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“They know what’s good for them,” he says in a self-satisfied growl. “Now let them see how beautiful you are. Look at the photographer and smile like you mean it.”
I do my best. I really do, but the idea that there are going to be pictures to commemorate this moment makes me feel a little queasy.
I can do this.
The first notes of the Wedding March start up, but just as we start to move, a massive explosion shakes the whole building. Smoke and bits of debris billow down from above, but more terrifying than that is the painfully loud scream of twisting metal right before the glass of the chandelier starts clinking together like an enormous wind chime.
We stare up in horror as it swings to one side, crashing into the wall. Metal shrieks again, and the entire glistening structure plummets from above.
“Fuck,” Vincent swears, diving away and leaving me standing there alone in my wedding dress, watching what’s simultaneously the most beautiful and terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
3
HARPER
The chandelier hits with a crash that only the shattering of tons of crystal, diamond and steel can make. The floor shakes under my feet. I throw my arms up in front of my face and close my eyes as I turn away, trying to get back behind the cover of the entryway. I can feel that I'm screaming, but can't hear it over the thundering of each tier of the chandelier landing one after another.
Tiny slivers of glass tear over my skin like a blizzard of razor sharp ice crystals. Something lands over me. A blanket? No, a jacket that smells like leather, cloves and motor oil.
“Move!” a deep voice yells. One of the guards?
Everything happens so quickly. Whoever helped me shoves me out of the way and back into the antechamber. The jacket is ripped away, and I see two men, but they’re definitely not guards. Not unless some of them are undercover in leather, denim and motorcycle boots.
“This is fucked,” growls the first one, his voice raspy and as hard and dark as his expression.
He's built like a brick wall—tall, broad and unbreakable. His black T-shirt struggles to keep his massive physique contained. His jeans struggle too, stretched tight over his powerful thighs and—oh God, I rip my eyes away but the information that he hangs to the right is seared forever into my brain. His dark brown hair is cut short, and so's his beard, clinging to a strong jaw. The big muscly type was never my thing, but I’m willing to reconsider.
And apparently they come in twos, because the other man looks just like him, and by that I mean almost exactly like him. But his expression is lighter, more playful. He’s looking me over in a way that has nothing to do with checking to make sure I’m okay. On a man like him, it's the kind of look that makes a girl’s ovaries go wheeee!
“I don't know,” he says. The smirk on his short-bearded face is roguish and confident. He winks. His eyes are deep brown chocolate pools I could go skinny dipping in. “It could be worse.”
“Keep it in your fucking pants. She’s getting married and we don’t have fucking time,” the first man snaps as he shakes out his jacket and puts it back on.
The words snap me out of my daydreams. This wedding might be a sham, but other people aren’t supposed to know that, and these aren’t the kind of thoughts a bride-to-be should have about two random guys, even if they happen to be ridiculously hot in a screw you within an inch of your life, then gone in the morning kind of way.
God, what am I even thinking? There might be people hurt in there! “Someone go check on the photographer. He was right on the other side!”
“Security!” roars Vincent, right behind me. Apparently he didn’t go far. He puts a possessive hand on my shoulder and glares at the new arrivals. “Who the fuck are you? Are you responsible for this?” His voice is tight with barely controlled fury.
The expression on the playful one’s face goes stone hard in an instant. “Yeah, and you’re fucking lucky we weren’t here to do worse. Next time the Screaming Eagles want to talk, pick up your fucking phone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my father growls, but the brief pause before he answers makes me certain he’s lying.
“The fuck you don’t,” growls the serious twin. The sharp glare he levels at Vincent would slice him in half if it could. “Your business is no longer welcome in our territory. Next time we even get a fucking sniff that you’re supplying to our people, that’s it, Mesner.”
A door on the opposite side of the room slams open, spitting out one of Vincent's black-clad security guys. He tumbles limply, landing in a heap. Two more guys in leather jackets and motorcycle boots pop out. This time I double check, but at least they're not twins.
