Page 31

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Doran

The morning of my wedding day starts with Mikhail bursting into my suite at six in the morning, looking grim.

"Bembe's stable," he announces. "His crew is scattered but not gone. And we have a problem."

I finish buttoning my shirt, already knowing I won't like whatever comes next. "What kind of problem?"

"Someone leaked the venue location. We're seeing chatter online—not threats exactly, but interest. People want to see the Bratva prince marry the MC princess."

"Double the security," I order, reaching for my cufflinks. "Anyone not on the list doesn't get within a mile of the property."

"Already done." He pauses. "She's at the venue already. Arrived an hour ago with her sister and mother."

My hands still. She's there. She actually showed up.

The relief is overwhelming, though I keep my face neutral.

Part of me wondered if I'd be standing at that altar alone, humiliated in front of both our families.

"Good," I manage.

My penthouse fills with people over the next two hours.

My father arrives, impeccable in his tuxedo, watching me with those calculating eyes.

"Nervous?" he asks, adjusting my bow tie with practiced hands.

"No."

"Liar." But he smiles slightly. "I threw up twice before marrying your mother."

"Seriously?"

"Locked myself in a bathroom stall, convinced I was making the worst mistake of my life." He steps back, evaluating his handiwork. "Thirty-three years later, she's still the only person who scares me more than death."

"That's reassuring."

"It should be. Fear keeps you sharp. Keeps you from taking her for granted." He clasps my shoulder. "Your mother's on her way. Fair warning—she's emotional."

As if summoned, Mum sweeps in, already dabbing at her eyes. "My baby boy," she says, then immediately starts fussing with my hair. "You look so handsome. So grown up."

"Mom, I've been a grown arse man for years now."

"You'll always be my baby." She adjusts my pocket square, fingers trembling slightly. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes."

"Really ready? Not just going through the motions?"

I catch her hands, still them. "I've been ready for five years."

She studies my face, then nods. "Good. Because that girl deserves someone who chooses her completely."

Rhiannon appears in the doorway. "Cars are here. Time to go see if your bride actually shows up."

"She's already there," Mikhail informs her.

"Well, that's one worry down." My sister grins. "Though she might still run. I would if I was marrying you."

"Supportive as always."

"That's what family's for."

The drive to the venue takes forty minutes.

We head out of Tallahassee into the countryside where old money built plantations that now serve as event spaces for people who can afford to pretend at Southern grandeur.

The Bellewood Estate appears through the trees like something from a movie.

White columns, wraparound porches, ancient oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

The kind of place that's seen centuries of secrets, where beauty masks the blood in the soil.

Perfect for a marriage like ours.

Security is everywhere—some obvious, some blending into the landscape.

I spot Bratva men in suits, MC members trying to look comfortable in formal wear, and hired professionals who don't care about our politics as long as the check clears.

"Subtle," Rhiannon mutters as we pass the third checkpoint.

"Necessary," I correct.

The main house is a flurry of activity.

Wedding planners scurry about with clipboards, florists making final adjustments, catering staff preparing for the reception.

Everything pristine, everything perfect.

Everything except my nerves.

I'm directed to a room on the second floor to wait.

The groomsmen are already there—Mikhail as my best man, two cousins from the Irish side, a business associate who knows to smile and not ask questions.

Mikhail offers, producing a flask. "Drink?"

"Better not. Need a clear head."

"Since when has that stopped you?"

But I wave him off.

I want to remember every second of this.

Want to be completely present when Revna becomes my wife.

My phone sits silent on the dresser.

No texts from her, no last-minute negotiations or demands.

Just silence that could mean she’s accepted this, or she’s given up completely.

"It's time," someone announces.

The walk to the garden feels endless.

Guests are already seated—a careful mixture of dangerous people pretending to be civilized.

The MC members look uncomfortable in their suits, cuts on top of their jackets.

The Bratva side radiates cold elegance.

Between them, neutral parties and family friends who probably wish they'd declined the invitation.

The altar waits at the end of an aisle lined with white roses and baby's breath.

Beyond it, the private lake glimmers in the morning sun.

It's beautiful in that aggressive way that costs a fortune—every flower perfect, every ribbon precisely placed.

I take my position, Mikhail at my shoulder.

The string quartet starts warming up.

My heart pounds harder than it did during my first kill.

"Breathe," Mikhail murmurs. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are." But he stays close, ready to catch me if I prove him right.

The music changes. Processional. My chest tightens.

The bridesmaids appear first.

Elfe, looking uncomfortable but determined in lavender.

Two cousins from Revna's side. Then Dalla.

She walks slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on mine.

The warning is clear—hurt my sister and face the consequences.

I nod slightly, message received.

The music shifts again.

Wagner's traditional march. Everyone stands.

And then I see her .

The world stops.

Revna appears at the end of the aisle, arm linked with her father's. The dress is everything—elegant, simple, perfect.

It hugs her curves before flowing out, the train trailing behind like water.

Her dark hair is swept up, revealing the neck I've marked with my mouth.

The sapphire earrings catch the light.

But it's her face that destroys me.

She's not smiling.

Not yet.

Her expression is serious, evaluating.

She looks like what she is—a woman making a choice that will define her life.

Then our eyes meet.

The corner of her mouth lifts slightly.

Not quite a smile, but acknowledgment.

She's here. She chose this.

Chose me.

The walk down the aisle takes forever and no time at all.

I'm vaguely aware of people watching, phones discretely recording even though we were very clear about the no-photos rule. None of it matters.

All I see is her.

Runes delivers her to me with a look that promises death if I fail her.

I take her hand, find it trembling slightly.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi."

The officiant begins, but I barely hear the words.

Something about love and commitment, about the journey we're embarking on.

Generic phrases that don't capture what this is—two people bound by violence and choice, trying to build something real from an arrangement.

"The rings," the officiant prompts.

Mikhail produces them.

Simple bands, platinum.

Hers has diamonds embedded around the circumference because I couldn't help myself.

"Do you, Doran, take this woman..."

"I do." The words come out before he finishes, making some guests chuckle.

Revna's lips twitch.

"Do you, Revna, take this man..."

She pauses. Just for a heartbeat, but long enough that my chest tightens. "I do."

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

I don't wait for him to finish.

My hands cup her face, pulling her in.

The kiss is supposed to be chaste, appropriate for the audience.

It's not.

I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air.

Like I've been waiting my whole life for this moment.

She makes a small sound of surprise before melting into me, hands fisting in my jacket.

Someone wolf-whistles—probably from the MC side. I don't care.

When we finally break apart, her lipstick is smudged and her eyes are dark.

"Husband," she murmurs.

"Wife," I respond, and the word feels like a victory.

We turn to face our guests as the recessional plays.

Married. After five years of waiting, she's finally, legally, completely mine.

The walk back up the aisle is a blur of faces.

My parents beaming, Rhiannon giving a thumbs up, Fern wiping tears.

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."