13. Katerina
Chapter thirteen
Katerina
The ceremony room is small. A single lamp, a fake ficus in one corner, a row of metal folding chairs along the sides, a portable music player on a tiny table that isn't turned on.
My new film camera tattoo, bandaged and slightly stinging under its wrap, seems to flash with heat whenever I so much as think the word ceremony.
I've planned dozens of weddings. Large, small, outdoor, rooftop, in chapels, on beaches. Not one looked like this. And I've never been the one standing in the center, waiting for someone else to orchestrate.
The officiant stands at a small lectern. She flips open a worn binder, presumably containing the vow script. Then she looks up, beckoning us closer with a gentle smile. There's no music, no guests, no walk down an aisle. This is all we've got.
My mouth is dry, but my legs move me forward. Bex stands next to me. We face the officiant. My heart clatters, my body suddenly hyperaware of the silver band clutched between my fingertips. The ring is sized a fraction too big, so I tighten my grip to avoid dropping it.
The officiant's voice is kind. "We're here to witness the union of these two, who have chosen tonight to join their lives in marriage. Though this ceremony is brief, the commitment is real."
I close my eyes briefly, trying to breathe.
If I were planning this, I'd have wanted better lighting, maybe some flowers that aren't plastic.
I'd have had months to prepare. I'd have family, friends.
Or maybe not, considering who my parents are.
Still, it would be orchestrated, expected. This is none of those things.
I open my eyes. Bex's attention flicks to me, searching. I manage a small, tight-lipped smile. She returns it, exhaling slowly.
The officiant continues, reading from a standard script about the meaning of vows. It's nothing I haven't heard before. I've quietly stood behind many a bride as she repeated these lines. But never, not once, did I imagine being the one reciting them.
"Do you, Katerina Bennett," the officiant says, eyes on me, "take Rebecca Russo to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?"
Time snaps into slow motion. I smell the dusty carpet, see the glow of that overhead lamp reflected on the officiant's cardigan, feel the cheap band pressing into my palm. Bex's eyes meet mine. I hear her breath slip.
I say, "I do."
My voice comes out quiet but certain, and for half a second, I don't recognize it.
Then the officiant addresses Bex: "Do you, Rebecca Russo, take Katerina Bennett to be your lawfully wedded spouse...?"
Bex's gaze is unwavering, though her knuckles are white where she grips the other silver ring. She clears her throat. "I do."
The officiant nods. She tells us to place the rings, reciting a short line about fidelity.
I slip Bex's ring on her finger. It's slightly too tight.
Her hand is warm. Or maybe both of us are overheated with nerves.
She slides mine over my fourth finger, a cool metal press that makes actual contact with my racing pulse.
The officiant's voice softens. "By the authority vested in me by the state of Louisiana, I now pronounce you spouses in marriage. You may kiss."
My heart slams.
We turn toward each other. Bex hesitates, her hand lifting to graze my cheek. I feel her breath, that faint hitch.
Kissing her is an inevitability now, no excuse of a dare or a game, just the simple, unstoppable fact of it.
I lean in, letting our lips press in a slow, careful meeting.
My mind spins with the memory of that first dare-kiss.
This is different. This feels heavier, profound in a terrifying, exhilarating way.
Her mouth is soft, parted in acceptance. My eyes are shutting, total hush flooding my senses. The officiant is still there. The ficus is still there. But for the moment, all I register is Bex's exhale and the slight rustle of my dress as I lean closer.
We pull apart. The officiant murmurs, "Congratulations."
That's it. That's legally it.
She hands us the final forms to sign. We do it swiftly, methodically, hearts hammering. Then she tears off a copy for each of us, tucks them into a little envelope. She says goodnight, as if we've just completed a normal business transaction.
Suddenly, we're back on the street, stepping onto cracked concrete under a flickering lamp. The city's quiet at this hour, aside from the distant churn of an AC unit and a car rumbling three blocks away.
We start walking. I am so stunned, my face feels numb.
My entire life up to this point has been structured around meticulously planned choices.
Now I've made the biggest choice of my life in a single night.
It is not in any binder I own. There is no tab for this.
There isn't even a miscellaneous section generous enough to hold it.
We don't speak for half a block. The sidewalk is uneven, so I stare at the ground to keep from tripping. Next to me, Bex is matching my pace, her arm occasionally brushing mine. If we locked hands, I would probably lose it entirely.
Then, out of nowhere, I let out a laugh. A full, unbridled laugh that rushes out of me like a release valve. It's not frantic or nervous. It's closer to wild joy, the kind you feel when you realize something has happened that you never, ever anticipated.
Bex looks at me, eyes wide. She starts laughing too. Softly at first, then more. We walk a little faster, the laughter carrying us, bouncing off brick walls. The silver band on my finger catches the faint moonlight.
"Did we just—" she tries to say, but she can't finish the sentence without laughing more.
"Yes," I manage, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "Yes, we did."
We pass a boarded-up gallery, a closed bookstore, a lone street performer sitting on a stoop with a harmonica, half asleep, open hat by his feet.
He lifts his head as we pass and blows one lazy chord, like the city itself is offering us a recessional.
Bex tosses a few bills in the hat. Neither of us says a word about it.
The night air is thick, pressing on my skin like a damp blanket, but I'm oddly energized. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
By the time we reach the hotel, the adrenaline is pulsing in my veins. There's a doorman, but he's half-asleep behind the desk. He barely notices us slip through the lobby, heading straight for the elevator. The glass doors slide shut, and I press the button for my floor.
In the elevator, Bex meets my gaze. One corner of her mouth lifts, and I want to kiss her again, but the mirrored walls of the lift reflect back a version of myself that makes me flinch: my hair still pinned in its careful style, my deep plum sundress barely wrinkled despite everything, the cardigan folded neatly over my arm.
I look like the perfect Bennett daughter. I look like Sofia's best friend.
I don't look like a woman who just got married to another woman at two in the morning.
The doors ding open. We step into the hallway, my flats near-silent on the carpet in a rhythm that still feels like a countdown. I unlock the door to my room. A modest queen bed, neat surfaces, the window cracked to the street below, the blinds tilted against the New Orleans neon.
The moment we're inside, I flick on one lamp. The overhead is too bright, too clinical. Bex stands near the window, her arms folded across her black tank top. I set down my purse, and the envelope shifts inside it, the one that reads OFFICIAL MARRIAGE LICENSE.
Bex stands near the window, her silhouette framed by the harsh neon of New Orleans. She doesn't look like a secret. She looks like a catastrophe I’ve been waiting to happen.
"Sofia is three doors down," I whisper, the reality hitting me like a physical blow. "If she knew. If my parents knew."
"But they don't," Bex says. Her voice is the anchor.
She crosses the carpet, her sneakers silent.
She cups my face, her thumbs grazing my cheekbones with a possessive, terrifying tenderness.
"This is the only space in the world where you don't have to be their version of Katerina. Here, you're just mine."
The words cut through the remaining threads of my composure. I reach up, my fingers trembling as I find the hem of her tank top. I pull it up, and she helps me, her arms lifting.
She is a map of ink and muscle. In the lamplight, her skin turns to amber, tracing the dark, intricate lines of the tattoos my mother would call a scandal and I find sacred. I trace the feather along her shoulder, my dark fingers a stark contrast against the art she wears.
"Mine still stings," I murmur, glancing at the bandage on my own wrist.
"Good," she breathes. "It means we didn't dream it. It means you actually said I do to the girl your mother warned you about."
She reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress.
The teeth part with a sharp, rhythmic shirr.
The fabric slides down, pooling at my feet like a shed skin.
I’m exposed. No more wedding planner. No more good daughter.
Just me, my deep brown skin shimmering under the harsh lamp, shivering with a need that has been starving for a decade.
Bex’s breath hitches. She looks at me like I’m a masterpiece she’s finally been allowed to touch. "Kit. I've spent a decade trying not to look at you like this."
The kiss is a landslide. Her mouth tastes of mint and the adrenaline of our secret.
We stumble toward the bed, the mattress firm, the sheets cool against the heat radiating off our skin.
Bex settles between my thighs, her weight a heavy, welcome pressure.
The ink along her arms frames me, dark against the richness of my skin, and I suck in my breath.
"I used to watch you at Sofia's parties," she whispers against my jaw. "Watching you be so composed, so perfect. I wanted to be the one to break that. I wanted to be the reason you forgot your own name."
"You win," I moan.
Her hands move over my torso, her thumbs tracing my ribs, making me shudder. When her fingers brush the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, I arch my back, an unspoken invitation. She pulls back, her eyes darker than I've ever seen them.
"Sei bellissima," she whispers. "My wife. My secret."
She hooks her fingers under the waistband of my underwear, sliding them down my legs. She coaxes my legs apart, kneeling between them. The sight of her there—the dark, jagged ink of her arms framing the deep, rich brown of my thighs—is so beautiful it’s almost painful.
She leans forward, her lips brushing the velvet skin of my inner thigh. I gasp, digging my fingers into the cool sheets.
"Bex," I moan, my voice low and wrecked.
"I've got you," she murmurs. "No one is watching, Kit. Just me."
She pins my hands to the pillow, our silver bands clinking together, and she truly finds me.
She uses the tip of her tongue to trace, to swirl, to map.
Every flick is a calculated strike against the wall I’ve built around myself.
The tension builds, a coil winding tighter and tighter, radiating outward until my toes curl and my breath hitches in broken, staccato sobs.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. She varies the pressure, moving from teasing swirls to long, firm, punishing strokes. My composure isn't just slipping; it is being systematically dismantled.
"Please," I choke out, my head thrashing.
She shifts, her hands leaving mine to grip my hips, her thumbs digging into my waist to hold me still. She finds that one singular, agonizing point of heat and applies a steady, buzzing pressure.
The world collapses.
The tension in my thighs becomes a physical weight. My heart is a roar. "Bex... Rebecca..."
The use of her full name is the final trigger. She gives one last, firm, upward flick, and the coil snaps.
It starts in my core and radiates outward in violent, beautiful ripples.
I arch off the bed, a high, sharp cry breaking from my throat that I pray Sofia can't hear through the walls.
It is a total, terrifying loss of control, and it feels like flying.
Every muscle in my body spasms in an exquisite, sustained release.
I collapse back into the mattress, my chest heaving, sweat shimmering in the lamplight. Before I can find my breath, Bex is moving, crawling up the length of my body. She’s flushed, her eyes wide with a mixture of pride and adoration.
"Was it worth the wait?" she asks softly.
I reach for her, pulling her down until her heart is beating against mine. "Yes," I whisper, my fingers tracing the ink on her shoulder. "A thousand times yes."
Our skin sticks together, damp and hot. As we lie there, she takes my left hand and traces the silver band with her thumb.
The room is unremarkable, the license is still on the desk, and the rings are cheap—but as I feel the steady rise and fall of her chest against mine, I realize I’ve never planned anything this perfect in my life.
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