Page 143 of Dirty Game

We skip the rings, at first.

Instead, I pull a small blade from my pocket, thumb the edge, and hold it out to her.

She knows what to do.

She takes the knife, draws it across her palm, shallow but enough to bleed.

I do the same.

We press our hands together, blood mixing, our souls binding in eternity. The priest doesn’t react, but I see a few of the guests shift in their seats, unsure if this is tradition or insanity.

“Blood of my blood,” I say.

She smiles, “Heart of my heart.”

“Son.”

Dante steps forward, his face beaming as he looks between us, doing such a perfect job holding out the pillow.

Rosalynn leans down and kisses the top of his head.

I slip the ring on her finger, the metal sticky with blood as it slides down.

She does the same. Our hands shake, but we don’t let go.

The priest declares us husband and wife, but I don’t hear it.

I’m watching Rosalynn, watching the way her shoulders drop, the way her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.

I lean in, kiss her—hard, no performance, just the raw need to mark her as mine.

She kisses me back, and for a moment, the world stops.

***