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Hard to notice for anyone else, that is.
But me? I can’t look at anyone but her.
Even as Bee steps up to the altar, I take her hand with my eyes locked on Wren. It requires quite a bit of effort to tear my gaze away from the maid of honor to the bride.
Maybe it’s the heightened urgency of the moment. Maybe it’s the utter ludicrousness of standing here, opposite the best friend who’d rather punt me into Lake Michigan than marry me with any ounce of sincerity. Maybe it’s simply long-suppressed instinct.
Whatever it is—it puts things in perspective. It makes one harsh truth undeniable.
Wren matters to me.
I can try to deny it—and fuck knows I have. I can pretend all I want. I can lie convincingly—to her, to the world, even to myself. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m standing here, wishing that Wren was the woman standing in front of me instead of Bee.
Based on the anxious frown on Bee’s face, she seems to have come to the same conclusion.
“Are you okay?” she mouths to me. I nod as the officiant starts the ceremony. But Bee doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. She inches closer and pulls her eyebrows together. “Seriously, are you okay?” Except this time, she doesn’t mouth the question; she whispers it. Loud enough that the officiant stammers to a stop and looks between us questioningly.
“Uh, should I continue?”
“Of course,” I snap, shooting Bee a glare.
She shrugs and gestures over her shoulder with her chin in Wren’s direction. My nostrils flare but she doesn’t seem to get the hint. “Fix it,” she mouths.
Suppressing a sigh, I nod. That’s the only way I’ll get any peace—both peace within my household and within my own tortured head.
The officiant clears his throat, clearly confused as hell about the two of us. “It is now time for the bride and groom to recite their vows.”
There’s an audible and collective gasp as someone rises from the throng of guests at the back of the hall. “Can I go first?”
I know that voice.
I know that fucking voice.
Both Bee and I whirl around in the direction of the tall figure striding up from the back of the hall. “O’Gadhra…” she whispers.
Cian O’Gadhra is wearing a black tux and a resigned look on his face. Behind him, the harpists rise to their feet and pull automatic weapons from their instrument cases and the folds of their white robes. A dozen guns quiver in my direction like black eyes.
“I vow to make this shit end today,” he intones.
That’s when all hell breaks loose.
68
DMITRI
Wedding guests part like the Red Sea. Screams echo throughout the chapel.
The throng of Irish gangsters start shooting mercilessly, but I’ve completely lost sight of Cian. My men converge around us like a human shield, brandishing weapons of their own, but we’re outmaneuvered, outnumbered, insufficiently prepared for an invasion from within.
Three Bratva soldiers go down in explosions of blood. I can’t smell the flowers anymore—it’s just gore, gunpowder, and fear sweat drenching the air.
My first instinct should be to protect my blushing bride. But Bee is neither blushing nor very bridely as she pulls up her skirts and whips out a gleaming pistol of her own. Her eyes are alight with excitement; there’s even a smile curling around the corners of her mouth as she aims through the gaps between the shoulders of my men and starts shooting.
“Aleksandr!” I roar. “Get her out of here!”
I don’t have to specify which “her” I’m talking about. I meet my brother’s eyes for only a second before he grabs Wren’s arm and starts to pull her off the raised platform we’re on.
He doesn’t get far.
