Her dark curls spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, framing her face. Then those dark eyes lifted to mine, uncertain, cautious — and mine snapped awake like a starving animal catching the scent of blood.
I felt the primal part of me roar to life, the part that didn’t care about contracts or arrangements or compromises. I imagined dragging her to me, pressing her against the glass with the city sprawling at our feet, staking my claim so thoroughly the world would never doubt she belonged to me. I wanted to take her right here, right now, in front of the judge, to tear the dress from her body and make her scream my name until she forgot every man who’d ever hurt her. My hands curled into fists at my sides, every muscle tight with restraint, desperate to touch yetforced to hold back. The air between us shimmered, electric with a need I barely contained.
But I held still.
I held still because she was looking at me as if she were afraid I might hurt her. And I needed her to see that I wouldn’t, not like that, not ever.
“Zara,” I said, my voice rough even to my own ears.
She swallowed. “Hi.”
Two letters. One syllable. Yet it hit me harder than any blow I’d ever taken.
“Come here,” I said, eager to get her closer to me.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the marble, each step bringing her closer to me. The judge cleared his throat. Carla retreated to the corner, her hands clasped in front of her.
But I didn’t see them.
I only saw her.
When she stopped in front of me, I reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as I brought them to my lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
A faint blush stained her cheeks. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She looked down, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “I’m nervous.”
“Me too.”
She laughed—a soft, surprised sound. “You? Nervous?”
“I’ve never done this before.” I paused. “I want to do it right.”
She looked up at me then, and something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of trust, maybe. Or hope. Whatever it was, it made my chest ache.
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked her again.
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
I turned to the judge. “Let’s begin.”
The ceremony was short. Unromantic, by most standards. No vows, no music, no guests weeping in the pews. Just the judge’s monotone voice reading the legal declarations, my responses, her responses, the exchange of rings I’d had delivered that morning. As I slipped the band onto Zara’s finger, I glanced at her. Her grip on my hand was tight, almost desperate; she kept her gaze fixed on the tabletop, but her lashes flickered, and her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
And when he pronounced us husband and wife, I leaned in and kissed her.
I meant it to be gentle. A soft press of lips, a seal on our marriage. But the moment my mouth touched hers, I lost all sense of control. My hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. She gasped against my lips, and I tasted her—sweet and warm and mine.
I pulled back, breathing hard.
“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Falcone.” I smiled, a dark, possessive thing.
Her eyes were wide; her lips swollen.
She blinked, processing. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face. Small. Uncertain. But real.
