Sorcha gave Briar’s arm a jab, her cane between her knees. She’d crafted a cane for Briar, too, to use on his bad days. Her leg was mostly healed, but some damage was permanent. “Are you nervous?”
“A bit,” Briar admitted. “I’ll feel better when I see him.”
“He’snot about to leave you waiting at the altar.”
“It’s not that.” Sorcha still teased him about the tumultuous beginning of his relationship with Rowan, though now it was in good humor. He bit down on a smile. “I just always feel better when I see him.”
“I was harder on you than I should have been, back then.”
“You were looking out for him.”
“Just let me apologize, won’t you? He’s my baby brother, and I was fairly pissed with you for hurting him, but if I’m being honest, I was angrier with myself. I was the eldest. I abdicated responsibility as Keeper. All the worst things that happened to him happened because of that. So I saw you made him happy, and when you stopped, I felt guilty. I took it out on you. All right?”
Briar smirked. “All right. But you’ve made it up to me by doing my hair this morning.”
“Ah, sure.”
They arrived at the church, its big oak doors open. Briar waited at the bottom of the steps while Ciara skipped ahead with her basket of petals. Sorcha made her way down the aisle in her daughter’s wake.
It was a small wedding party, made smaller by the fact Briar didn’t have his mother there.
At his cue, he started up the steps. The bright sun outside meant his eyes took time to adjust inside, to the pews on either side filled with friends and family. Vatii swooped overhead, distributing more flower petals. The turn of everyone’s cheek to look at him made Briar glow, but not as much as Rowan awaiting him. The crisp charcoal of his suit, the blue flowers in his pocket, the close cut of his beard—every inch the rugged man Briar loved.
The dress Briar wore had taken him the better part of a month to design. It was a satin gown with a simple front of lace and a neckline that dipped low enough to see the tithe on his chest made to keep Rowan safe. Pearl drop earrings and heels Briar would be kicking off very soon completed his look. He’d done it all thinking about that moment when Rowan had walked into a tent, looked at Briar, and couldn’t stop looking.
Rowan looked at him now with unrestrained joy, better than that look from the tent. He wiped hastily at his eyes with the back of a hand, and Briar couldn’t stand the long, slow walk down the aisle anymore. He picked up his train and ran.
It wasn’t very traditional, leaping into his groom’s arms and kissing him while the priest threw up his hands in exasperation, but Briar wore a dress so he obviously didn’t care much for traditions when they didn’t suit him.
Rowan didn’t look away from his groom during the ceremony. Nor did Briar, captivated and protected by Rowan’s gaze. At the edge of their shared gaze were three empty spots in the front pew, reserved with chalkboards for three people who couldn’t be there. Éibhear. Eira, Briar’s mother. And Gretchen.
Maebh and Sorcha joined them for the hand fasting. With the embroidered ribbons, they braided Briar’s and Rowan’s linked hands. The priest recited a poem about two trees grown side by side whose roots were entangled in the same way.
The short, sweet ceremony was followed by an extravagant amount of food, drink, and revelry. Maebh gave a speech that started with sarcastic rebukes of Briar’s character then ended with a tearful confession that “Anyone who makes my son so blisteringly happy can’t be all bad, even if you are an absolute cabbage and a diva.” Briar fed Rowan from his plate, and vice versa. They danced to open the floor, walking slow circles to a tune played by one of Rowan’s many cousins. Vatii gorged herself on appetizers and swooped among the dancers. Little Ciara dragged Rowan out of his shell to spin her around the floor.
No one shied away from him. No one cast him wary looks. They linked arms with him and didn’t flinch.
Finola was there, looking stunning in buttercup yellow. She insisted Briar should create a line all his own for next year’s runway. That she’d count upon it.
The evening seemed to span a decade and only a minute, the entirety of it focused on this singular feeling that Briar had sorely missed since his mother passed: a sense that he belonged, and he could rest his head over Rowan’s heart that night and find himself at home.
The revelry went late, but it was latest for Rowan and Briar, who, after finally thanking and saying goodbye to everyone, returned to the cottage. Briar picked his way down the path with his shoes in one hand and his train in the other. Tired enough to trip, but Rowan swept him up and carried him the rest of the way.
At the reception, they’d stolen moments to whisper private jokes about how they’d be too dead on their feet by night’s end to bother with removing their clothes, much less anything else, but in unbuttoning Rowan’s shirt and pulling loose his tie, Briar found a reserve of energy he hadn’t known he possessed. Months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to stand long enough at the altar to say “I do.”
He said with conspiratorial delight, “You’re my husband now.”
And Rowan breathed “husband” into his ear.
Sunrise threaded golden fingers through the curtains by the time they lay still with sweat cooling on their skin. Briar lay in the cradle of Rowan’s arm and traced the scar that no longer pained him. He kissed it, then kissed Rowan. Then his stomach growled and ruined the moment.
Rowan said, “Should I make breakfast?”
“We haven’t even slept.”
“Ah, sure, but who needs it?”
Which was how they ended up at the breakfast bar, Rowan frying eggs and Briar wearing one of his shirts just like that first night he stayed over.
