The priest nods toward me. “You may kiss the bride.”
I glance down at her, seeing the faint flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the defiance that never fully leaves her. Smirking, I lean in slowly, giving her every chance to pull back—but she doesn’t. She meets me halfway, lips brushing mine with a careful, deliberate pressure that makes my chest tighten.
The kiss deepens almost immediately, and I feel her respond, bold, unafraid, pulling me closer. Her hands find my shoulders, gripping just enough to let me know she’s there by choice, not obligation. There’s no faltering, no doubt—only fire and heat and the dangerous thrill of claiming each other fully, right here, right now, in front of all these people.
A murmur runs through the crowd, a mixture of shock and awe. Some of the older guests murmur about the audacity of it, about the painted mask and the boldness of the gesture. Others are smiling, clapping softly, caught up in the tension and release of the moment. My men shift slightly, alert but relaxed, eyes scanning, but knowing there’s no threat right now—just us.
I pull back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. They’re wide, defiant, sparkling with something dangerous and alive.
“You’ve got quite a grip on me,” I murmur, low, letting only her hear.
“I hope so,” she replies, and the smirk she gives me beneath the paint makes my chest tighten again.
Glancing toward her father, who is still standing nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looks like he’s struggling to reconcile the defiance in his daughter with the weight of the moment. I nod slightly at him—not in arrogance, but in acknowledgment. She’s his daughter, yes, but she’s mine now too, and she will always be her own woman.
The priest clears his throat again, and the applause breaks out. The guests are standing now, clapping, some even whistling, caught up in the drama and intensity of the kiss. Sophia laughs quietly into my chest, and I feel the spark of warmth, of hope, of something unbreakable.
“Come on,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’ve got a party to start.”
She leans back slightly, still holding my hands, and nods, eyes bright. “Lead the way, husband.”
We turn toward the reception, the music shifting, faster now, playful, teasing. Guests begin moving toward the tables, laughing, chatting. Maria dances by, clapping her hands, making sure everything is perfect, while my men take positions, alert but relaxed, eyes scanning the perimeter just in case.
I pull Sophia close, keeping her hand in mine, letting her feel the reassurance in my grip. She leans into me, her head resting lightly on my shoulder.
Leaning down, I press a quick kiss to her temple. “Ready?”
She lifts her head, eyes bright, smirk still in place. “Let’s do this.”
The reception is set just beyond the ceremony, tables lined with black linens and orange accents, candles flickering in carved pumpkins. The decorations are playful, morbid, darkly beautiful.
We walk toward the tables, guests parting as we move through. My men and hers flank the sides, eyes sharp, scanning for threats. My focus is on her, the fire in her eyes, the way she carries herself as if she owns every step of this property.
The first dance is next, slow and deliberate. I pull her close, forehead resting against hers. The mask doesn’t hide the heat in her eyes, the defiance that refuses to be tamed. I smile, letting myself imagine the life ahead, the battles we’ll face, and the triumphs.
“This is ridiculous,” she murmurs, voice low, but there’s amusement in it. “We should be running, not dancing.”
“Not yet,” I murmur back, brushing her hair back, ignoring the painted streaks that catch in my fingers. “Not yet. This is ours.”
The music shifts, faster now, a playful note underneath the haunting melody. Guests begin to smile, some even laugh. Maria flits between tables, helping here, laughing there, ensuringeverything is perfect, as if she orchestrated not just the decorations but the courage it took to get Sophia here.
Sophia’s father approaches, offering a nod, a grudging acknowledgment of the bond forming before his eyes.
“Congratulations, to you both.” He waggles a finger at Sophia and continues through the crowd.
“I like the makeup. It reminds me of the day we met.”
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” Sophia whispers.
“You liked me then.”
Sophia smiles. “I still do. I just wish I’d had a choice.”
“What if I make you a deal?”
Tilting her head to the side, Sophia’s eyebrows come together in a frown. “What kind of deal?”
“Give me a year. If at the end of that year, if you are truly not happy. I’ll let you go.”
