Eliza gives me a look that says if I dare kiss her, she’ll cut off my dick. But she’s my wife, and there’s no use in marrying at all if we’re not going along with what’s expected. I step forward and slide a hand behind her head, under her hair. She goes stiff as a board in my hands. Her lips are plump and pink, ready to be kissed, but I hold back. I lean closer, so close I can feel the heat of that fuckable mouth against mine. “You will kiss me,” I say, my voice so low no one else can hear it, not even the priest.
Her lips pull into a smile, not moving as she speaks through clenched teeth. “Touch me and die.”
“If I don’t kiss you, this is off, and we’ll both die.”
“Oh, I won’t die,” she assures me, her smile turning smug. “I’m a fucking princess. You’re nobody.”
“I’m your husband,” I grit out.
I can hear the crowd getting antsy, but I don’t take my eyes from hers. Someone yells, “Shut up and kiss her!”
Eliza smirks. “You’ll never be my husband in anything more than name.”
“In name, and in public,” I say, curling my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her forward, so she stumbles against me. I clench my fingers tighter, so she has to go up on tiptoes, her head back and fury burning in her eyes as my mouth descends to hers. Her squeal of protest is muffled by the kiss. Our first kiss isn’t tender or even passionate. It’s rough and harsh. She struggles against me, but I force my tongue between her lips. It’s not because I want to taste my new bride. It’s not even to silence her muted denial. It’s to show her that this is how it is.
Her father gave her away—literally. He gave her to me, and she’s mine now. I swipe my tongue across hers, making sure she knows what I’m doing, that she gets the point. I’m the one in control here. Her teeth clamp down, biting into my flesh. I don’t stop, though. I don’t pull back. Let her taste my blood. It only proves my point more fully. We are bound in blood now, just as I’m bound to the Valentis.
She recoils, trying to break free when the salty warmth of my blood spreads through our kiss. I thrust my bleeding tongue against hers, our teeth clashing one more time before I draw back. People are laughing and hooting and clapping. I don’t know how long I kissed her. Long enough to send a message, that’s clear.
“I hope you die,” Eliza hisses. “Then I won’t have to marry you.”
I smirk down at her, slowly releasing my grip on her hair. “Too late,” I say. “I’m your husband, and you’ll show me the respect that title deserves.”
“You don’t deserve respect until you earn it,” she shoots back.
“I just did,” I say. “Behind closed doors, do whatever the fuck you want. In public, you’re my wife, and you obey me.”
She stares at me, her nostrils flared and her breathing coming quicker. I notice her lip trembling, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or fear. A funny little tug starts behind my sternum, but I crush it before it can get a good hold. It doesn’t matter if she’s pissed at me or terrified of me. Her feelings are as irrelevant as mine. For a second, we don’t move. Something shifts in her eyes, though, and when the priest steps forward, she turns to face the crowd with me.
“It is my honor to present you Mr. and Mrs. King Dolce,” he says.
I grip her hand in mine, and she doesn’t struggle. Her fingers feel soft and delicate against mine, and I feel the slight tremor in them, too. Ignoring it, I step forward, and Eliza follows my lead as we descend the step to walk back up the aisle. I squeeze her hand, trying to calm whatever storm is brewing inside her. She leans into me like she’s any bride excited to be starting a new life with a man she loves. With her free hand, she waves and blows kisses, suddenly all smiles, her performance worthy of a fucking Oscar. You’d never know she was spitting and hissing up there on the altar.
We make our way to the back of the church. I smile at my family, my parents sitting together like Dad didn’t up and leave my mother here by herself. My brothers have been here for almost a week, throwing a bachelor party for me and helping me prepare. Duke hired a pair of blonde identical twin strippers, and I’d bet money he and Baron banged them after the party. Royal was up at the altar with me, my best man and the one I left to watch over the twins when I came back to New York. Even though they’re all here, I can’t help the instinctive sweep of my eyes as they search for the last member of my flock, like I’m a fucking sheep dog.
I turn away, pressing my lips together and pulling Eliza toward the door of the church faster. I don’t want to think about who’s not here. My sister should have been up there with Eliza’s bridesmaids. But she’s not. She’s not here. She’s not anywhere. We didn’t even get to bury her. And it’s my fucking fault. If I had seen how bad she had it, that disease called love, I might have saved her. If I’d seen what it would cost her, what it would cost all of us, I would have found a way to put a stop to it. Even if I had to kill the asshole she fell for, I would have. He ended up dead anyway—and he took her with him.
We pass the photographer, and then we’re out of the church, blinking into the blazing July sun, trying to see. Light doesn’t just help you see. It blinds you. It seems a fitting metaphor for the day, for love and weddings and all this shit. Suddenly, the charade feels exhausting beyond what I can bear.
And it’s only getting started.
As soon as we step out the door, Eliza rips her hands from mine, grabs up handfuls of her skirts, and charges behind some shrubbery.
“Eliza,” I say, a warning in my tone. This is too public a place for our first fight.
She doesn’t come out, though I can see half her skirt still trailing out, so I know she’s not doing the whole runaway bride thing on me. I sigh, rake a hand through my hair, and glance back at the church. People are going to come spilling out at any second.
I step behind the bushes and face my wife.
The moment she sees me, Eliza rears back a hand and slaps me across the face. I balk, too stunned to react for a second. Only a second, though. That’s the last time she’ll catch me by surprise.
I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers together until her nostrils flare and her eyes go wide. She doesn’t whimper, though. I can see her gritting her teeth together to keep from crying out as she glares at me.
“That was for kissing me like you own me,” she snaps. “Now let me go.”
“I do own you,” I snap back. “I’m your husband. You may have gotten away with this shit with your parents, but not with me. Understand this, little wife. I’ll let you go, but youwillcome back.”
She snorts, but I release her hand anyway. If she tries anything, she’ll find out how seriously I take those words. I wasn’t making a smug prediction. I’m not arrogant enough to think she wants to come back to me. My words are a threat.