Page 35 of Ruthless Enforcer

“He’ll calm down once this is over and he knows you did it as strategy.”

“Right.” I keep my eyes on the slick blacktop ahead, though the memory of her standing in my room at Blackthorn, unfazed and watching me burn, is still humming beneath my ribs. “Strategy.”

After a moment, she asks, “What errands do we have?”

“We’re getting married tomorrow.” I shoot her a quick look. “You don’t think you’re going in your bloody Valentino, do you?”

28

CLARA

When I was a little girl growing up on the Whitlock ranch, I had the same foolish, curated daydreams every heiress is taught to entertain. I imagined a cathedral filled with white calla lilies and garden roses. Hundreds of guests whispering in carved wooden pews. Yards of hand-stitched French silk and delicate Belgian lace trailing behind me down a candlelit aisle, Uncle James in his tailored tuxedo offering his arm with stoic pride, a string quartet playing something timeless and soft. A romantic, fairy-tale union with a polite, predictable man approved by a board of trustees.

None of it looked like this.

We're standing in a private fourth-floor annex of the county courthouse, tucked far away from the metal detectors and the public registry. Rain needles against the tall, narrow windows, turning the Portland skyline into a blurred smear of wet concrete and gray asphalt.

The room smells of lemon furniture wax, aging legal briefs, and the cold rain soaked into the heavy wool of Gabriel's overcoat.

There is no music. No whispering pews. No champagne chilling in silver buckets. Just a silver-haired judge named Morrison, a bored clerk holding a black ballpoint pen, and the two of us.

And yet I don't feel cheated.

I have no idea what combination of lethal charm, cold cash, and subtle intimidation he used, but Gabriel managed to convince a boutique owner in the Pearl District to unlock her darkened shop last night after we arrived in Portland so I could get a dress for the ceremony as well as some other clothing to tide me over for the short term.

My wedding dress isn't an extravagant ballgown. It’s cut from heavy ivory crepe with clean, minimalist lines that skim my collarbones, hug my waist, and fall softly to my feet. It’s understated and entirely unpretentious, but it is unmistakably bridal. Wearing it, I don't feel like a fugitive playing a part. I feel like a bride.

I feel special.

I look down at the single, lush, pale-pink peony in my hand. Gabriel handed it to me outside my hotel room door an hour ago, completely serious, offering no explanation whatsoever. It’s late autumn; peonies have been out of season for months. How he tracked down a fresh, velvety bloom in the middle of a Pacific Northwest deluge is a miracle only Gabriel Reyes could orchestrate.

The weight of the flower makes my throat tighten with an aching warmth. This marriage was conceived as a tactical checkmate on a lethal board to keep our families from ripping Montana apart, but Gabriel isn’t treating it like an administrative chore.

I look at him in the dark-blue suit and open-collared dark shirt that gives a tantalizing glimpse of his tattoos. Without a single word of mockery, he’s quietly giving me the essential pieces of the wedding I’d once imagined. He’s making this startlingly personal.

And I don’t think he realizes he’s giving me something more perfect, more precious, than anything I thought I wanted. I don't care about the missing cathedral or the string quartet. I don't give a damn about society applause, French lace, or an engineered fairy tale. None of that matters.

What does matter? That I’m marrying Gabriel Reyes.

I realize I’ve been staring at him a long time when I hear his deep, resonant baritone slicing through the room. "Judge, give us two minutes."

Morrison’s gaze darts to the bruised knuckles on Gabriel's right hand, then flickers to me, taking in my serene mask. He must decide two minutes is an excellent idea, because he steps through an adjoining door with the clerk, pulling it shut behind them with a solid, muffled click.

The room goes still, the only sound the steady patter of rain against the windows.

Gabriel turns to face me. He keeps his hands buried deep in the pockets of his slacks.

I wish he’d take my hand. I wish he’d take me in his arms and kiss me.

Will he kiss me at the end of the ceremony?

My fingers clutch the stem of the peony so hard it breaks.

"Last exit, Duchess." The reckless, teasing banter he used on the drive here is completely gone. His voice is low, gravelly, and stripped down to cold iron. "The second Morrison stamps that certificate, your name is tied to mine. Publicly. Legally. Irrevocably."

I don't blink. "I know."

"You don't," he counters, taking a step closer. The heat of him rolls over me, rich with cedar, gun oil, cold mountain air, and the dark, clean warmth of his skin. “You won’t be just an heiress anymore. You'll be my wife."