Page 13 of Pregnant Behind the Veil (Brides for Greek Brothers #3)

Michail

In less than ten minutes, I’ll be a married man. I never saw myself as a husband. But I never saw myself as a father, either. One role is tied to the other.

I glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye. When Alessandra invited Mom into her room, I was suspicious. It didn’t make sense that the woman who had been nervous at the thought of having my mother witness our vows was suddenly inviting her in for a private chat right before the ceremony.

But when my mother had come down the stairs, glowing and happy, I’d been forced to admit I had made an error in judgment. Again.

I pull one of my cuffs down over my wrist with a hard enough yank it’s a miracle I don’t tear the fabric. I don’t want to trust Alessandra. Yet every time I’ve assumed the worst, she’s proved me wrong.

Am I looking for reasons not to trust her? Trying to keep her at arm’s length even as I fight to keep her and my son in my life? The thought that I’m not giving her a fair chance, that I’m acting in the manner of the same man who made me feel like dirt as a child, makes my chest tight.

I glance over at Rafe and Gavriil, who are talking with my mother.

When Lucifer told me I had two half-brothers, I hated them almost as much as I’d hated him.

Reading up on their successes had deepened that hatred until it became a deep wound that constantly tested my control.

I’d assumed the worst of them, that their fortunes had been made by Lucifer simply passing the reins.

When Gavriil had invited me to his wedding, I’d thrown the invitation in the trash. An hour later I’d dug it out. Morbid curiosity had sent me to California. The sheer luxury of Gavriil’s wedding had confirmed my suspicions.

Until a conversation with Rafe’s wife, Tessa, had taken some of the fight out of me.

Her vague references to what life had been like for Rafael growing up in Lucifer’s household had altered my views.

Gavriil’s reaching out for help a few weeks later, trusting me to assist him with the company he obviously cared about, had forged a tentative bond between us.

A bond deepened a month later when Gavriil roped me into helping Rafe reunite with Tessa.

I’d gone, grudgingly and with numerous protests.

Deep down, though, helping my brothers had started to fill a void I hadn’t even been aware of.

One I had thought fulfilled by my relationship with my mother and my work.

But being a son of Lucifer is a unique club that, as far we know, only the three of us belong to.

We may have known the bastard for varying lengths of time. But he left his mark on all of us.

I hadn’t realized how apprehensive I had been at the thought of Mom meeting Rafe and Gavriil.

I’d noticed her subtle flinch when she’d met Rafe.

But my older brother had put her at ease with a surprisingly warm smile.

Gavriil, of course, had swept her into a hug and complimented everything from her dress to her fortitude and raising “a lumberjack.” A sentiment that had startled a genuine laugh out of my mother and wiped away any possible tension.

My brothers of course know about the will and its ties to my impending marriage.

They also know to keep their mouths shut.

As much as I want my mother here, want her to finally have her moment as the mother of the groom, guilt haunts my every interaction with her.

If she knew that I was getting married to satisfy a clause of Lucifer’s will, one that primarily benefited her, she would demand we stop the whole wedding.

Yet the alternative, her earliest life’s works destroyed, can’t come to pass.

“You look awful gloomy for someone who’s about to get married.”

I smile as Rafe’s wife, Tessa, stops her wheelchair next to me.

“Just thinking.” I nod at the terrace. “Everything looks wonderful.”

Tessa’s smile is infectious as she gazes around at her handiwork.

Cane-backed gold chairs with ivory seats are lined up in a row, separated in the middle to create an aisle.

The inner seats are marked by low vases overflowing with scarlet flowers.

Café lights crisscross above the patio for the small reception we’ll host after.

A simple arch decorated with white gauze and wrapped with vines of vivid red flowers marks the spot where I’ll become a husband.

“Thanks. I didn’t really get to plan much of my own wedding, so this was fun.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

Tessa nods. “My mother took care of a lot of it. I wasn’t nearly as confident as I am now.” She turns her head and I follow her gaze to Rafe, who’s looking at her with such adoration I feel like I’m intruding.

The first time I met my older brother, he reminded me of a block of ice. But now, when his face softens as he gazes at his wife, an uncomfortable sensation flickers through me.

Envy.

I brush it aside. Yes, Rafe and Tessa found happiness, as did Gavriil with his wife, Juliette.

It’s possible for people to be happy in their relationships.

But I know myself, and I know my limits.

Not only do I have zero interest in opening my heart up to a woman, but I’m not capable of trusting her enough for us to have a successful relationship.

The last time I trusted someone carved scars into my heart that will never heal.

I won’t let them. They’re a reminder of what happens when you let down your walls.

When you allow yourself to hope that maybe you’ll finally meet the person you’ve dreamt of for years, the person you imagined as the hero of your story…

until you finally accept he’s not only not coming, but he didn’t care enough to tell you.

The officiant walks up the aisle, thankfully stopping my trip down the memory lane from hell.

“If everyone could take their places, please.”

I stand by the arch draped in gauze and flowers.

My mother sits in the front row, beaming proudly as music filters from speakers hidden around the terrace.

Gavriil sits in the chair next to her, an empty seat next to him as Juliette lingers in the background with her camera in her hands.

I doubt Alessandra will care if we have pictures of the ceremony, but it adds a touch of authenticity to the proceedings. Rafe and Tessa sit on the other side.

“Please rise,” the officiant intones.

My brothers and Mom stand. Tessa angles her wheelchair slightly toward the makeshift aisle. I look up toward the door.

And freeze.

Alessandra stands framed in the doorway, auburn hair flowing over her bare shoulders.

The dress clings to every curve, from the long, see-through sleeves to the lace that hugs her pregnant belly before cascading into a waterfall of some silky material that rustles as she walks.

The bouquet of red roses in her hands matches the vivid scarlet painted on her lips.

My heart thunders against my ribs. Raw need curls through me, an almost feral desire to go to her, take her hands in mine, dare anyone to take away what’s mine.

I manage to stand my ground, but barely, as she moves down the aisle with a seductive grace that has alarm bells clanging even as I devour her with my eyes.

Alessandra glances at my mother and gives her a small smile. My mother nods as she presses a handkerchief to her lips, tears glimmering in her eyes. The sight of that moment, that connection, punches through me. When Alessandra looks back at me, I know.

One year is not going to be enough.

No, it’s not love. But I like Alessandra, respect her. She agreed to let me be a part of the baby’s life because she thought it was the best thing for the baby, even though she wanted nothing to do with me. She will be a great mother to our child.

And I want her so much it’s turning into a physical ache that hurts. More than I ever thought I could have with a woman.

The thought of her leaving, of her and the baby living somewhere else, of another man possibly stepping into my role, has me clenching my fists.

She stops in front of me. Uncertainty passes over her face. I unclench my fingers and reach out. Time slows as she stares down at my hand. My heart thuds once, twice. It’s as if everyone on the terrace is holding their breath.

And then she places her hand in mine. My grip firms and I repeat my action from the night I proposed, bringing her fingers up to my lips. But unlike that night, when I merely grazed my lips over her, today I press a firm kiss on her skin.

“You look beautiful.”

Her eyes widen a fraction. A blush steals over her cheeks. “Thank you.”

The ceremony is quick, our vows simple and straightforward. Yet as I say “I do,” I make my own vow. Before our first anniversary, I will convince Alessandra that a divorce is not in our best interests or the interest of our son.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I arch a brow at Alessandra in silent challenge. She narrows her eyes even as she tilts her face up. I slide my fingers along her jaw, savor the flare of desire in her eyes and her quick inhale before I lower my head and cover her lips with my own.

Lust takes hold as I savor the taste of her. Her lips part beneath mine. I take the kiss deeper for a single moment, a torturous second, but one I don’t regret as she softens against me and leans into my chest.

The press of her stomach jolts through me. I want to touch her, to feel our son growing inside her.

I pull back. Slowly, her eyes open. She stares at me with a glazed look of desire and something else. A dark, fleeting emotion.

Fear. A feeling I know all too well as those scars on my heart start to pulse with warning. Reminders to enjoy what I have without letting myself go too far.

My hands tighten on her hips before I consciously loosen my grasp.

“Are you all right?” I whisper.

She blinks, then slowly nods. The click of a camera cuts through the moment. We both look over to see Juliette in the middle of the aisle with the camera aimed in our direction.

“It is my honor to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Michail Sullivan.” The officiant’s voice booms out over the terrace, boisterous and seemingly ignorant of the drama playing out between us. “Congratulations!”

We turn to face the guests. My mother is smiling through her tears. Tessa’s watching me, her smile dimmer and tinged with curiosity. Rafe claps, while Gavriil puts his fingers to his mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle as Juliette continues to click away.

I twine my fingers through Alessandra’s. Satisfaction spears through me as her hand grasps mine. A small step. But a step nonetheless.

My first battle was convincing Alessandra to let me be a part of the baby’s life. The second was agreeing to the marriage.

Now, as we face my family—our family—I know those battles were just the beginning in what will be a long and challenging war to convince her to keep my ring on her finger.

A war I will not lose.