Page 48 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

The girl in the mirror smiled back at me.

When our car pulled up to the wedding venue, I couldn’t help but gasp at the grand estate Nikolai had chosen for the wedding. It was made of gorgeous roughhewn stone and tinted glass and it was three stories tall.

The bridal suite was on the top floor. It had pale marble floors and light blue walls with gold leaf crown molding.

A sitting area with soft cream-colored furniture and velvet cushions.

Long mirrors leaned against one wall, and a small white chaise had been placed at the center, draped with a robe and a note in Nikolai’s handwriting: Soon.

I stood in the center of the room in nothing but the lingerie Amy and Riley had picked out for me with the kind of gleeful mischief that warmed my heart.

The lingerie was sheer white lace, delicate but highly structured.

The bodice was boned, hugging my waist in all the right ways, and the high-cut panties barely covered anything at all.

The robe I slipped into was silk, ivory, long, and weightless.

I ran my hands down the fabric, smoothing it against my hips.

The makeup team arrived shortly after, two women with cases full of brushes and palettes and gold-plated tweezers. They greeted me with practiced calm and the gentle touches of women who had done a hundred weddings and still knew how to make each bride feel like the center of the universe.

They started with my skin—serum, primer, foundation blended so perfectly it didn’t look like I was wearing anything at all.

My lips were painted a soft rose; not red, not pink, but something in between.

My cheeks glowed. My eyes were lined just enough to command attention.

I barely recognized myself, and I didn’t hate it.

My hair was swept up into a loose, elegant chignon, strands softly curled, secured with hidden pins, a few wisps left to frame my face like I’d just woken up and looked perfect. Riley approved with a single nod. Amy offered a quiet smile and handed me a glass of champagne.

We didn’t talk about politics, the press, or what it meant to marry into a family like Nikolai’s. We just sat together and laughed a little. We talked about shoes and the kind of lace that made you feel expensive. The best lipstick that didn’t smudge when you were being kissed just hard enough.

I felt calm. Beautiful. Very much like a woman about to step into a different life.

The dress came last.

It glided over my curves like water. The neckline dipped down to my cleavage, but not too low. The train brushed the floor, following behind me like a shadow. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see the mayor’s daughter.

I saw a bride.

There was a sharp knock at the door. I didn’t know how a knock could sound professional, but it did. I turned, expecting one of the planners or the coordinator for the processional cue.

Instead, a woman stepped in I didn’t recognize.

Late twenties, pretty, but fairly plain. Brown hair in a tight bun. A headset in her ear and a name badge I didn’t catch. She held a narrow white florist box in her hands and wore a smile that had clearly been rehearsed.

“Miss Kingsley?” she asked, just slightly breathless. “Sorry to interrupt. There’s a small issue with the groom’s boutonniere.”

I blinked. “What kind of issue?”

She stepped closer, flipping the box open to reveal two almost-identical white roses, one with a hint of pale green at the edge.

“The lighting in the ballroom is making the original pull green on camera. Your bouquet is warmer—cream-based—so it’s clashing. The photographer’s asking for a quick replacement. We just need your sign-off before it goes on him.”

Amy looked up from her seat. “We can handle it.”

The woman shook her head quickly, her smile never slipping. “I’m afraid it has to be the bride. The designer wants it logged in the photo credits. It’ll only take five minutes. We’ve got a cart around the side, so we don’t disturb the main aisle.”

“This was the sort of things that happened at weddings, right?” I asked the girls.

“I guess so?” Riley offered with a shrug. Amy did the same.

“I’ll be right back then,” I said with a sigh.

They nodded.

I followed the woman out of the suite, down the quiet hall lined with cream curtains and white peonies in pretty gold vases. My heels clicked softly against the tile. She walked a few steps ahead, speaking into her headset. I didn’t catch the words.

We went downstairs in an elevator and exited through a side door into the garden path. It was quieter out here, cool and fresh. The breeze caught my skirt and lifted it just enough to make me reach for it.

That’s when I saw the van.

Black. Plain. Unmarked.

Its back doors were wide open.

The woman turned.

Smiled again.

And then stepped aside.

Everything in me went still, like my nervous system short-circuited for half a second—one clean, glitched-out beat where nothing made sense. Then the alarms went off in my head.

“Wait!” I called, a rising sense of panic surging through me like a lightning strike.

My heels scraped against the stone. I turned, but I didn’t make it more than half a step before I was grabbed.

A heavy arm came around my waist—too strong, too fast. My hands went up to push, to fight, but I barely moved or got out a sound before something was pressed to my face. Cloth. Thick. Sweet-smelling. I tried to scream, but the inhale hit me like a truck. My throat closed. My knees buckled.

The woman didn’t flinch. She just watched.

My elbow shot back, wild and desperate and I made contact with something solid, maybe ribs, but it didn’t make a bit of difference. I was lifted off the ground and carried away. The van’s open doors rushed closer like a tunnel in a nightmare.

I kicked. Scratched. Bit down on the hand over my mouth and tasted skin and blood. It still didn’t matter.

The world tilted. The sun spun in the sky. And then I was inside.

Thrown hard against metal.

The doors slammed shut.

The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me whole was the sound of my own name being whispered through clenched teeth.