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I walk up the aisle, eyes pinned on Eve. Even after everything, she still looks flawless. She saved my life by beating a man over the head with a chair, and there isn’t a single hair out of place. When I reach her, I grip her waist and cup my hand under her chin. “Are you okay?”
She bites her lip and then nods. “I think so.”
I run my hands down her harms, checking for any scratch or wound, but she is perfect. Smooth and golden tan and beautiful.
“Are you okay?” she asks, lifting a shaky hand to press her palm against my chest.
“They interrupted our kiss.”
She nods. “They did, but I don’t think the kiss makes it official. We still have the license, so—”
“Better safe than sorry.” I curl my hand around the back of her neck, stopping her words at once. Her eyes widen and her lips part. Her body goes fluid in my arms, and I lean forward.
“What should we do with this one?” a soldier shouts from where three men are trying to restrain the final Irish shooter.
I groan and roll my eyes, annoyed by all the interruptions. “Kill him.”
I stare at Eve, studying the pouty shape of her lips, her pointed nose, and her round eyes until there is a final gunshot and then silence.
“Finally,” I mumble, pulling her close to me. “I may kiss my bride.”
Before anyone else can say anything or more shooters can show up, I tip Eve back and press my lips to hers. Her mouth opens for me, her breath a sigh against my lips, and my body turns into heat and desire and need. I planned for this to be a simple kiss. A church-appropriate kiss. But suddenly, I grab her waist and pull her hips against mine. Minister or no minister, I’m ready to consummate right here, right now.
Eve’s hand slips shyly from my chest to my shoulder, and then her fingers are scraping against the hair at the base of my neck. She is drawing me closer and lifting herself up, and we are both lost in the feeling of each other’s bodies.
Faintly, I hear a cough somewhere, but I don’t pay attention to it. Then, I hear it again. And a third time. Finally, my father’s voice breaks through the steamy haze. “Luka.”
I reluctantly extract myself from Eve, pressing my forehead to hers for a moment before stepping away fully and turning to face my father. His face is all business, and I know mine should be, too. We have to deal with this. Now.
I turn back to Eve. “I have to go.”
She looks around at the ruined state of our wedding, chairs toppled over and blood staining the grass. “Now?”
“I have to,” I say. I turn and wave for Gabriel to step forward. “There will be soldiers with you the entire time I’m away. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I drop her hand and walk away. I don’t want to go. I want to stay with her, and I’m afraid if she argues, I will stay. I’m afraid I’ll shirk my duties to my family and be with her because she is scared and she needs me. So, I leave before she can convince me.
It takes every ounce of my willpower not to look back at her.
14
Eve
The house is eerily silent. All morning there were people buzzing around me, fixing my hair and makeup and asking me about last minute decorations and menu problems. And now, none of it matters. There won’t be a reception. There was barely even a wedding. It’s just me, alone, in my room, still wearing my wedding dress.
I felt bad that, after Luka and my father, my first thought once the shooting stopped was for my dress. Blood was puddled in the grass, splashes of it across the white tulle hanging between the chairs. Luka’s sleeve was dipped in it from when he’d pierced the photographer through the chest. But somehow, my dress made it out unscathed. It is as perfectly white and unsoiled as it was this morning when I put it on. Which feels wrong. It should be covered in blood and dirt and grime. I want it to look as dirty as I feel.
I feel the same way I did after seeing Cal Higgs dead in his car in the parking lot. The same way I did when Samuel’s car exploded and the parking lot of the church filled with smoke. I feel sooty and in desperate need of a shower, but I can’t imagine standing still long enough to let the water wash over me. Plus, I’ve checked my reflection in the mirror one hundred times. I’m fine. Not a hair out of place.
It makes sense, considering Luka pushed me out of the melee the moment it started. I can still feel his arms around me when the first shot rang out. It was immediate, the way he positioned himself in front of me, ready to shield me from whatever threat existed. Why had he done that? I wanted to believe it was because he cared about me, but that went against everything I knew about Luka. More than likely, he was shielding me because without me there would be no deal with the Furinos.
I wish I could ask him what his motivations were, but he left as soon as the shooters were dead. He and his father rushed away to meet with the head of the Irish mob.
I hope he is okay.
My dress rustles across the floor as I pace across my room, anxious for Luka and angry that I’m anxious for Luka. I have to kick the train out of my way every time I turn and pace back across the room. After a few hours of mindless pacing, my legs are getting tired, and I finally decide to peel myself out of my dress. I’d imagined Luka would unbutton the back and slide the material over my skin, and even facing that fantasy makes my cheeks flush.
I shouldn’t want him.
