I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a glance. My hands clenched tightly in my lap, nails digging into my palms to anchor myself.
And then there was the scent. His scent. Fresh, sharp, unmistakably masculine, seeping into my senses, refusing to let me forget he was here, breathing right next to me.
Every breath I took was laced with it, a constant, unwelcome reminder that this wasn’t just any seat. This washisterritory.
The murmur of the crowd shifted, a subtle hush rippling through the rows as a man moved to the front. The sunlight streaming through the foliage seemed to bend toward him. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who owned not only the suit on his back but the air he breathed. His stride was unhurried, deliberate, as if every step was a reminder that this day belonged to him, that this union was his design, his stage, his victory.
My eyes couldn’t pull away from him. Marcus. The man who was about to become my stepfather.
He was everything my mother had painted him to be. Tall and composed, with streaks of silver running through his dark hair like ribbons of experience. His face held a kind smile, soft and genuine, as he gazed down the aisle, waiting. There was a quiet strength about him, a calm confidence that filled the space around him like a protective shield. I studied the way he stood, shoulders squared, hands loosely clasped in front, every inch the gentleman.
Relief washed over me in a slow, gentle wave. Amid all the chaos and uncertainty swirling inside me, this was one solid truth. My mother was marrying a good man. A man who adored her, who would cherish her the way she deserved.
I shifted on the chair, my gaze slipping once more to the boy across the aisle.
For the briefest moment, his eyes caught mine, and a small, almost apologetic smile touched his mouth, a sad little curve that softened something inside me. He didn’t seem cruel. He didn’t seem dangerous. Not like the boy beside me, whose everyword dripped with mockery and menace. No, this other one couldn’t be so bad. Perhaps the one at my side only wanted to frighten me, to trick me into believing the Maddox name came wrapped in shadows, when maybe it didn’t.
For a second, I allowed myself to breathe, to hope.
But then the sharp edge of reality cut through the calm like a jagged blade. I was sitting besidehim. That boy. The one who had shattered my carefully held composure the night before. The one whose presence ignited every nerve in my body into a state of high alert.
The soft, haunting strains of the processional music floated through the air, delicate and ceremonial. All heads turned toward the entrance as my mum stepped from behind the lush curtain of tropical leaves, radiant in a way that stole my breath. Her white gown shimmered in the sunlight, lace trailing like whispers across her skin. Her smile was bright, almost unreal in its happiness, and she walked with the surety of a woman who had finally found her place.
I wanted to focus. I wanted to behere, right now, for her. To witness this moment she had dreamed of, to stand beside her in silent support. But my mind was a riot of chaos, every thought tangled up in the impossible tension of the boy beside me.
I could feel him, the way his presence seemed to press against my side, a silent, mocking weight. I could almost hear his amusement, that slow, knowing smirk that played just beneath the surface of his calm facade.
My gaze flicked to him, stolen and sharp. His eyes were fixed ahead, an image of polite attention. But that smirk... that damn smirk told a different story. He was playing me, enjoying every prick of discomfort he could inflict.
As the officiant’s voice began like a gentle, soothing murmur beneath the crashing waves, he leaned in close, his breath warm against my skin.
“Quite the production, isn’t it?” he whispered, low and teasing. “All this pomp and ceremony for a simple ‘I do.’”
I stiffened, swallowing the urge to snap back. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. My eyes found my mother again, bright and hopeful, and I forced myself to focus.
I had to. Because this wasn’t just a wedding. It was the beginning of a new life. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, like a secret meant only for me. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed, princess. This kind of spectacle? It doesn’t come around every day.”
His knee shifted subtly, brushing against mine in the closest way possible without outright touching. The contact sent a jolt straight through me, electric, invasive, and I jumped, stiffening in my seat. I shifted away, but the rows of chairs were cramped, forcing me to stay tethered to him by the warmth radiating from his leg.
It was maddening.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Luna,” he whispered again, voice dripping with that infuriating smirk. “Lost your tongue? Or just mesmerized by all this romance?”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m trying to listen to the ceremony,” I muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear.
His breath hitched in a chuckle, dark and knowing. “Is that so? I thought maybe we were sharing a private moment. Like last night.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. The audacity of him, daring to bring that up now, in the middle of my mother’s wedding. I wanted to slap him, to shove him away, but I couldn’t. Not here, not with the crowd and the eyes and the crushing weight of the moment.
I kept my eyes fixed on the altar, willing myself not to break under the pressure of his gaze, but I could feel it like a flame licking at my skin, relentless and teasing.
The ceremony wove on around us, voices soft and sincere, the officiant’s words weaving a fragile magic through the salty sea air. Vows were exchanged, promises whispered, the kind that made my chest ache with something I didn’t want to admit. Hope.
Hope for my mother. Hope for a life that felt more certain than the chaos that had become my own.
And yet, every warm feeling was tangled with the unsettling presence beside me. His quiet words, his barely-there touches, a storm hidden beneath his calm exterior.
