Page 142 of Dirty Game

Wife.

Korrin stands behind me, clearing his throat before putting his hand on my shoulder. Cyrus is with Rosalynn.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

He glances at the sky. “Rain’s holding off. Good omen.”

“Don’t believe in omens,” I say.

He smiles, the rare one that reaches his eyes. “You’re about to get married. You better start believing in something.”

The guests file in, taking their seats. Friends. Trusted allies. My closest circle.

The music starts, low and slow, some old Italian thing picked by the event planner.

The doors to the north wing open, and Rosalynn steps out, arm hooked through Cyrus’.

I asked my brother to give her away so she wouldn’t feel so alone. He accepted, said something like how her family didn’t deserve the honor.

She walks slow, every step careful, her eyes never leaving mine.

A deep burgundy dress that shows off her curves, her skin, as imperfect as it is.

Beautiful. Perfect.

Mine.

I see the scars, the bruises that haven’t quite faded. She is radiant despite them all.

Perhaps even because of them.

Living art that shows what she’s endured and what she’s become.

My Queen.

At the front, Cyrus hands her off to me, but not before whispering in her ear, “You’re one of us now.” She blinks hard, but doesn’t cry.

The priest looks to me, then to Rosalynn, and says, “You may now repeat after me.”

She’s trembling

I give her my hand in case she needs something solid.

She takes it, fingers cold and slim but steady enough.

He begins, “I, Varrick, take you, Rosalynn, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To keep secret your secrets, to shelter you from every storm, to be your sword and shield when the world demands tribute. I will not ask you to change. I will only ask you to stay alive with me, and to fight for each other in all things, from this hour until the last hour.”

I repeat it, word for word. The weight of it surprises me.

He turns to her. “Rosalynn, repeat after me. I, Rosalynn, take you, Varrick, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To trust you when I am afraid, to be your peace when you are at war, to hold your anger and your joy with equal hands. I promise to let you see every part of me, even the broken pieces, even the history I am ashamed of. I will not run from you, or from us. From now until forever, you are my home.”

She repeats it, voice just above a murmur, but it carries. The guests lean in, breathless, as if she’s reciting high poetry instead of just the truth.

When she says “you are my home,” her chin wobbles but she does not break.

The priest nods, satisfied.