Page 12 of The Beast’s Hidden Rose (Obsessed #8)

Five years later

Guy

She wears white, not because of tradition or purity—those concepts mean nothing to us—but because I asked her to.

Because I've imagined her in white since the first time I saw her five years ago.

The dress is simple, flowing, nothing like the meringue monstrosities that populate wedding magazines.

Just Iris, beautiful and ethereal, standing beside me in the garden as sunset paints the sky in colors no artist could fully capture.

No guests, no officiants, no witnesses except the flowers and trees that have stood silent guard over my isolation for years.

We need no one else for this moment. This covenant is between us alone.

The legal paperwork was handled yesterday—a visit to the courthouse, signatures on documents, the clerk's poorly disguised curiosity about the scarred recluse and his beautiful bride. But that was merely bureaucracy. This, now, is our true wedding. Sacred in its privacy, profound in its simplicity.

I take her hands in mine, marveling at how far we've come.

From years of watching from a distance, capturing her in charcoal and oils while she remained oblivious to my existence.

To manipulation, bringing her into my home under false pretenses.

To discovery, her finding my shrine of paintings.

To acceptance, against all reason, against every social norm and warning.

To this moment, where she stands before me willingly, eagerly, choosing to bind her life to mine.

"Trhee years," I say, my voice rough with emotion. "Three years I've loved you from afar. Watched you. Painted you. Dreamed of you."

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but her smile is steady, certain. "And now?"

"Now I get to love you up close. To learn every detail I couldn't capture from a distance. To wake beside you every morning and fall asleep with you every night." My thumb brushes over the sapphire ring that marks her as mine. "To call you my wife."

The word sends a thrill through me—wife. Such an ordinary term for something so extraordinary. The miracle of Iris choosing me, with all my darkness, all my obsession, all my broken edges.

"I've prepared vows," she says, surprising me. We hadn't discussed this part, had agreed to keep the ceremony minimal. "May I?"

I nod, throat tight with anticipation.

She takes a deep breath, her hands squeezing mine.

"I, Iris, take you, Guy—my Beast—to be my husband.

I promise to see you as you truly are, not as the world has labeled you.

To embrace your darkness and your light equally.

To stand beside you in isolation or in company, in creation or in stillness.

" Her voice grows stronger with each word.

"I promise to be yours completely, and to claim you as mine in return.

To love you not despite your obsession but because of the devotion behind it.

To build a life with you that needs no outside approval or understanding. "

Her words pierce me, more beautiful and fitting than any traditional vows could be. She sees me—truly sees me—and chooses me anyway. Embraces me, darkness and all.

"Your turn," she prompts gently when I remain silent, overwhelmed.

I haven't prepared anything, trusting that the right words would come. Now, faced with articulating feelings I've carried for three years, I find myself momentarily speechless.

"Iris," I begin finally, her name a prayer on my lips.

"I've painted you a thousand times, but no canvas has ever captured the essence of what you are to me.

Before you, my life was shadow and silence.

You brought color, light, meaning." My voice breaks, but I push on.

"I take you as my wife, my muse, my reason.

I promise to cherish you, protect you, possess you in the ways you desire and need.

To never take for granted the miracle of your presence in my life.

To channel my obsession into devotion, my possessiveness into protection, my need into nurturing. "

I bring her hands to my lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles, to the ring that marks our union. "You've seen the beast in me and called it beautiful. I promise to be worthy of that vision, every day, for the rest of our lives."

A tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb before it can fall. The last rays of sunlight illuminate her face, turning her ordinary beauty into something transcendent.

I slip the wedding band onto her finger, and she likewise does mine.

There's no pronouncement, no permission to kiss the bride. We need no external validation or announcement. I simply draw her to me, my wife, and claim her mouth with mine. The kiss is both tender and possessive, a promise and a claiming.

When we part, the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving us in the soft twilight that blurs edges and softens scars. I lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, and carry her toward the house.

"Traditionally, we'd cross a threshold," she says, arms looped around my neck.

"We've never been traditional," I remind her, but I pause at the door anyway, letting the moment stretch between us—the symbolic passage from our separate lives into our shared future.

I carry her through the house, up the stairs, to the master bedroom—my room that will now be ours.

The space has been transformed for tonight.

Candles flicker on every surface, casting golden light that makes the shadows dance.

Rose petals scatter across the bed, their scent mingling with the beeswax of the candles.

"You planned this," she says as I set her on her feet beside the bed.

"Of course I did." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I've been planning this night for years."

Her smile is knowing, a touch wicked at the edges. "Show me, then. Show me what you've imagined."

The invitation breaks something loose inside me—the last vestiges of restraint, of uncertainty. She is my wife now. Mine legally, emotionally, spiritually. Mine to claim in every way possible.

I reach for the delicate zipper at the back of her dress, drawing it down with deliberate slowness.

The white fabric parts, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the elegant curve of her spine.

I press my lips to the nape of her neck, breathing in her scent—lavender and something uniquely her, a fragrance I could identify blindfolded among thousands.

The dress slips from her shoulders with gentle encouragement, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric. Beneath, she wears white lace that makes my breath catch—a bridal set she must have purchased for this moment, knowing exactly what the sight of her in virginal white would do to me.

"Beautiful," I murmur, circling her, drinking in the vision of her. "So beautiful it hurts to look at you."

Her cheeks flush with pleasure at the praise. "Your turn," she says, reaching for the buttons of my shirt. "I want to see my husband."

My husband . The words send heat coursing through me.

I let her undress me, her fingers working the buttons, sliding the shirt from my shoulders, moving to my belt with growing urgency.

When we're both naked, I pull her against me, skin to skin, the contrast of our bodies—her softness against my hardness, her smoothness against my scars—creating a perfect harmony.

I lift her onto the bed, following her down, covering her body with mine. Our kisses grow deeper, more desperate, hands exploring with the familiarity of lovers who know each other's bodies but the excitement of this new beginning.

"Mine," I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "My wife. My Iris."

"Yours," she agrees, arching beneath me, offering herself. "And you're mine, Beast. All mine."

The name—her private name for me—ignites something primal. I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding between her thighs to find her already wet, ready for me. I stroke her, watching her face as pleasure washes through her, memorizing each expression, each small gasp and moan.

"I want to paint you like this," I tell her, working her toward the edge with practiced touches. "Flushed and wanting, wearing nothing but my rings."

"Later," she gasps, hips rising to meet my hand. "Right now I need you inside me. Need to feel my husband claim me."

The word—husband—breaks the last of my control. I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. Our eyes lock as I push forward, joining our bodies in the most intimate way possible.

"Perfect," I breathe as I fill her completely. "Made for me."

"For you," she agrees, legs wrapping around my waist, urging me deeper. "Only for you."

I begin to move, setting a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough but something in between—passionate, consuming, but with an underlying tenderness that's new to us.

This isn't just sex, not even just lovemaking.

This is consummation in the truest sense—the completion of a union that began five years ago in a park when I first saw her reading, eating an apple, unaware that her life's path had just crossed with mine.

Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging into my skin as our pace increases. I kiss her deeply, swallowing her moans, giving her my breath, taking hers in return. Every thrust, every touch is both possession and surrender—I claim her even as I give myself to her completely.

"Guy," she cries, her inner muscles beginning to tighten around me. "I'm close. So close."

"Look at me," I command softly, needing to see her eyes as she comes apart. "Let me see you, wife."

She obeys, dark eyes locking with mine as her orgasm washes through her, her body clenching around me in waves that trigger my own release. I come with her name on my lips, emptying myself deep inside her, marking her in the most primitive way.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, heartbeats gradually slowing to normal. I hold her close, one hand idly stroking her hair, the other resting on her hip, thumb brushing over the indentation my fingers left in her soft flesh.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, pressing a kiss to my chest, right over my heart.

"That I never thought I'd have this," I admit. "You. Here. As my wife. It seemed like an impossible fantasy."

She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face with a tenderness that still surprises me. "And now that the impossible has happened?"

I touch her cheek, tracing the flush that still stains her skin. "Now I'm terrified of losing it. Of losing you."

"You won't lose me." She kisses my palm. "I chose this, Guy. Chose you, with open eyes and full knowledge of exactly who and what you are."

"And who am I?" I ask, genuinely curious about how she sees me now, after everything.

Her smile is soft, knowing. "You're the Beast who sees me more clearly than anyone ever has. The man who loved me from afar for years." She leans down, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss that feels like a seal, a promise. "You're mine. And I'm yours."

"Forever," I murmur against her lips.

"Forever," she agrees.

As moonlight replaces the candles' glow, casting silver light across our entwined bodies, I hold my wife—my muse, my obsession, my salvation—and know with absolute certainty that I've found my place in the world.

Not in isolation, not in observation from a distance, but here, with her, creating something neither of us could have imagined alone.

"You're mine now," I whisper as she drifts toward sleep in my arms. "Forever."

Her lips curve in a smile, eyes still closed. "And you’re mine, Beast."