Chapter 3
T he absolute last thing I should be feeling right now is pride. I’m in a room full of made men who are looking twitchier by the minute, outnumbered ten to one, with glares so full of heat it’s a wonder I haven’t been set on fire.
If I was my father’s son I would be fuelled with anger, with bitterness swimming in my veins but instead – witnessing how deep the bonds of love tie these men and women together - has pride rushing through me. There’s no denying that being witness to something like this is a heady, powerful thing.
There’s something to be said about made men who still have their family values at heart.
The Clan could learn a thing or two from these men.
Witnessing her and Cora embrace each other is like a fist punching through my rib cage and twisting its grip around my heart. The thought of my father nearly robbing them of each other feels like a crime against humanity. One I didn’t, couldn’t , fully comprehend at the time but even one short afternoon in their presence makes it clear how cruel that would be.
At the time the danger didn’t register to me as much as it should have. I’d thought I had more time. It was only by the skin of our teeth and her sheer determination that Cora got out alive.
After Cora's speech, the waiters clear the tables quickly, making way for the DJ and live band. The lights dim, and soon Abigail is twirling around the dance floor, happiness radiating from her as she moves from one man to the next. First, with her dad, looking every bit the blushing bride, then the Four Points men. Her pure joy thaws a part of my long dead heart.
“You’re going to have to be careful with him,” Alex muses, as some asshole kid holds her a little too close, a little too tight, for a little too long.
“Name?” I growl.
“Cole Finlay, Liam and Aidan’s baby brother. And…clearly in love with your wife.”
I drill holes into the back of this Cole kid’s head as I think of all the ways to dismember a body.
Do I start with his hands for touching what isn’t his or rid him of his eyeballs for eye-fucking my wife?
“Good thing I’m taking her home tomorrow,” I mutter, as she spins into Owen's arms. I take a breath. He’s safe. He’s nothing more than a brother to her and that man wouldn’t so much as blink at another woman. Not now he has the love of his life firmly in the palm of his hand. Love is a dangerous thing in this life, and I don’t envy the Achilles heel they both now have.
The DJ announces, “Okay, folks, it’s time for the happy couple's first dance. Put your hands together for Mr and Mrs Graham!”
The floor clears, and the music shifts to a slower tune. I down the rest of my whiskey and stand, adjusting my suit jacket before taking the floor. I squeeze Owen’s shoulder, take Abigail’s hand, and let her lead me to the centre. “You didn’t think to warn me about this?” I tease, pulling her close. Breathless, she collides with me, and a shiver of anticipation zaps up my spine. She tightens her hold on my other hand and digs her nails into the side of my neck.
Princess isn’t immune to me, after all.
She fits against me perfectly, her body pressing into mine with every breath. It has me fighting back a groan at how right it feels. At the stir of deep, primal satisfaction, I instinctively tighten my grip on her.
If my ring on her finger doesn’t speak for itself, then the possessive hold I have on her should do the job.
"Well, if you’d made time to meet me, you could've had input," she retorts with a shrug and a mischievous twirl under my arm.
As Noah Kahan sings about forever, I dip her, wondering if I’m right to bring her into my chaotic life when I can't promise forever. Yet letting her win this small victory, seeing her happy and vibrant, feels right. If I wanted a meek bride, I would've chosen differently.
I’m reluctant to let her go as the song ends. Holding her close, twirling round the floor, the chaos in my mind settles for a moment. As if this is all that matters in the world. And in this moment, maybe it is.
After too many whiskeys, we make our grand exit under a canopy of sparklers, heading upstairs to the bridal suite. Abigail stumbles in, champagne in one hand, shoes in the other, giggling. “Welcome to your honeymoon, husband.”
“The fact you think this is your honeymoon is cute.” I chuckle.
With a laugh that turns into a burp, she sets the champagne down and reaches behind her, trying to unzip her dress, revealing tantalizing skin. Groaning, I approach her, putting one hand on her waist before asking, “Need a hand?”
At her hum of consent, I slowly lower the zipper, teasing myself with each inch revealed until her dress pools on the floor. Fucking hell, she’s beautiful. And naked underneath except for a black thong splitting her ass checks in the most delicious way. Her ass is firm and tight, just begging for my belt. Or a bite.
“Fucking hell, I think it’s time we get you into bed, yeah?”
I quickly shrug off my shirt and lay it over her shoulders. As much as I would love to appreciate the view, she’s clearly drunk. I guide her over to the bed, pulling down the duvet and tucking her in before she can get any smart ideas.
“Hey Viking, you might just make an okay husband,” she slurs as I walk away. With that compliment, I make my bed on the sofa and spend my wedding night the same as I’ve spent most nights of my life—sleeping alone, but this time I’ve the worst case of blue balls.
All thanks to the beauty sleeping in my shirt not ten feet away.
All in a day's job of getting married.