Page 3

"D O YOU, LIANA, TAKE Monsieur Le Dernier as your lawfully wedded husband?"

Judge Grimault's voice echoes through the empty courthouse, and I look at him with wide-eyed shock.

"You're not going to use his actual name?"

Grimault gulps, and with his bloodshot eyes and rumpled suit, there's nothing dignified about him at all. He looks more like the hostage between the two of us, and it almost makes me feel bad for him.

Almost.

Grimault clears his throat. "Please answer with a 'yes' or 'no'."

But I don't, since here he is, officiating a marriage that can't possibly be legal.

I open my mouth so I can annoy him further. But then my groom gives me a look, and poof.

My desire to stay alive outweighs my puerile tendencies, and I give Grimault an angelic smile. "Oui." It's not much of a rebellion, but small wins are still wins, oui?

And besides...

"It is my honor and privilege—"

Who says I'm already done?

"To take Monsieur Le Dernier as my awfully —"

My groom's security team starts coughing again (they do love to do that, don't they?) while Grimault releases a sound that's somewhere between a horrified wheeze and a whelp of terror.

"Oh, sorry. I meant to say ' lawfully' of course."

I'm not sure what it was exactly, to be honest. All I know is that it's music to my ears.

"It's my honor and privilege to take Monsieur Le Dernier as my lawfully wedded husband." I slowly lift my gaze to his, peering at him from under my lashes like the virgin bride that I am (truly!), and... oh my goodness. Was that an actual twitch of his lips?

Whoever knew a monster like him is capable of smiling?

"Then by the power vested in me..."

Grimault's speaking again, and I lower my gaze to the marble floors, with its ultra-polished surface reflecting the fluorescent lights like a distorted world under my thrift-store-bought Louboutins.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

I'm not sure why, but I just feel like pretending I'm the very mindful, very demure, very cutesy type.

"You may now kiss your bride."

Well, scratch that.

The moment I hear those words, there's no need to pretend.

How could you have forgotten about this part, pauvre imbécile!

I know it's already a miracle that I'm still alive despite breaking the rules in his territory. I know I've been pushing him more and more with every disrespectful word I throw his way.

But...

I've never been kissed, okay?

And so to let this man, this monster of all people—

No, no, no.

I automatically step back. Or try to. But he's faster than my fear, his murderously good hands capturing my waist, his intoxicating scent invading my senses as he pulls me against him.

This can't be happening. I'm not ready. No, oh please...OH?

A shudder rocks my body as his lips press against my forehead. It's the briefest of contacts, neither possessive nor demanding, but instead infinitely gentle.

Je ne comprends pas. I don't understand.

He steps back, and I actually feel abandoned. There's this one disorienting moment that I almost sway towards him as his hands leave my waist, my body betraying me with foolish and self-destructive yearning.

My mind replays the past. Me, walking into his catacombs, never thinking my life would change in the blink of an eye. One moment I'm but one of the many pickpockets in the City of Lights. The next, I'm in a holding room and changing into a cream-colored Chanel dress that fits me like a glove. I'd like to think this was mere coincidence, but I think not.

And now...this.

I hate the way my hand noticeably trembles as I sign our marriage certificates. My husband, on the other hand, it's just the usual for him. He wields the pen like a sword, ink slashing against parchment paper with swift and deadly elegance.

MLD.

That's all he writes. In cursive, of course. Just three letters, but I know for a fact that it's more than enough to have many a hardened criminal run away like the devil is after them. (To be fair: that's how I would feel, too, if I were to find out that Monsieur Le Dernier is out for my blood.)

"Shall we?"

The words are a command rather than an invitation, and Monsieur Le Dernier is already walking away as I'm forced to hurry after him.

Typical.

It's just a short distance separating us, but I still end up catching my breath by the time I manage to reach his side. My...husband ( how am I married just like that? ) glances at me, and I feel so unfairly judged.

"What?"

He goes on walking without a single word in reply, and I'm now absolutely convinced I've not just married the king of the catacombs. Monsieur Le Dernier apparently also holds the world title to Rudest Man Alive.

The same limo awaits us by the sidewalk, a bulletproof monster that's transported us from warehouse to courthouse, and now, from courthouse to... hm.

"Where are we going?" I ask as soon as I hear the click of passenger doors locking, and the partition between us and his driver slides into place.

His dark blue eyes ( why do they look so much like mine?) meet mine. "Home."

I'm about to ask where that is exactly when my husband, who remains the soul of rudeness, delivers his next blow.

"I am surprised at how remarkably...out of shape you are, considering your profession."

Every word, an insult, but wrapped in a silken drawl with a French-accented-ribbon on the top.

"Excuse me?" No, I don't just sound defensive. I am defensive, very much so.

"You must build your strength and stamina," he commands. "Tu comprends?"

I'm nineteen to his... what? Mid-thirties? The insult stings beyond belief, from one professional criminal to another.

"I am so sorry that you find me terribly lacking, monsieur ."

(Ha!)

I incline my head to the side as I look at him musingly. "May I ask why, though? Does being the dutiful wife of a mob boss involve some heavy lifting? Will I need to help carry dead bodies to their final resting place?" I press my hand to my heart, eyes impossibly wide. "I should warn you, monsieur , I'm afraid I might be too delicate for such tasks. Though I suppose I could hold the rope when you're dangling someone over the Seine?"

"Non, ma petite." His lips curve as he says this, and I hate the way the mere sight of it has every inch of me tingling. "Nothing so pedestrian."

"Then pray tell me—"

My words stumble to a stop when I suddenly find myself right next to him, his hand tangling in my hair while the other slides along my collarbone.

" Non. " My husband (will I ever get used to calling him this?) actually purrs the word out, and my senses start to spiral.

Oh dear.

"I think it is better that I show you instead."

His mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear as he speaks, and I forget how to breathe. His teeth graze my skin, and my body arches toward him without my permission.

"You have too many clothes on, Liana."

A whimper spills past my lips. I'm equal parts terrified and shamefully excited. His words make me think he's about to undress me, but instead his hands slowly stroke over the silk of my wedding dress, and heat steals over my cheeks as I feel my flesh swell achingly under his touch.

This is the part where I should tell him we will not have this kind of marriage.

But when my lips part, no words of protest come out, and I only end up gasping as my husband's fingers trace the neckline of my dress...just before dipping inside of it. And when his thumb brushes directly across my lace-covered nipple—

Aaaah.

Another whimper escapes me, the sound explicitly coated in desire, even to my ears.

"Tu es si sensible, ma petite." Lazy pleasure unfurls from every word he murmurs. "So responsive."

I don't speak. Can't. Not when he's finally tugged my dress down to my waist, and my entire body burns under his devouring gaze. My heart thunders against my chest as his fingers find the front clasp of my bra.

Click.

The cups fall to the side, my breasts spilling free, and I can only bite back a cry.

It's my first time to have a man stare at me like this. And the way he makes me feel with just his eyes alone...

Dark blue eyes suddenly glitter down at me.

"Tell me what you're thinking," my husband growls.

W-what? W-why? Where did that come from?

" Dites-moi ." Tell me.

A command this time, and one that has me nervously wetting my lips because those two words come with a threat, a promise of repercussions that even I have no courage to face.

"I was just wondering..."

Oh please, please don't make me say it out loud.

"Wondering what?"

"If it w-were possible..."

It's my first time to hear myself stammer like this.

"For another man to make me feel the way you're— aaah!"

The last thing I see on his handsome face is the fury that flashes in his gaze.

And then I'm crying out, with his mouth closing over my breast while he starts tugging its pouting twin. And oh, the way he torments my flesh...

It's exactly what he's known for. Every flick of his tongue calculated to drive me insane. Every scrape of his teeth, a mix of tender violence and excruciating pleasure. My fingers climb their way into his hair, and I'm ashamed to find myself actually gripping my husband's head as I grind myself against his hungry mouth.

This is not me, this is not me, this is not me.

But the words feel like a lie, with how my world has narrowed to nothing but the pleasure he gives.

This is real. This is now me. The new me.

A creature that Monsieur Le Dernier controls through my helpless desire.

And when his mouth moves to my other breast, and another cycle of tortuous pleasure starts anew—

"P-Please..."

I'm sobbing for something I don't even know.

His head lifts, a temporary reprieve that my body despises and needs at the same time.

Oh, comme c'est fou.

How crazy he makes me feel!

"Already begging, ma petite?" My husband is purring again, and this sound, oh this sound, it will one day kill me for sure. "When we've barely begun?"

"P-Please, m-monsieur..."

"But since you ask so nicely..."

He bends his head, his lips once again closing over a still-sensitive nipple. And then he starts to suckle. So, so hard. While pinching the other pouting tip, and hard enough for pain and pleasure to blur.

Aaaaaah.

It happens all of a sudden, and all I can do is gasp in shock as the first wave of release crashes over me. But even though my body is still shuddering, and my mind is still a mess—

"We are not yet finished, ma petite. "

His hands are on the move once more, a whimper escaping my lips as his fingers slide under my dress. He strokes the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, and I'm both horrified and delighted, terrified and aroused. My first orgasm hasn't even ended, and yet already...

"Regarde-moi," he commands. "Look at me."

Dark blue eyes take mine captive as his fingers find the slick folds between my legs, and my lips part in a silent moan as his thumb circles my most sensitive point.

"Do you really think..."

Oh no.

"Just any other man—"

The sudden savageness of his tone makes me burn and tremble all at the same time.

"Can make you feel like this?"

His fingers slide inside of me as he speaks, and my entire world starts to shatter.

Non.

The answer is absolutely and painstakingly clear in the way my hips start rising on their own, my body helplessly responding to every thrust of his long and elegant fingers.

C'est impossible.

The way I'm now losing myself in the possessive heat of his gaze, and the way my folds have become so wet and swollen as his fingers push deeper and deeper into my core—

It's just plain impossible.

Even though it's only his touch that I have ever experienced, and I know this early on that no other man will even be able to come this close to me—there's no hiding from the truth.

Lui seul. Only him and no one else.

My husband alone can make me feel...

This full.

This helpless.

This...insane.

His thumb presses hard on that nub of flesh I myself have never touched, and my world finally shatters. I'm holding onto his shoulders for dear life, my nails digging into the panes of his back, but this second rush of pleasure is still too, too much for me to bear.

I think I may have screamed. Begged. I'm not quite sure, with darkness overcoming my vision.

Oh dear.

When I regain consciousness, I find myself cradled against my husband's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. He's still fully dressed, still his usual devastating self...while I'm a mess of tangled hair, exposed breasts, and crumpled silk.

Quelle horreur.

I wish I didn't remember a thing. But instead, I remember everything. And when I scramble up while trying to cover my nakedness—

My husband gently pulls my wrists down.

Ugh.

He wants his pound of flesh, and because not once has Monsieur Le Dernier pretended to be a gentleman in his victories—

His gaze meets mine, and oh, the way those dark blue eyes of his gleam.

It annoys me to death.

"Well, ma petite? "

How softly he says the words, knowing that this will piss me off even more.

"Yes," I bite out. "I need to build my strength and stamina." I give him all the words he wants. I just want to get this over with.

"And?"

I look at him crossly. What else does he need me—

"Your other question."

What other—

Oh.

Right.

"You should answer me while I'm giving you a chance to do so," he suggests.

Oh, really now?

"Unless, of course, you wish for another demonstration..."

And just like that, my half-baked and ill-advised attempt to challenge him comes to an end.

"Non, monsieur," I say quickly. "I, er, remember now."

"And?"

And of course he really wants to hear me say it.

"And I g-get it now..." My words end in a stammer when my husband lazily reaches for one breast, and I'm thrown into confusion as he starts kneading my flesh.

"Ce qui est quoi, exactement?" Which is what, exactly?

It's so hard to think, with him squeezing my breast like this.

But...I suppose that's the whole point, too.

"Only you, monsieur ," I say reluctantly, resignedly. "Only you can make me feel this way."

My husband's lips slowly curve in a smirk, and the sight of it actually makes me want to squeal and snarl at the same time.

Tellement, tellement folle.

Oh, how crazy this man makes me feel!

"Indeed."

After that is a blur. He helps me dress, and he does so with such breathtaking efficiency that I realize I'm actually jealous. Because expertise comes at a cost, and I need to know the exact numbers. Just how many women has my husband undressed for him to be this good?

I'm determined to know the answer. But I have no chance of asking, with my husband's property now coming into view as the limo turns off the main road, and trees are closing in around us.

Wrought iron gates manned by armed guards swing open as we approach, and we climb up a winding driveway that seems endless. Centuries-old sentinels of wood and leaves watch over us from every side, their branches creating dappled patterns from overhead.

I've stopped trying to figure out how much land my husband owns by the time a sprawling manor finally emerges. Its every stone and arch narrates a story of classic French architecture, its manicured gardens, a landscaped ode to a lifestyle of understated elegance. A royal existence that's earned from sweat and blood, rather than birthright.

It's the most beautiful house I've ever seen. And somehow, that makes this situation even more terrifying.

This isn't the lair of a monster. It's the home of a king, and my confusion only grows in leaps and bounds. Who is this man I'm married...when he's not playing the role of Monsieur Le Dernier?

The car stops, and my husband (oh, how surreal it still feels, to think of him in this manner)...

Well, he's still the king of rudeness, that's for sure, with the way he allows me to step out of the car all on my own.

His staff is already lined up on the front steps, their gazes sharp but not cruel, their faces impassive but not hard.

"My wife, Liana."

I can't help but jerk when my husband suddenly speaks, his every word bearing the full force of his power and authority.

"I will appreciate everyone's support in making her feel at home."

His staff starts clapping. A few even smile. And although I try my hardest to look for any signs of disapproval, distrust, or deceit—

There's nothing.

Rien du tout.

Absolutely nothing.

In each and every one of his servants, I only see loyalty...to him.

If their master says I am his bride, then so be it.

C'est la vie.

And in this sense, we are completely alike, his servants and I.