Page 29 of Omega's Faith

Hundreds of guests rise as we enter. I scan the crowd, tryingto process the sheer scope of the circus.

My side—and how depressing that I think of it as "my side"—fills three-quarters of the ballroom. I see board members and their wives, dressed in their finest armor, CEOs and politicians, here because Diana called in favors and finally celebrities who showed up for the photo ops and free champagne.

Wait. Who the hell invited her?

Saskia Scarmetto is sitting in the third row, looking like a golden goddess in something that probably took a team of designers six months to create. Her Oscar win last month has given her that extra glow of success. She catches my eye and smiles.Thanks Diana. Saskia’s presence will definitely guarantee a few extra column inches.

I don’t miss Saskia. She was fun but she was also nuts and for the love of Pete, I’d never have invited her to my wedding if it were my choice.

But then I’d have thought I’d get to choose the groom at my wedding too.

Jonah's side looks like a different species entirely. There are maybe fifty people, all in their Sunday best, clutching programs and looking overwhelmed.

The contrast is brutal. I take my position at the altar, Bradley flanking me. That's when I notice Pastor White.

The man looks like death warmed over.

"Pastor," I nod, attempting diplomacy.

"Mr. Colborne. I pray this union might lead you toward salvation."

Subtle. Real subtle. I paste on my most charming smile. "I appreciate the prayers."

He doesn't look convinced. Diana slides into the front row, her presence commanding immediate attention from the photographers. Flash bulbs start popping like tiny supernovas, and I realize the show has officially begun.

The music swells. I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

This is happening. This is actually happening.

Then Jonah appears at the far end of the aisle, and every coherent thought evacuates my skull.

Holy fuck.

He's devastating in traditional white, the fabric cut to perfection against his lean frame. The jacket emphasizes those shoulders I've been trying not to think about, while the pants... hell, the pants should be illegal in several states.

But it's his face that stops my heart. All sharp angles and classical beauty, like someone carved him from marble and breathed life into the stone. Dark hair swept back, revealing the elegant line of his neck. Those whiskey-brown eyes focused straight ahead, not looking at me.

Yet.

He walks down the aisle with careful steps, his father on one side, his mother on the other. His father looks proud and nervous, while his mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. In front of him, a small girl in a pink chiffon dress scatters rose petals with the serious concentration only a kid can muster.

The crowd cranes their necks, photographers jockeying for the perfect shot. I hear whispered comments floating from my side of the aisle:

"He's younger than I expected."

"Quite handsome, in a provincial way."

"Do you think he's actually a virgin?"

The last comment makes my hands clench into fists. Something hot and possessive roars to life in my chest.

Get it together, I tell myself.You barely know him.

But then his scent reaches me so pure and sweet it makes my teeth ache. My alpha instincts rear up like a beast, demanding Igo to him, surround him, mark him as mine.

Instead, I stand frozen like an idiot, watching him approach.

He's twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.