Page 137 of Sadistic

Even some of the harder MC members look emotional.

We're shepherded to a side garden for photos while guests move to cocktail hour.

The photographer is efficient, professional, probably wondering why there's so much security for a wedding.

"Smile," he instructs. "Look at each other. Perfect."

But between poses, Revna is tense.

"We need to talk," she says during a brief break.

"Later."

"Doran—"

"Not now." I pull her aside, away from the photographer and hovering planners. "I need you. Now."

Her eyes widen. "We're in the middle of?—"

"I don't care." I'm already leading her toward the house. "Five minutes. That's all I need."

"We have guests?—"

"They can wait."

I find a door—library or study, I don't care—and pull her inside.

The lock clicks behind us.

The room smells like old books and leather, sunlight streaming through tall windows.

"Doran, we haven't even talked about?—"

"We're married," I interrupt, backing her against the wall. "That's all the talking I need right now."

"That's not how this works." Her protest is weak, breath already quickening. "You can't just?—"

"Can't what? Want my wife?"

"We have things to discuss. The decisions you made, Njal, everything?—"

I cage her against the wall, hands braced on either side of her. "It doesn't bloody matter, because at the end of the day, I'm yours, and you're mine, and neither of us are going anywhere."

The Irish slips out, accent thickening with emotion.

Her eyes flare at the sound. "That doesn't solve?—"

"It solves this." My hand finds the slit in her dress, fingertips grazing her thigh. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you didn't think about it during the ceremony."

Her breath hitches. "Someone will look for us."

"Let them look." I drop to my knees, pushing the dress up. "Let them know exactly what I'm doing to my wife."

"Doran—"

"Say it," I demand, pressing kisses to her inner thigh. "Say you're my wife."

"You know I am—oh Gods."