Page 5 of The Chief (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #3)

The scent of polished wood and ancient roses curled into his throat and stuck, cloying and ceremonial, like grief disguised as romance. Candles flickered in their gold holders with a kind of smug, curated gravity, throwing light that appeared more like interrogation than celebration.

Every surface gleamed, from the marble aisle to the brass railings, a shrine to Severin design.

The stained glass bled color across the floor—crimson, gold, violet—casting distorted halos on anyone with the misfortune of standing beneath them, as if the saints themselves had front-row seats to this arrangement.

The Severins had spared no expense. Gilded arrangements. Imported florals. Enough symbolism to choke on. Which was fitting, really. Because this wasn’t a wedding. It was a merger. A corporate acquisition in silk and sin. A contract signed in whispers and sealed with blood.

He looked at Petra.

Beautiful.

But untouchable.

Not in a reverent way. In the frozen way. Like marble, regal, unyielding, and carved by expectation. She didn’t look delicate. She looked disciplined. Her beauty wasn’t meant to entice. It was meant to dominate a courtroom and dismantle an opponent with a smile.

Her dress was silver, tailored to perfection and stripped of softness, a sheath of femininity wrapped in polished steel.

Every line of fabric said, I don’t bend.

I don’t break. And I’ll never let you see me bleed.

She wore it like case law, exacting and inarguable.

And still, he didn’t believe for a second it had been her choice.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t falter. Just kept walking toward him as though she stepped into a pageant rehearsed by ancestors, carved from heritage and enforced by centuries of compliance.

She’d make a fine wife.

Efficient. Brilliant. Loyal.

And he would marry her. Because that’s what duty demanded.

Not love. Not want. Not respect. Just the brutal arithmetic of lineage, the kind that chained men like him to promises made in boardrooms and back rooms alike.

He didn’t need to believe in it. He just needed to honor his vows and carry them out day after day after day.

Like a verdict already handed down, waiting for the gavel to fall.

Cade clamped his teeth together. His molars ground once. Then again.

At least until he saw her.

Elise.

From the far side of the altar, standing slightly behind her sisters, Elise watched him.

Not fidgeting. Not smiling. Gone was her usual wide, ditzy smile, the one she wielded like a mask, disarming and absurd.

In its place was something quieter. Steadier.

A look stripped of pretense. Sharp blue eyes, unblinking, pinning him in place like she’d caught him cheating at his own life.

Just watching. A bridesmaid in name, out of place in posture, as if the role didn’t quite fit but she wore it anyway.

Her dress matched the other bridesmaids, same cut, same color, same designer sheen. But she made it look unintentional. Like she’d slipped into uniform last minute, still trailing the scent of her own rebellion.

Her hair wasn’t immaculate like Petra’s or sculpted like Katrina’s.

It was a touch too loose, a few strands curling wild near her temple as if her beauty refused to obey.

Her makeup held, but only barely. A little smudged at the edges, a little lived-in, like she’d been somewhere real before stepping into this cathedral of pretense.

Her heels were the right height but carried like an afterthought, chosen for the walk, not the optics.

And somehow, it made her more beautiful. More human. More dangerous.

She was a crack in the perfect glass of this ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring.

Because while the others had achieved pristine appearances, Elise had achieved something worse.

She’d made imperfection look premeditated.

Like a dare. Like an invitation. Like that kiss in Leif’s office had been a prelude, not a mistake.

Desire slammed into him, hard enough to rattle the chains of duty he’d wrapped around his damn throat.

His mouth went dry. The memory of her taste rose sharp and unwelcome.

He couldn’t dismiss her. Couldn’t think.

Not with her standing there like unfinished business he never should’ve touched but already craved again.

And still, she didn’t smile.

She just held his attention with effortless precision, like he was the only unsolved case in the room.

Like she remembered, too, and wasn’t sorry.

Her focus didn’t drift. Not for a second. As though she’d zeroed in on something beneath the surface and refused to let it go.

It hit him like a body blow. Sharp. Silent. Personal.

She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t trying to be seen.

She wasn’t angling for attention or offering comfort or cutting him down with a smirk.

She was just... seeing him. Like she could strip the layers off his suit and title and legacy with a single, surgical strike of attention.

Like she knew something the rest of the room didn’t.

As if the man under all the pressure and veneer was worth witnessing.

Not saving, not fixing, just knowing. And that should have made it easier to look away. It didn’t.

Instead, it made something in his chest twitch. Stutter. Then settle with a quiet curse.

He looked away fast, fury scraping at his insides.

As if breaking the connection would erase what her eyes had already seen.

As if severing the line of sight could pull him back into the production he’d been shoved into.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

His pulse pounded in his throat, in the ache behind his eyes.

Damn her for looking. Damn himself for caring. For noticing.

Idiot.

This wasn’t about want.

This was about war. And one glance at his brothers confirmed that.

Petra stepped into place across from him, facing him now at the altar.

Her expression didn’t flicker. No nerves.

No affection. Just calm, practiced poise.

A woman prepared to recite vows with the same tone she might use to order takeout or correct a filing error, bored, exacting, and barely engaged.

The priest began to speak.

Cade shifted slightly, more out of habit than need.

The floor beneath his shoes was too polished, too slick, as if waiting for him to take a misstep.

His shoulders rolled once, trying to shake off the tension crawling up his spine.

He hated standing still for too long. It turned him into a statue at his own funeral.

Like a target nailed in place. He needed motion, action, some kind of release.

Instead, he stood there in silence, boxed in by ceremony and centuries-old performance. He tried not to look back at Elise.

That’s when it hit.

It started as a faint itch, like heat prickling beneath the surface, annoying, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Then the burn deepened. Low and steady. Not sharp, but pulsing.

Like something ancient waking up under his skin and testing the seams of his restraint.

Cade flexed his fingers once. Then again. But the sensation didn’t fade. It grew.

He glanced down and his breath stopped.

A symbol appeared on his palm, one he knew too well: a wolf’s head. The symbol of a loner. His symbol.

Outlined in dark silver, the wolf’s head came alive with an almost predatory grace.

Its sharp muzzle jutted forward as if scenting the air.

Piercing eyes locked onto some invisible target, primal and certain.

Fur curled in windswept strands across his skin, alive with movement though the room was still.

It didn’t just flare. It rippled, breathed, possessed.

Not like ink. Not like art. Like truth. As if his body had been waiting for this moment his entire life and the mark had simply been hiding, curled in sleep beneath his skin, biding its time until now.

His pulse kicked hard.

Because he’d seen this before. With his brothers. When their Dante Brands flared to life, it was unmistakable, wild and final. And now it was happening to him when he thought it never would. Assumed it never would because he’d never loved anyone the way his brothers loved their mates.

He’d heard the stories like everyone else. The Dante sigil, spoken of in hushed tones, half-believed, often mocked, but never dismissed. A soul seal. A myth draped in tradition. A curse wrapped in prophecy. A fate so exact it had no room for error, no patience for doubt.

He’d heard about it happening, Titus’s hand flaring mid-argument, Zane’s during a kiss, moments seared into family lore and impossible to forget, even secondhand. He knew exactly what it meant. And still, he couldn’t process it—not fully—not with the ceremony ticking forward like a detonator.

But it wasn’t supposed to show up now. Not here. Not with her.

The marks only appeared when you found the woman you were meant to Claim. Which meant...

It had to be Petra. Of course it was Petra. They were at the altar, about to be bound by vows older than either of their names. She was his match on paper, in bloodline, in purpose. Everything about this moment said it should be her. So it was. It had to be.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

“Stop.” The word came out before he had time to leash it.

Cade turned to Petra and caught her hands before she could step away. She was fast, too fast for someone expected to stay polished and passive. But he still had the advantage of surprise.

Her fingers flexed once, a sharp protest in silk and bone.

She narrowed her eyes, mouth drawing into a slash of warning.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed like she’d just realized a vital contract was on the verge of being invalidated and she wasn’t holding the pen anymore.