Page 49 of Sadistic

"This one has pockets," Rhiannon announces from her perch on a stack of boxes.

She's been providing commentary for the last hour, turning what could be an awkward situation into something almost fun. "Because even brides need somewhere to put their phone."

"Or a knife," Dalla mutters from the doorway, still playing protective sister.

She hasn't moved from her position since we started, watching everyone like they might suddenly attack me.

"Why would she need a knife at her wedding?" Mom asks, eyes wide.

My mother's been trying to keep things light, but the stress shows in the tight lines around her mouth, the way she keeps touching her throat like she's checking for a pulse.

"You clearly haven't been to enough mafia weddings," Rhiannon says cheerfully. "Last year, someone's ex showed up with a machete. It wasverydramatic."

"Wasn’t that one of the Romanian Clans' weddings?" I remember. "The ex was his former business partner. Turned out he had been sleeping with the girl up until the night before the wedding. An arranged one too, I think."

"See? Drama." Rhiannon grins. "Though I doubt anyone would dare cause problems at your wedding. Doran wouldliterallydismember them."

The casual way she says it—like her brother's capacity for violence is just another family trait, like green eyes or dark hair—sends a shiver down my spine.

The door bursts open without any warning.

"Oh shit!" Gorm, a prospect—barely eighteen, still growing into his cut—freezes at the sight of me in a ten-thousand-dollar dress.

His face goes from pale to red in seconds. "Fuck! Sorry! I was just—Oskar said—fuck!"

He backs out so fast he trips over his own feet, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.

We all stare at each other for a moment before Rhiannon breaks into laughter. "And that's why you always knock."

"That's the third time," Greer says, though she's fighting a smile. She's been patient—more patient than someone of her status should be with our makeshift arrangements. "Perhaps we should consider relocating."

"I'm so sorry," Mom starts, wringing her hands. "I told them we needed this room, but the prospects, they don't always listen, and?—"

Greer waves her off with perfectly manicured fingers. "Nonsense. It's not your fault."

She eyes the cramped space, the water-stained ceiling, the door that doesn't quite close properly.

A spider scurries across the floor, and I swear I see her eye twitch. "I have a suite in town. Full living room, great lighting, and most importantly—a door that locks."

"We couldn't impose—" I begin, even though the thought of getting out of this cramped space sounds like heaven.

"You're going to be my daughter-in-law in less than two weeks," Greer says firmly. "It's not an imposition, it's a family bonding experience."

The word sits heavy between us.

Family.

Like it's that simple.

Like I can just slide from one world to another without leaving pieces of myself behind.

"Plus," Rhiannon adds, already gathering garment bags, "the hotel has room service. And champagne.Lotsof champagne. We're going to need it if we're going through"—she counts—"nine more dresses."

"Twelve total?" Dalla speaks for the first time in twenty minutes. "You brought twelve wedding dresses?"

"I wanted options," Greer says simply. "Every bride deserves choices."

The irony isn't lost on any of us.