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I frown, racking my memory.
My thoughts start spinning, and I shut them down sharply.
Elle’s just being Elle.
She’ll probably show up in a wedding gown she’s torn to shreds and covered in punk swatches of color in a tribute to mideighties Cyndi Lauper.
When Rick brings me to her grandmother’s cottage, though, I think she can’t find a new way to take my breath away.
Every fucking time, I’m hilariously wrong.
The door to the house opens before Rick turns off the engine on the G80.
I catch a glimmer of light like there’s a small sun shining in the entryway of the Lark cottage. One glimpse builds so much breathless anticipation.
I’m barely aware of moving forward until my chest bumps the gate.
Until I behold the sunrise, captured in the shape of a woman.
Her dress is empress waisted, gathered at her ribs in a thin gold band. Her pale skin shines softly above a straight bodice, sheer layers of cream-colored fabric crusted in swirls of glittering gold.
It flares out into gold-embroidery sleeves so small they’re almost straps, making celestial patterns down the front of the dress.
From the gathered waist, the dress sheets outward, a subtle flare falling to the floor and trailing around her. Despite its flare, the thin layers of fabric cling to her, offering hints of her thighs, her hips.
The hem of the dress is dyed in a soft rose gold ombré, fading up into the ivory of the fabric. The color draws out the whiteness in her skin, accenting her red lips.
Fuck me senseless.
Her hair is pulled up in a loose bun, her neck circled with a delicate golden chain dotted with tiny moons. There’s a matching bracelet swinging from her right wrist.
Her makeup is fresh faced, dewy, and instead of her usual boldness, she’s painted her lids in a pink-and-gold gradient.
This woman is the entire dawn.
I can’t fucking breathe as I look at her.
I don’t know—I just know if she kisses me tonight, I might be trapped in her spell forever.
Ever since Charisma’s death, I’ve sworn I’ll never love again—if you could even call what we had love. I swore I’d definitely never trust again. Never let anyone else past the walls and barbed wire that keep me safe from more agony.
Now I, August Marshall, am a damn liar.
I can’t deny how much my heart drums for Elle Lark.
Thankfully, she breaks the silence with a shy sound, ducking her head. She lingers in the doorway, fingering her skirt.
“It’s dragging on the floor,” she murmurs, giving it a small swirl that shows off her glittering heels in pale rose gold straps. “I’m afraid of getting it dirty.”
I pull the gate open immediately.
“Let me.” Wild horses couldn’t stop me from going to her.
Rick leans out the driver’s side window of the vehicle. “Sir, I can—”
“I’ve got it,” I snap. I don’t even look back at him.
I’m not letting another man touch her.
