“I like those T-shirts,” I said, plucking her hem.
; There was a polite throat-clearing in the doorway. We looked back, found Lindsey in jeans and a pink BRIDE’S CREW T-shirt, my dress bag in hand.
“Sire, Sentinel.” She smiled at Amit, nodded, held the bag a little higher. “It’s time to go.”
The pre-wedding nerves hadn’t sparked yet, but seeing her standing there with the dress she hadn’t yet seen made everything suddenly real. We’d reached the point where there was no more time to guard the House, investigate threats, plan for security.
I was getting married today.
I was getting married today.
I was getting married today.
“Merit,” Amit said, laughter in his voice. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
I swallowed hard, looked back at him and then Ethan. “I feel like I’m about to give my ninth-grade history speech.”
Ethan smiled. “You made it through ninth grade, or so I assume, since you’ve got a master’s degree and a half. I feel like U of C, among the others, would be particular about that kind of thing.”
I blew out a breath through pursed lips. “Everything will be fine.” But I grabbed his lapels, pitched forward. “What if my mother got doves? What if the DJ only plays the chicken dance? What if Amit messes up the toast?”
“I have no plan to mess up the toast,” Amit said crisply. “I will bring the crowd to the cusp of tears, then amuse them with stories of your groom’s wilder days.”
Actually, that did sound entertaining.
Ethan kissed my forehead. “Steady on, brave Sentinel. You deferred the wedding planning, and now you must face the music—and possibly the doves.” But he looked down at me, skimmed a finger over the House necklace at my throat.
Regardless of the rest of it, he said silently, there will be you and me. That will be enough, and that will be perfect. This night, and all of its dark beauty, is ours.
Who needed Lord Byron anyway?
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN DOVES CRY
They stood in the foyer like a posse come to collect their due.
And that “due” was me.
Helen and my mother, Meredith Merit, looked like business partners. Both wore trim suits and pearls, their hair perfectly coiffed, makeup precisely elegant. There was something very Stepford Wives about it. Or the Oak Park and Hyde Park versions, anyway.
Mallory stood with them in jeans and another BRIDE’S CREW shirt. She stood beside a pile of suitcases and what looked like black tackle boxes.
They turned together, glanced at me with the same assessing gaze.
“Merit,” my mother said, walking forward and pressing her hands to my cheeks. Her palms were soft and cold, and she smelled like powdery perfume. “How are you feeling, darling? Are you nervous? Excited?”
My mother and I weren’t especially close. As my father focused on business, my mother focused on socializing—leading charitable guilds, hosting socials, arranging donations that got “Merit Properties” on buildings or plaques or benches. Things that Charlotte dealt with better than I did. But given that she’d coordinated my wedding, this wasn’t the time to be ungrateful.