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I was going to ask my dad to walk me down the aisle, as an apology, but Ryke and Rose said I should only ask him if I want him to do so. Not just to make him feel better.
So I didn’t ask him, and I’d already told him my decision weeks ago. He seemed okay with it back then. It’s not that I don’t love my father enough to do it. It’s just that I like the idea of freely giving myself away. Without needing the final approval of anyone but my own heart and my own voice.
In the lodge’s hallway, Ryke has his keycard in hand, standing rigid by his door. “I’m not letting Daisy stay in my room that fucking long, so don’t worry.”
“See.” I spread my arms. I doubt I’d be able to sleep anyway, too wired and excited about what’s to come tomorrow.
“We need to do that…thing tonight,” Rose says vaguely. “So just be back by one a.m. and we should have time to do it before tomorrow morning.”
I nod, unable to contain a smile.
“What fucking thing?” Ryke asks.
“Secret things,” Lily chimes in and then Rose hooks her arm and they stroll off to the bridal suite without me.
I’ll be there soon.
There’s just something I need to do first.
Ryke unlocks his room and holds the door open for me. I slide into his suite and immediately dig in his travel bag on the wooden dresser. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pulling his shirt over his head, his set of impeccably toned abs and lean muscles something only avid climbers can claim.
More giddiness fills me, lifts me. I can almost feel the hairs rise on my arms. I’m not the least bit discreet, so when he catches me staring, I just smile more.
His brows rise at me, knowing that I like to watch him. “It’s fucking hot in here.”
I feign confusion. “But I thought this was the start of a Ryke Meadows striptease.”
“No,” he states but chucks his shirt at my face.
I laugh and keep searching in his bag but I can’t find it. “If you’d rather go to bed, I understand. You know we can always ditch this idea. It’s not a requirement.”
“I want to fucking do this, Calloway,” Ryke replies in that stern, don’t argue with me about it manner. I watch his lengthy stride close the gap between us. Then he unzips the front of his travel bag and brings out the portable speaker. Just what I wanted.
His close proximity double-flips my stomach, and he begins to plug in the speaker. I almost forgot to bring it, but Rose printed out a long travel list for me.
Usually I never really care about forgetting a toothbrush or underwear. It’s all part of my packing process. Whatever is supposed to make the journey makes it. If I’m missing something important, I have fun finding alternatives.
Rose disliked my theory, at least not for my wedding, so that’s where the list came in.
In the heat of the quiet moment, I grip the bottom of my dress and tug it off, tossing the garment on the floor. I stand comfortable in yellow cotton panties and a floral bra.
Ryke’s eyes descend my body for a quick second, stopping on my belly.
My ten-week baby bump is very small but definitely noticeable without clothes. Before any grand emotion surfaces, his gaze lands back on mine.
With a mischievous smile, I say, “It’s fucking hot in here.” I like the idea of being half-naked with him, and he must see the thrill in my eyes because he doesn’t ask for a real answer. He just swiftly begins closing the blinds, the warm glow of lamplight illuminating the hotel room.
I dock my phone on the speaker and then turn my music on shuffle, playing roulette with the song choice here.
“Are you ready?” I ask as he finishes the last window. I keep rocking back and forth on my feet, restless, nervous, but light and airy and ready for this moment to ignite. Maybe it already has.
Ryke nods and returns to the middle of the hotel suite, a buttoned couch on one side and a king-sized bed with gray bedding against light gold walls on the other. I can’t discern the current song, but it’s somewhere between fast and slow and alternative.
I mentally measure the empty space from him to me. A cavernous ten feet.
He crosses his arms, as though he’s sculpted from stone.
I keep smiling because I love him so much, every part of him that says I don’t fucking dance. It’s been well documented in the years that I’ve known him. Ryke solidifies like a brick wall at concerts and celebrations and all weddings. For Ryke to want to practice our first dance at all is a big deal.
It’s also been well documented that I’m not a great dancer like Lily or Lo or even Rose who can pull off a waltz. I spaced out during most of cotillion. I usually just jump to the beat, and jumping is not the best kind of partner dancing. So I’m in the same boat as Ryke.
“Alright,” I say, strolling closer to my soon-to-be husband. His eyes never leave me as I glide to him. “We’re going to have to loosen up.” He lets me seize one of his hands, breaking his arms from the closed stance.
I hone in on the differences between his hand and mine: much larger and his palm more calloused and rough to my soft. He’s staring down at me, this man who’d drop to his knees if I asked him to. Who’d take care of me. Never abuse me. Never pressure me or take advantage of me. He’s treated me with more respect than I can quantify.
I almost feel the blood rushing through my veins. I’m so very, very attracted to this person in front of me.
“And then your other arm,” I say in a soft breath. As I clutch his other hand, his arm joint livens and moves. “Then they go here.” I put his hands on my shoulders.
He almost smiles, a twinkle in those darkened eyes.
“What?” My cheeks hurt from my own unequivocal smile, and I inhale shallowly. He’s already taking my breath away, and we’re only just trying to figure out how to dance together.
For the first time.
He speaks with his movements, his hands dropping from my shoulders to my wrists—his grip firm and assured. Then he lifts my arms until they’re set securely on his shoulders.
My knees instinctively bend, bouncing on the tips of my toes. He’s still stoic. He’s still solid rock, but he’s begun to smile.
His large, rough hands slide down my body until he holds my waist. I’m mesmerized for a second, his skin on my bare skin, so overwhelming that a sharp sound escapes from my lips. He draws me closer, his chest pressed against mine, the beat of our hearts in sync.
There’s no right or wrong way in how to dance or how to move or how to be. We both know this in the end, and that’s why we take our time and just do whatever comes to us. I bet we’ll stay silent, let the music thrum through our bodies.
And then…
And then the song—it changes. We both inhale, the recognizable tune washing over us.
It’s the song that always reminds me of Ryke.
“Sweet Disposition” by The Temper Trap fills the room with the smoothest, most beautiful melody.
His brown eyes, flecked with hazel, bore into me, and before I can think or breathe, we’re moving. One foot first, he’s leading me. Then the next. These aren’t complex, professional moves. We haven’t suddenly turned into the Best Dancing Couple in the Universe. His confidence, his strength has me guessing which way he’ll go. I gladly and surely follow.
I’m laughing. I’m lost for breath. I feel like I’m chasing him, or he’s chasing me. As we move together. Air rushes through me like a wind tunnel.
His hand on my waist. My legs brushing his. Lungs expanding.
Feet never stopping. Hearts never quitting.
Ryke sweeps me in such simple actions that contain the vastness, the fullness, of our lives and our love. It pumps my blood, and I see it alight in his eyes.
The lyrics throttle me, and we’re not gliding. We’re spinning madly. His eyes on mine. Like we’re two feral creatures meant to be together. Until the end of time.
He dips me backwards and then lets go. My body falls, air whooshing out of me, and before I hit the gr
ound, his arms catch me. My chest rises and drops heavily, my fingers digging into his biceps. Before I can rewrap my head around my limbs, he lifts me upright again, my hair splayed crazily. Like I’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster.
The tempo of the song slows, and Ryke brushes the strands away from my cheeks, his breathing deepening with mine. I run my fingers through his thick hair, and then my arms fall back to his shoulders.
We’re moving again.
I smile. So wide. So alive.
And then the crescendo hits.
He dips me again, so low—this time holding on. And my lungs—my lungs burst inside of me, the world blind with love. I clutch his neck tightly.
If I fall, he’ll come with me.
The intensity, the caring in his features pounds my heart more than the drumbeats, his gaze cloaking me in adoration and affection. I can’t turn off the light that beams through me, and slowly and carefully, he lowers my back onto the floor. Hovering above me, his arm braced beside my cheek.
My wolf.
My everything.
He’s a breath away from my lips as the song fades. And very softly, he says, “I’m so fucking in love with you.”
I prop my body on my elbows, nearing his lips. People say you can’t describe love, but I have this theory that you can. It’s just subjective. Do you want to know what love feels like for me?
It’s breathing and suffocating. Sobbing and smiling. Yearning and fading. To ache that much harder. To live that much larger. It’s every moment. Every single, tiny one.
I’ve felt it all with Ryke.
And it’s not solely the wild, crazed events that keep my heart pumping. It’s these small, most inconceivable seconds of time spent together. Our smiles. Our tears. Our limbs shifting or standing still. The instant our lonely souls are filled.
I’ve never lived or loved wilder and freer than with him.
I open my mouth to say the words too, but he nods like I see it, Dais. He sees it in my eyes. I’m so in love with him. He kisses me gently, and I think, this is it.
