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* * *

Ten days. The warden’s office uses every one of them, just like Zahra said they would. And on the afternoon of day ten, Walsh shows up at my cell looking like a man who can’t believe this is his fucking life.

“Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Chapel annex.” He pauses. “You might want to do something about the beard.”

I do something about the beard. Commissary clippers, close as I can get it. I tie my hair back. I put on a clean jumpsuit. That’s the whole list of what a man can do in here. No suit. The warden said with all the shit I put them through; I don’t get to dress up for my wedding on state property. So it’s orange. No ring. My brothers can’t come. Warden won’t have three Greenes in a room on his grounds. My mother could, but I told Aidan to keep her home. She’s not watching her oldest son get married in a waist chain. She’ll get the real one.

It’s the most important day of my fucking life, and I’m walking into it like this.

Zahra deserves better. She deserves a thousand roses and a dress that costs an arm. One day, I swear to God.

But my wolf doesn’t care about any of that shit. He’s been pacing since she came up with the plan.

Mate. Today. MATE.

I know, brother. Sit down.

He doesn’t.

* * *

The annex is a small, ugly room with a sheet hung on the wall, a folding table, and an employee from the county who looks like she’d rather be any fucking where else. Cillian’s in charcoal. Walsh is there too, because the statute wants a second witness and he drew the short straw. Two more guards at the door.

Then the other door opens, and I forget every single one of them.

She’s in white. Not a wedding gown. But some soft, heavy ivory thing with long sleeves, cut straight across her collarbones and poured over the rest of her all the way down to her calves. And fuck me… every curve I’ve been seeing behind my closed lids for two weeks is right fucking there. Her big, round tits. The soft swell of her belly. Her full hips. That goddamn ass. Deep brown against white. Hair pinned up, with curls falling loose around her gorgeous face.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And she fucking got dressed for this. For me.

Something unfurls in my chest.

MINE. Mine mine mine.

She’s nervous. I see her pulse going wildly in her throat. Then her eyes find mine, and she smiles, like her nerves just fell off her.

“Hi,” she says.

I can only beam back.

“You trimmed your beard.”

I nod, fucking eating her up.

The registrar clears her throat. She reads from a laminated card. Do you, Declan Patrick Greene, enter this bond freely? I do. Do you, Zahra Amy Cole? She does, in a voice that’s loud and clear, without a single tremor. Then the woman turns to Cillian.

“Does the witnessing Alpha attest that recognition between the parties was mutual and uncoerced?”

“Unfortunately,” Cillian says.

“I need a yes or no, Mr. Quinn.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. Then, “Yes.”

“The parties can now join hands.”

The guard unlocks my right wrist from the chain. And then there’s nothing between Zahra and me. No table. No glass. No fucking one. Two weeks, and she’s standing a foot away, holding out her hand.

I take it.