.”

I tilt my head, studying her face. Does she really mean that?

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Finally.

Barely concealed glee floods through me as I push the veil away from her face. I lean in, noting the flutter of her lashes, the way she tilts her head back and lifts her lips towards mine in offering.

I mean to give her a light kiss—we’re in public, after all, and I can’t exactly act on the burning need that’s been building for hours. But the second my lips touch hers, control becomes a foreign concept.

I slant my head, probing her lips with my tongue until they part for me.

When I sweep inside, the familiar sweetness of her taste floods my senses, and I groan, deepening the kiss without thought.

My palm spans the width of her waist, and I lift my other hand to cradle her head, my fingers tangling in her veil—and that’s what finally snaps me back to reality.

I tear my mouth from hers, and when I pull back, her eyes flutter open. Her chest is heaving, her face flushed with heat. I want more. Right the fuck now. I want everything. Need claws at my throat like a living thing.

Fuck . I resist the urge to tug on my tie as I step back. My hand slips into hers, and together we turn to face our audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Moretti.” This time, it’s Romero who makes the announcement, and the crowd erupts in thunderous applause. They wouldn’t dare do anything else.

After that, it’s time for the official photographs, and for a moment I regret hiring the bastard.

But when he says, “Mrs. Moretti, stand a little closer to your husband, please. Perfect. Now place your hand on his chest. No, your left hand—yes, show off those rings,” I make a mental note to tip him generously.

Emilia steps closer, her soft hand pressing against my pectoral, and I swear I can feel the heat of her palm through my shirt, straight to my skin. My pants tighten uncomfortably, and I subtly shift my stance. No need to give the guests an X-rated show.

We endure what feels like a gazillion photos before the wedding coordinator finally intervenes, gently ushering the photographer away and whisking my wife off to change into her reception outfit.

I watch her leave, jaw tight with the effort of letting her go.

My body still hums from the kiss, the photos, the vow— everything .

“Fuck,” Michael mutters beside me, grinning. “I can’t believe you and Emilia are really married now after all these years and?—”

His words fizzle out as something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. A movement to the left, wrong and out of place. A waiter turning his tray upside down.

A waiter?

That’s the only red flag I need. Waiters are for the reception only—they have no business at the wedding ceremony.

I’m moving before I can even process the thought, trying not to attract attention as I jog towards Emilia. But the eyes of everyone still in the garden follow me anyway.

Thankfully, the waiter is so busy with whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t notice my approach. He places the tray over his right hand, but not before I see him pull something from his pocket.

A pistol. And it’s pointed right at my wife.

Fuck.

I break into a full sprint, not giving a shit about discretion now.

Almost there. Almost ? —

My breath comes in harsh pants as I launch forward, my arms wrapping around Emilia as I tackle her to the ground—just as the soft pfft of a silenced bullet whistles through the air right where her head had been a split second before.

Too fucking close .