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One of his hands in mine, the other at the small of my back, we swayed to the music while the crowd watched.
The happiness in the room was literally palpable, magic bubbling into the air from supernaturals who nursed champagne, chatted and caught up, or otherwise enjoyed a good party.
“It looks like everyone’s having a good time,” I told him.
“I believe you’re right,” Ethan said, and, when I looked back at him, tipped up my chin for a kiss. He got catcalls for the effort that I’m pretty sure came from Luc’s direction.
I love you, he said. Truly, madly, fiercely. So much that I’m nearly drunk with it.
Part of that may be the very good champagne, I said. The French may make irritating vampires, but they make very good bubbles.
Ethan smiled. So they do.
And I love you, too. And I think you will very much enjoy the trousseau I’ve put together later.
His brows lifted with interest. I’m enjoying even knowing that it exists.
Just you wait, I said, and gave him a wink.
• • •
We danced, and the world around us disappeared. There were only Ethan and me and the sweeping melody among the glow of those thousand candles. No politics, no drama. Just love and hope, and the fact that this incredibly sexy and powerful man belonged to me.
When the song ended, Ethan spun me around and dipped me low to more applause and amusement.
“You are really working the crowd tonight.”
“It’s my party,” he said with a smile.
The sound of ringing crystal was a welcome interruption. We looked back, found Amit on the small stage, microphone in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “for those who don’t know me, my name is Amit Patel. And I have had the dubious honor of knowing the groom for more than a century.”
There were well-timed chuckles.
“I have seen him at his worst, and this wouldn’t be a very good wedding toast if I didn’t share at least a few of those embarrassing anecdotes with you.”
“Good Lord,” Ethan whispered beside me, as my smile spread.
Embarrassing anecdotes about my gorgeous husband seemed like the perfect cure for family-related blues.
“Yes, please!” I yelled out.
“Well, there was the time the only mount we could find was a very sad-looking donkey. So close your eyes, if you will, and imagine Masterful Ethan Sullivan riding Eeyore. Until Eeyore decided he wasn’t interested in being ridden, and chucked him into the street. The look on his face—even then.” Amit stopped to laugh. “He was shocked—absolutely shocked—that a donkey would dare.” His smile was warm when he looked at Ethan again. “He was a Master even then. And then there was the time in a certain house of ill repute . . .”
There were salacious whispers in the audience, and Ethan cleared his throat. “Pay him no mind, Sentinel.”
“Oh, I’m paying him all the mind. Please continue!” I called out.
“Ethan, of course, did not partake of the less honorable offerings. But he was running from a human who suspected Ethan of demonic leanings. So, of course, Ethan pitched out the window. Landed in a horse trough, to the amusement of all.”
I snorted, glanced at Ethan. “Why do you always end up on the ground?”
“He’s choosing selectively,” Ethan said, shaking his head at Amit.
“But there is more, of course,” Amit said. “More stories, good and bad. Because while I have seen Ethan at his worst, I have also seen Ethan at his best.” He glanced at me. “And he is at his best when he is with you. That, I think, is the best kind of love. Love doesn’t guarantee happiness or wealth or success. But if you’re willing to commit to it, to work at it, it guarantees partnership. So that no matter the trials or tribulations, no matter the joy or loss, you are not alone.” He raised his glass. “To Ethan and Merit.”
“To Ethan and Merit!” the crowd responded, punctuated with more clapping and the ringing of crystal, which hopefully distracted them from the tears I swiftly wiped away.
