Chapter 8 Jonah
People descend on me the moment we enter the reception, a swarm of designer suits and cocktail dresses, each one wanting their moment with the new Mr. Colborne. That's what they keep calling me—Mr. Colborne—like I've ceased to exist as Jonah Wells.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Gold-leafed walls reflect the light until everything glows with an otherworldly shimmer. Round tables draped in white silk scatter across the floor, centerpieces of white roses so elaborate they look like small gardens.
"Darling!" A woman in emerald green air-kisses both my cheeks, her perfume thick enough to choke on. "I sit on the board with Diana. You're absolutely precious! Where did Alexander find you?"
Like I'm a collectible he picked up at an estate sale.
"The Omega Match Bureau," I say, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as I feel.
She laughs, a tinkling sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Of course! But really, where are you from? Your people, I mean."
My people. Like we're a different species.
"The Faith Heritage Fellowship," I manage.
"How quaint!" She's already looking past me, searching for someone more interesting. "You must tell me all about it sometime."
She drifts away before I can respond, replaced immediately by an older man with silver hair and calculating eyes.
"Pleasure to meet you young man," he announces, pumping my hand with corporate enthusiasm. "I run acquisitions for Colborne Industries. Let’s hope you keep our Alexander in check."
I’m starting to think my role is going to be as a minder rather than a husband.
"Jonah!"
I turn to find Mom approaching, Dad and my siblings flanking her like a protective detail. Relief floods through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
"Are you okay ?" Mom's lavender scent wraps around me, familiar and safe.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper, leaning into her embrace.
"Just be yourself," she says, but even she sounds uncertain.
Jonah Wells doesn’t belong in this world. I don’t know how to be myself here. I don’t think ‘myself’ is going to do very well in this world.
"There's our man!" Another silver-haired stranger appears. He presses a glass of champagne into my hand. "Congratulations. You are going to be so good for our Alex."
I stare at the bubbles rising in the golden liquid. I've never had alcohol. Not once. It's not exactly forbidden in our church, but it's... discouraged. Especially for omegas.
"I don't—"
"One glass won't kill you," He says, putting his arm around me "Beside, it’s your wedding night. You might need it." He grins and nudges me, then claps me on the back hard before moving away. I feel my face color.
I meet Mom’s gaze and she makes a face at his back. It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I’m not going home with Mom tonight. I’m going home with Alex.
Across the room, I spot my new husband surrounded by his people. He's laughing at something, head thrown back, the perfect picture of easy charm.
That kiss.
My lips still burn from it. I can still taste the way he kissed me, something dark and hungry in it. The way he'd pulled me against him, like he wanted to devour me right there in front of God and everyone...
Heat pools in my belly at the memory, my omega instincts purring despite everything.
I look around for somewhere to put the champagne. If I were to ever have a drink, tonight isn’t going to be the time to start. Mom takes it from me.
“I’ll go get you something else, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
"Jonah." Diana materializes at my elbow like an expensive ghost. "You're needed for photos."
"More photos?" We've already done forty minutes of them between the ceremony and reception.
"The magazine exclusives," she says, like that explains everything.
She steers me away from my family despite Mom's worried look.
The photographer—someone different from this morning, equally intense—positions us against a backdrop of the ever present white roses.
Alex appears, still laughing with someone over his shoulder, not even looking at me until the photographer physically turns his face.
"Closer," the photographer demands.
Alex's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. This close, his scent makes me dizzy. My whole body flushes with heat.
"Smile, church mouse," he murmurs against my ear, his breath making me shiver. "Only six more hours of this."
"Six hours?" I can't keep the horror from my voice.
"At least. Reception, dinner, speeches, dancing, cake." His thumb strokes my hip, just barely, but enough to send sparks through the fabric.
The photographer snaps away while we stand frozen in our fake embrace. Flash after flash until I'm seeing spots. Alex's hand never stops that subtle movement on my hip, and I hate how my body responds, how wetness pools between my legs, how I want to lean into him despite everything.
"Beautiful!" The photographer finally releases us. "Now some candids during dinner!"
Dinner is another production. We're seated at a head table on a raised platform, displayed for everyone to gawk at. My parents are to one side and every now and then I catch Mom's or Dad’s eye and they give me an encouraging smile, but I can see how out of place they both feel.
The food comes in waves—course after course. I pick at each dish, too aware of everyone watching to actually eat.
"You need to eat something." Alex's voice is low, surprisingly gentle. His hand finds mine under the table, just for a moment, and the contact sends electricity up my arm.
I look at him and there is some concern in his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look at me like I’m a human being.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
I look down. He's right. My hand trembles as I reach for my water glass.
Before I can respond, someone taps on a glass, the ringing sound calling for attention. A man I don't recognize stands, champagne raised.
"A toast!" he announces. "To Alexander, who's finally been caught!"
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
"We thought this day would never come," the man continues. "Leave it to the Bureau to succeed where dozens of omegas failed!"
More laughter. My cheeks burn. Dozens? Really? I’m not naive. I know he’s not a virgin, but dozens?
I glance at him. Alex's jaw tightens but he raises his glass. Under the table, his knee presses against mine—whether in comfort or by accident, I can't tell, but I don't pull away.
More toasts follow. Each one a thinly veiled joke about Alex's reputation, about how I must be special to have "tamed the beast," about whether the compatibility rating accounts for alcohol tolerance.
They're all laughing at us. At him. At me.
"I need air," I whisper, and start pushing back my chair. I’m halted by a strong hand on my thigh.
"You can't leave,” Alex says to me, his breath hot on my skin. “Not with everyone watching. Just smile and pretend you don’t give a shit. That’s how I do it. Besides, we’re about to have the first dance."
The first dance.
I forgot about that. There’s a last crude anecdote from the man at the microphone to which I see my father visibly flinch even as the crowd roars with laughter.
My stomach drops as someone dims the lights, and a spotlight appears on the empty dance floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the bandleader announces, "please welcome Mr. and Mr. Colborne for their first dance!"
Alex stands, offering me his hand. I take it because what else can I do? He smells like pure heaven, exactly what the devil would smell like.
I am married. I am actually married. I still haven’t had time to let it sink in.
The music starts. It’s slow and romantic and makes my chest ache. Alex pulls me onto the dance floor, one hand at my waist, the other holding mine. We're close but not quite touching.
"I don't really know how to dance," I admit.
"Just follow my lead. And try not to step on my feet. Imagine how that’ll play in the papers."
I want to be offended but there's something in his tone, not quite teasing but not cruel either. Like we're in on the same joke.
He leads me through the steps, surprisingly graceful. This close, I can see the gray flecks in his eyes, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. He's unfairly beautiful.
"Everyone's watching," I murmur.
"Well, duh." His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me incrementally closer. The movement makes our bodies align perfectly, and I can feel the heat of him through both our suits. "We're the entertainment."
"Is that why you invited your ex-girlfriend? For the entertainment?"
The words slip out before I can stop them. Alex's gaze flicks over my shoulder to where Saskia Scarmetto sits at a prime table, golden and glowing and perfect.
"Jealous already, church mouse?" His thumb traces circles on my lower back, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping.
"Of what? The fact that you invited your ex-girlfriend to our wedding?"
"I didn't invite her. Diana did." His voice hardens. "Diana invited everyone. This isn't a wedding. Surely, you know that by now. It's a business event with wedding decorations."
He spins me, the movement making me dizzy. When he pulls me back, we're closer than before, bodies almost flush. The heat of him burns through both our suits, and I can smell his arousal mixing with mine.
"Besides," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my ear, "she's not my girlfriend. Not any more.”
"She looks at you like she wants to change that."
"Lots of people look at me like that." His hand slides lower on my back, just shy of inappropriate. "You look at me like that, when you think I'm not watching."
"I do not—"
He dips me. Actually dips me, like we're in some old movie, his face hovering inches above mine. The position presses our hips together and I can feel—oh—he's half-hard against me. My body responds immediately, wetness flooding between my legs.
"Liar," he whispers, his eyes dark with hunger, then pulls me back up as the song ends.