Page 32

"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."

I silence her protest with my mouth, finding her already wet.

She tries to stay quiet, hand flying to her mouth, but I'm relentless.

Five years of fantasies, of imagining this moment, fuel every movement.

"I want them to hear," I growl against her. "Want everyone to know you're mine now."

Her hands tangle in my hair, torn between pushing me away and pulling me closer.

I win, I always win when it comes to her body's responses.

She comes with a muffled cry, legs shaking.

I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "My turn."

She's already reaching for my belt, eyes dark with need. "This is insane."

"This is us." I lift her against the wall, dress bunched around her waist. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"Yours," she gasps as I enter her. "Always was, you possessive bastard."

"My perfect wife." I thrust deep, making her whimper. "My vicious little wolf."

We're desperate, both of us.

Like the ceremony wasn't enough, like we need this physical claiming to make it real.

Her nails dig into my shoulders through my jacket, probably leaving marks.

Good.

"Harder," she demands, and I obey.

The sounds we're making aren't quiet.

Anyone passing in the hall will know exactly what's happening.

Part of me hopes they do.

Let everyone know that Revna Volkolv chose this, chose me.

"Close," she pants. "So close."

"Come for me. Come for your husband."

She shatters, my name on her lips.

I follow immediately, the word "wife" groaned into her neck.

We stay frozen for a moment, both breathing hard.

Reality creeps back in—we're at our wedding reception, hundreds of guests waiting.

"Fuck," she breathes.

"Indeed."

A knock at the door makes us both jump. "Mr. Volkolv?" A tentative voice. "The photographer is asking?—"

"Five minutes," I call back, already helping Revna straighten her dress.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she says, fixing her lipstick in a mirror I hadn't noticed.

"I know." I adjust my tie, noting the wrinkles in my jacket. "But it means you're staying."

"Was that ever in question?"

"After yesterday? Yes."

She turns to face me, looking like a slightly rumpled goddess. "I'm here, aren't I? I said 'I do,' didn't I?"

"You did."

"Then stop questioning it." She moves to the door, pauses. "And Doran? Next time you make a major decision without me, even though we’re married, I'm gone."

"Understood."

"Good." She unlocks the door. "Now let's go pretend we weren't just fucking in the library."

"Study," I correct.

"Whatever."

We emerge to find Rhiannon waiting, arms crossed and grinning. "Well, that was subtle."

"Shut up," I mutter.

"Hey, no judgment. Though you might want to fix your hair, Revna. You look freshly fucked."

Revna's face flames, but she laughs. "That obvious?"

"Only to those of us who know what to look for." Rhiannon produces a compact from somewhere. "Here. Powder will help with the flush."

I watch them, my sister and my wife, fixing makeup and giggling like old friends.

This is what I wanted—Revna as part of my family, my world.

"The reception's starting," Mikhail appears, carefully not looking at either of us. "They're announcing you in five minutes."

The ballroom is transformed.

Flowers everywhere, candles creating soft light, tables set with crystal and china that costs more than most cars.

Our families have mixed somewhat—MC leather next to designer suits, creating an interesting contrast.

"Ready?" I ask Revna.

"As I'll ever be."

The doors open. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Doran Volkolv!"

Applause erupts as we enter.

I feel Revna tense slightly at her new name, but she smiles, playing the part of the happy bride.

We're seated at the head table, surrounded by our wedding party.

The toasts begin immediately.

Mikhail goes first, keeping it short and professional.

Then Dalla, who manages to be both threatening and touching.

"My sister," she says, raising her glass, "is the strongest person I know. She's making a choice today that I don't fully understand, but I trust her. And Doran," she looks directly at me, "you'd better be worth it."

"I'll try," I promise.

My father's toast is elegant, talking about family and legacy without mentioning the blood that binds us.

Runes is more direct. "Many years ago, I made a promise," he says, voice carrying across the room. "Today, that promise is fulfilled. My daughter has honored our agreement." He pauses. "Doran, she's your responsibility now. Don't make me regret this."

The threat is politely worded but clear.

"To the bride and groom," he finishes, and everyone drinks.

Dinner is served—five courses of expensive food that I barely taste.

Revna picks at her plate, probably still processing everything. "Dance with me," I say when the band starts.

"Already?"

"Always."

Our first dance is to something classical, not the traditional choices.

She follows my lead, surprisingly graceful given the dress.

"Where did you learn to dance?" she asks.

"Mother insisted. Said a man who couldn't dance had no business in society."

"She was right."

"She usually is."

We turn, and I catch sight of someone near the terrace doors.

Someone who shouldn't be here—my little brother, Olyvar.

"What's wrong?" Revna feels my tension.

"Nothing. Just thought I saw..." I scan again, but Oly is gone. "Nothing."

The song ends, and others join us on the dance floor.

I dance with my mother, she with her father.

The reception continues—speeches, laughter, the careful balance of two violent families pretending at civility.

During a break, I find Revna on the terrace, needing air.

"Overwhelmed?" I ask.

"Processing." She looks out at the gardens. "This morning I was single. Now I'm a Volkolv."

I mean, she wasn’t single—she was my fiancee, but whatever. I’m picking and choosing my battles with her now.

"Regrets?"

"Ask me tomorrow." She turns to face me. "We still need to talk. About Bembe, about your decisions, about how this actually works."

"I know."

"No more unilateral choices, Doran. I mean it."

"I understand."

"Do you? Because your track record suggests otherwise."

I pull her close. "I'm trying to learn. Give me time."

"Time I can give. But patience? That's limited."

"Fair enough."

She kisses me, soft and quick. "We should get back. People will notice."

"Let them."

"My mother's already traumatized enough from Rhiannon's stories. Let's not add to it."

We return to find the party in full swing.

The older generation has loosened up with alcohol, boundaries between MC and Bratva blurring.

I spot my father deep in conversation with Fenrir, probably planning something that will require violence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the bandleader announces, "the bride will now throw her bouquet!"

Revna laughs. "Really? We're doing this?"

"Tradition." I shrug.

The single women gather, Rhiannon front and center and looking predatory.

Revna turns her back, counts to three, and tosses.

The bouquet sails through the air, past grasping hands, and lands squarely in Dasha's surprised arms.

The room goes quiet for a beat, then erupts in forced cheer.

"Well, I can guarantee I know who Dasha should be with." Revna giggles with a mischievous giggle.

Dasha, who works alongside Meghan at Beans & Babe, is also the woman who watches Rio’s kids all the time.

The rest of the reception passes in a blur.

More dancing, more toasts, more navigating our two opinionated families uniting.

By the time we're ready to leave, I'm exhausted from the performance.

"Ready?" I ask Revna as we prepare for our exit.

"For what? The honeymoon suite? Or the rest of our lives?"

"Both."

"Then no. But let's do it anyway."

We run through a tunnel of sparklers—someone's idea of tradition—to the waiting car.

In the backseat, Revna collapses against me. "We did it."

"We did."

"What happens now?"

"Now," I pull her closer, "we figure out how to be married."

"That's terrifyingly vague."

"Would you prefer a detailed plan?"

"From you? God no. Your plans involve surveillance strategies and decisions you don’t want to include me on."

"Former plans," I correct. "I'm turning over a new leaf."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

The car pulls up to the private air strip that’s taking us to Key West for a light, calm honeymoon.

"No regrets?" I ask as we head inside the plane.

"Ask me in the morning," she says again.

But she takes my hand, fingers interlacing with mine, and I have my answer.

Whatever comes next, we'll face it together, for better or worse.