Page 48 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

My heart thunders so hard it hurts as I lie pinned to the cold garden floor with Rafael’s heavy weight pressing over me like a human-sized shield. I never thought he’d have to cash in on those marriage vows this fast.

But the soft whistle of that bullet cutting through the air above us was unmistakable, even without the sharp crack of a gunshot. Silencer. Professional grade. My mind catalogs these details automatically while my body still trembles with residual adrenaline.

Rafael lifts himself up and turns me around beneath him, his mouth moving frantically. But I can’t hear a thing over the thundering thump-thump-thump in my ears and the roar in my head.

Then he shakes me, hard enough to snap the fog away, and suddenly the chaos in the garden crashes back into focus—people yelling, footsteps scuffling, the sound of something heavy being dragged.

“ Piccola , answer me. Are you okay? Did I push you down too hard?” His entire focus burns into me, even though behind him I catch glimpses of the wedding guests swarming around someone I can’t quite make out. The shooter, probably.

He’s worried about pushing me too hard when someone just tried to blow my brains out.

Something snaps inside me.

“Are you fucking stupid?” The scream that rips from my throat silences every murmur in the garden and draws every pair of eyes to us.

Do I care? Not even a little. I shove him back, slapping his chest over and over.

“You could have gotten shot! What the hell were you thinking?” My voice fractures on the last word, and suddenly I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe as the full weight of what just happened crashes down on me.

He threw himself on top of me. Without hesitation. Without thinking about his own life.

“Are you okay?” My hands race over his chest, searching for blood, for holes, for any sign that he’s hurt. Nothing. He’s fine. That should be a relief, but instead, a bone-deep chill rolls through me, and I wrap my arms tight around myself as my teeth chatter.

Rafael curses under his breath and shrugs off his jacket. The garden is warm—outdoor heaters hum everywhere—but temperature has nothing to do with why I’m shivering.

This is the second attempt on my life within a week. Someone really wants me gone.

I’m no stranger to near-death situations. I’ve had brushes with death plenty of times over the years as an agent. But this… this blatant, public assassination attempt is new.

My hand slips under my dress, fingers closing around the knife hidden in my thigh holster.

Just as I draw it free, Rafael’s jacket descends over my shoulders, and his scent—more than the warmth of the expensive fabric—is what calms me enough to start thinking rationally.

It’s like being wrapped in his protection, even when he’s not touching me .

As I get to my feet, I feel my crown sitting crooked on my head, but fixing it is the last thing on my mind right now.

My grip on the knife tightens.

The crowd parts for me as I march towards the shooter, my left hand gathering the heavy skirts of my dress, my right brandishing steel. How the fuck did I not notice him? I berate myself as I finally come to a stop in front of him.

Or rather, his corpse.

My lips curl in disgust as I stare down at the prone body with the right side of his brain blown out. “Who shot him?” My calm voice belies my anger, because with him gone, so is any chance of learning who the fuck sent him.

Who the fuck wants me dead badly enough to crash my wedding?

“He shot himself after firing at you,” a familiar voice says. It’s Enzo, the man who’s always with Rafael.

I drop to my knees, not caring about my dress, and start searching the fake waiter’s pockets. There has to be something. A clue. Anything.

“Emilia.” Rafael’s voice, soft but commanding, stops me cold. I glance back at him as he extends his hand down to me. “Our men will take care of that. Come, we have our wedding reception to attend.”

I glance around and notice several phones pointed in our direction, trying to be discreet about recording me crouched over a dead body in my wedding dress with a knife in my hand.

I calmly get to my feet. “This is being recorded,” I murmur to my husband.

He doesn’t say a word, just gives a subtle nod at Enzo, who’s close enough to hear.

Maximo, Michael, and Romero step up to us as we move away from the crowd.

“We’ll deal with this, fratello . Focus on your wedding,” Maximo says, his gaze skimming over me, and I’m a little warmed by the concern in his eyes .

“Any idea who might be trying to get rid of you?” Romero asks, and I shake my head mutely, a little ashamed, because it could be anyone. I haven’t exactly been a saint.

“That’s alright. Go on.” They shoo us away.

Rafael’s men fall into tight formation around us as we head back into the hotel, and his words from earlier replay in my mind. Our men will take care of that.

Our men. Because I’m a Moretti now. A Nightshade. The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me as I glance down at my rings.

The wedding coordinator tries to separate us so I can change into my reception dress, but Rafael isn’t having it. He follows me back to my suite, pacing the length of the huge room like a caged predator while typing furiously on his phone.

I already know heads will roll for this security breach. Our wedding might have been planned quickly, but no expense was spared, especially on security. The main reason we got married was because of the danger surrounding me. And still, someone managed to get in. How?

There has to be an inside man. But who?

Commotion outside the suite draws my attention, and I hear Katie’s voice rising. “I’m the bride’s friend. I demand to be allowed in!”

“No entry, ma’am.”

I start to move away from the stylist who’s trying to fit me into my gold reception dress, but Rafael waves me back as he stalks towards the door himself. He opens it just enough to speak.

“She’s fine.”

He steps back barely enough for Katie to squeeze through, then slams the door shut. Before I can blink, he has her pinned against the door, his hand wrapped around her throat.

“Rafael!” I snap, horrified, rushing towards them.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he growls .

Katie can’t even speak. There’s no way for her to defend herself, being choked mercilessly as she is.

“ Rafael! Stop! ” I grab his arm, ready to tear into him, but then I see his face. His expression is frightening. Even when we were at the height of our enmity, he never looked at me like this—like he’d love to snap my neck and toss my lifeless body to the dogs.

He glances at me, and his expression immediately softens. With a flick of his mercurial gaze, he releases Katie, and she crumbles to the floor, coughing and gasping for air.

I drop beside her, pulling her into my arms, guilt twisting in my gut.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, brushing her hair back as she rubs her throat.

“Tensions are high. He didn’t mean—” I shoot Rafael a glare full of fury.

“What the hell was that? You know Katie!” She was hurt alongside me just days ago, for crying out loud.

“The security here is tighter than a military base. My brothers’ security coordinated with mine to make it impenetrable. There was no way for an intruder to slip in unless there was an insider.” His gaze drops meaningfully to Katie, and I gasp at his insinuation.

He thinks Katie betrayed me.

“How dare you? Just like Maximo, Romero, and Michael are brothers to you, Katie is a sister to me. She would never— never —do anything to hurt me. How dare you accuse her, Rafael?” Rage shakes through me because really, how fucking dare he?

I get that tensions are running high and he needs someone to blame, but Katie? My Katie?

I blink back angry tears as I point a shaky finger at the door. “Get. Out.”

“Em, it’s fine. I’m not offended. He’s protecting you. He’s–”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rafael’s growl makes Katie flinch, and he takes a threatening step towards her again.

The absolute audacity of this man .

“Rafael!” I cry out, standing between them.

He shoots me a flinty look. “You really should be more careful who you trust and let close to you,” he says cryptically, then marches out of the suite, all self-righteous fury. “What the hell is wrong with him?” I mutter as the door slams behind him.

“He’s… protective. I’m glad, honestly.” She tries to smile, but she’s still struggling to catch her breath properly. “Are you okay? I tried to get to you in the garden, but security wouldn’t let me close, and I didn’t want to cause a scene there.”

“I’m fine.” I pat her hand gently. “Pissed that fucker offed himself before I could get answers, but fine.”

“Mrs. Moretti, please.” The stylist’s exasperated voice reminds me I’m only half-dressed, and I sigh, giving her my back so she can finish her work.

“Are you really still going through with the reception?” Katie asks as the stylist works. “You don’t have to. The wedding is over. You should go home where you’ll be safe from any more attempts.”

I catch her eyes in the mirror. “No, we are going through with it. I refuse to run scared for my life. That’s probably exactly what this enemy wants.” Now that I think about it, I don’t think the fucker sending these people to me actually wants me dead.

First at the mall parking lot, and now this. If they were able to get a man into the wedding ceremony, they could have hired a professional who wouldn’t have been caught until after the job was done.

The reason neither Rafael nor I have holes in us is because of the angle of the gun. It was aimed slightly upwards. That’s why we weren’t hit with shrapnel either.

No, this enemy doesn’t want me dead—not yet, at least—they want me scared, paranoid, looking over my shoulder, make me doubt everyone around me .

Well, fuck that. I refuse to give them what they want.

My head is held high as I walk into the reception side by side with Rafael, our fingers linked.

“We’ll be fine,” Rafael murmurs to me.

“I know,” I reply tersely, still a little mad at him.

The guests rise as one when they see us, and slowly a thunderous applause fills the air. I scan their faces, trying to read the mood. Are they clapping because they’re genuinely happy, or because they’re afraid not to? Or maybe because we’re here despite someone trying to kill us?

Probably a little of all three.

I resist the urge to give them a queenly wave as the wedding coordinator rushes up to us and leads us onto the stage where our massive cake is waiting.

Dinner is supposed to be served before the cake cutting, but she seems to be speeding things up because the waiters start streaming in with the food as she directs us to stand in front of the cake. I try not to blatantly side-eye any of the waiters as I wrap my fingers around the cake knife.

We cut through the red velvet to cheers from the crowd, and I turn to Rafael, lifting a small slice to his lips. His eyes twinkle as he accepts the bite, then lifts his own slice to my mouth.

I’m still chewing when he leans down to press a brief but heart-stopping kiss to my lips. “You had a little something,” he murmurs thickly, rubbing his thumb across the corner of my mouth.

Liar. You just wanted to kiss me.

Then it’s time for the first dance. Rafael walks me towards the dance floor with a firm hand on my lower back.

“Do you even know how to dance?” I ask, because honestly, I’m picturing him stomping around .

He doesn’t dignify my question with a response.

Just spins me to face him and steps into my personal space, his presence overwhelming every one of my senses.

He clasps my right hand in his, and suddenly we’re so close his knees dig between my legs, my breasts press into his chest, and I can feel his warmth seep right through my dress.

Oh. He definitely knows how to dance.

The room seems to hold its breath as silence falls, broken only by the haunting violin strings.

I tilt my head up, my heart stuttering when I find him already watching me. His gaze is liquid fire, burning with a hunger and possessiveness that makes my toes curl in my shoes.

Holy hell. He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. Right here. In front of everyone.

His hand moves sensually down my back, dropping dangerously low until the tips of his pinky and ring fingers graze the top of my ass. Electricity lances through me, the touch going straight to my head, and I can do nothing but melt against him.

“Any more questions about my prowess on the dance floor?” he leans down to murmur in my ear, his warm breath grazing the shell and sending shivers cascading down my spine.

I can only stare at him speechlessly, my brain having short-circuited somewhere around the time his fingers started their journey south.

His smirk widens, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to my cheek, not missing a single step. The hand holding mine tightens, his thumb caressing my inner wrist. “Remember the favor you owe me?”

Oh, shit.

My brain scrambles to catch up, and when it does, worry wars with desire in my belly. His boon . “What about it?”

“I thought about it, and I’ve decided what I want. I want it tonight. ”

“And what exactly did you decide?”

The music stops, but for a few breathless seconds, he keeps moving me across the dance floor. “You’ll find out, later.” He winks, then finally steps back, leaving me reeling.

My heart pounds as my mind races, trying to figure out what he could possibly want.

A sexual favor? We signed the marriage certificate last night along with a separate marital contract stating this would be a real marriage in every sense of the word, meaning sex is already on the table. So it can’t be that, can it?

The rest of the reception passes in a blur, my thoughts consumed by what favor he might demand. And as we step into the elevator together to go up to the honeymoon suite, my heart pounding in my throat, I realize that’s exactly what he intended by telling me about it on the dance floor.

He wanted me distracted. Thinking about it. Getting worked up.

Asshole.