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There was no hate or bitterness between us. Instead, the weighted promise of forever felt less like punishment and more like freedom. There had to be something in the air that relaxed me enough to recite the vows and hold Alistair’s eyes. Granted, the words didn’t sound loving or even caring. They were simply cold promises that harbored no love.
But no one ever claimed Van Gogh to be loving. He is simply an artist who expresses himself through his actions.
Each canvas is his story.
Each brushstroke is his apology, and each smear with his fingers is a promise.
I never needed Van Gogh to promise to take care of me or protect me. He simply was there when I needed him.
Until he wasn’t.
Until he claimed I betrayed him.
Our relationship may never be the same, but after hearing Van Gogh promise to love and honor me with his words, I know he still yearns for me.
Even if he’s hated me all these years, somehow, he’s protected me.
Or maybe the vows sparked the romantic in me, making our relationship more than it truly is.
“Alistair,” Judge Gadot’s voice rips me back. “You may now kiss your bride.”
I don’t know what I thought would happen, that Van Gogh would jump up, wrap his arms around me, dip me to the ground, and maul me with that sharp tongue, but I most certainly didn’t think he would just stand there. His eyes morph back into the man with a grudge against the world as he bites out, “No.”
Pain rushes through my chest for a split second, but then heat takes over and pools in my cheeks, pissing me off.
“No?,” I repeat, dropping his hands and gripping the lapels of his jacket. “You just promised me an eternity, and you won’t kiss me?”
Like the asshole he is, Van doesn’t respond. I don’t even know why it bothers me. I should be ecstatic that I don’t have to kiss this wretched man, but my ego doesn’t agree.
If I’m being honest, neither does my heart.
There was a time when this man was my everything. I was ready to leave my entire life behind and go with him into the pits of the abyss where he stayed, running from the law and helping those who couldn’t help themselves.
I had this whole Bonnie and Clyde fantasy, which turned out to be a big fat lie.
“Fine,” I tell him after a moment. “You don’t have to kiss me.” I push him away, pissed off that I’m even pissed off that he won’t kiss me, and take a step back. “If anyone understands you, it’s me.” I flash him a smirk and make eye contact with Enoch. “So, I’ll save your kiss for later, my love—right on my ass.”
Fuck him, and fuck embarrassment. We may have recited vows, but we both know we don’t intend to keep them—sacred or not. Van Gogh doesn’t play by the same rules as others.
It’s then that Van Gogh smiles. It’s brutal and beautiful, and it makes me fucking sick.
“Understood,” he says dryly, turning and extending his hand to Enoch. “You have my word,” he promises.
Enoch nods, and whatever they promised each other, I hope it gives them both a rash.
“Congratulations,” Enoch says softly.
I don’t even have it in me to be polite, so instead of saying thank you, I simply brush past him and open the door.
I have a cat to get to.
We’ve been driving for almost an hour and he’s yet to speak. It’s the best wedding gift he could ever give me.
Except I’m hungry and could use some caffeine, like yesterday.
“I hope we’re almost to the dungeon,” I tell him, staring out the window, admiring the countryside between the rolling hills and winding roads.
“Be patient.”
