4. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
Ophelia
I slipped out of Dante's room, easing the door shut behind me with practiced silence.
My fingers lingered on the handle, listening for any sound that might indicate he'd woken.
Nothing. Just the steady, soft breathing of exhausted childhood sleep.
Four years of hypervigilance had trained me to move like a ghost through darkened rooms, to sense potential danger before it materialized.
But tonight, the only danger was in my racing thoughts, in the reality of what waited for me beyond this door—my new husband, our wedding night, and a marriage built on necessity rather than love.
The plush carpet muffled my footsteps as I moved through the short connecting hallway of our honeymoon suite.
My body felt like lead, the adrenaline that had carried me through our escape, the flight, and the wedding finally draining away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Yet my mind wouldn't quiet, wouldn't let me relax fully, even here.
When I entered the main room, Razor stood by the minibar, his back to me. He'd removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, the formal clothes making him look more dangerous than his usual leather cut. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he opened a bottle of whiskey.
"He's asleep?" Razor asked without turning around.
"Out cold." My voice sounded thin, uncertain. "The excitement wore him out."
Razor turned then, a bottle of champagne in one hand, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Figured we should celebrate. Not every day a man gets married."
A sharp pop echoed through the room as he twisted the cork free. I flinched at the sudden noise, my shoulders hunching automatically, body bracing for violence instead of harmless carbonation. Old habits. Tyler had loved making sudden, startling noises, watching me jump before mocking my fear.
But Razor's eyes caught the movement, his expression softening. "Sorry," he said simply, pouring the foaming liquid into two flutes without further comment on my reaction.
I crossed the room on unsteady legs, lowering myself to sit on the edge of the king-sized bed.
The mattress gave beneath my weight, luxuriously soft compared to the motel bed we'd left that morning.
Strange how much could change in a single day.
This morning I'd been a fugitive with a fake ID.
Now I was Mrs. Hernandez, legally married to a man I barely knew.
Razor handed me a glass, then sat beside me, leaving a careful distance between actibiyyus.
The champagne bubbles caught the neon light filtering through the curtains—flashes of red, blue, and gold dancing across the surface like miniature fireworks.
Outside, the Strip hummed with endless activity but, in here, the only sound was our breathing and the gentle fizz of alcohol.
"To new beginnings," Razor said, raising his glass slightly.
I nodded, touching my flute to his. The crystal made a pure, clean sound that hung in the air between us. I took a small sip, the champagne sharp and cold on my tongue. My fingers wrapped tightly around the stem, so cold they almost ached.
"We should talk," Razor said after a moment. "About what happens now."
I stared at the champagne, watching the bubbles rise and burst. "Okay."
"Look at me, Ophelia."
The gentle command in his voice pulled my eyes to his. In the colored light from the window, his face was all angles and shadows, but his eyes remained clear, direct.
"This marriage," he began, his voice low and steady, "it might have started as a way to protect you and Dante, but I need you to understand something."
My heart hammered against my ribs, pulse pounding hard at my throat. I took another sip of champagne, needing an excuse to keep my hands occupied when they wouldn't stop trembling.
"This is real to me," Razor continued. "Not just a piece of paper. Not just a convenience. When I make a commitment, I honor it."
I swallowed hard, my chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. "What does that mean? Exactly?"
"It means I expect faithfulness, and you'll get the same from me." His eyes never left mine, unwavering. "It means I'll protect you both with my life if necessary. It means I'm in this—all the way."
The champagne flute trembled in my grip. I set it down on the nightstand before I could drop it, the movement jerky and uncoordinated.
"I don't... I've never..." The words tangled in my throat. How could I explain that my relationship with Tyler had left me with no understanding of what normal commitment looked like? That faithfulness had been demanded of me while he did whatever he wanted?
"I know," Razor said simply, somehow understanding what I couldn't articulate. "I'm not him."
Those three words hit me like a physical force. I'm not him. The simplest reassurance, yet the one I most needed to hear.
"I don't expect anything from you tonight," he continued, setting his own glass aside. "We've got time to figure this out. But I wanted you to know where I stand."
I nodded, a quick, nervous movement. "I want this to work," I admitted, surprising myself with the truth of it. "For Dante. And... for me."
Razor's expression softened around the eyes, the corner of his mouth curving slightly—not quite a smile, but warm enough to loosen the tightness in my chest.
"So do I." He hesitated, then added, "We got a raw deal, jumping straight to marriage without the dating part. But maybe we can do it backward. Start getting to know each other now."
A bubble of unexpected laughter escaped me. "Isn't that what normal people do? Get to know someone before marrying them?"
"We're not normal people," Razor replied, his own mouth quirking up at the corner. "Normal's overrated anyway."
For a brief moment, the tension eased, and I glimpsed what might be possible between us—not just protection and safety, but understanding. Maybe even happiness eventually.
Razor finished his champagne in a single swallow, then stood, extending his hand to me. "Come to bed, wife."
The word sent a shiver through me—part fear, part desire I wasn't ready to name.
I looked at his outstretched hand, tattooed and scarred, yet gentle with Dante, gentle with me.
A hand that had built pillow forts and fought off threats, that had held mine through wedding vows spoken under neon lights.
I placed my fingers in his, cool against his warmth. His hand closed around mine, firm but not constraining.
"Husband," I whispered, testing the word on my tongue as I rose to my feet.
He led me toward the bedroom, his steps unhurried, giving me time to change my mind, to pull away.
I didn't. Despite the fear fluttering in my stomach, despite the uncertainty of everything that had happened, one thing had become clear today: Razor Hernandez was a man of his word.
And for tonight, for now, that was enough for me to follow where he led.
The bedroom was painted in shadows and light, the glow of distant casinos filtering through sheer curtains to cast shifting patterns across the walls.
Reds and blues and golds moved like living fire, turning the ordinary hotel room into a dream I wasn't sure I knew how to survive.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as Razor moved to the window, his silhouette dark against the vibrant city beyond.
This man was my husband now. The thought felt foreign, impossible, yet the weight of the gold band on my finger reminded me it was real.
Razor turned, his eyes finding mine across the room. He didn't rush toward me, didn't make demands. Just waited, giving me space to decide. To choose.
"We don't have to do anything," he said quietly. "If you want to just sleep—"
"No," I interrupted, surprising myself with my certainty. "I want this."
He nodded once, a small acknowledgment that seemed to carry more weight than words. Then he crossed to me, movements deliberate, unhurried. His fingers found the thin strap of my wedding dress, tracing it from my shoulder to where it met the silk of the bodice.
"This dress," he murmured, "should be in a museum. The way you look in it..."
Heat bloomed across my skin, a blush I couldn't control. When was the last time someone had looked at me like this? Had anyone ever?
With gentle hands, Razor helped me turn, his fingers finding the small zipper at the back.
The sound of it sliding down was impossibly loud in the quiet room.
Then cool air kissed my spine as the fabric parted.
The dress slipped from my shoulders, sliding down my body to pool at my feet in a whisper of silk.
I stood in nothing but the simple white underwear I'd bought hastily at the department store earlier, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Instinctively, my arms started to rise to cover myself.
"Don't," Razor said softly. "You're beautiful."
His hands found my waist, warm and steady, as he turned me to face him. I watched as he shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor beside my dress. His tie followed, then the buttons of his shirt slipped free one by one.
I couldn't look away as his chest was revealed—olive skin marked with intricate tattoos that flowed across his muscles. Without thinking, I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as they traced the lines of ink, feeling the warmth of him beneath my touch.
"Your turn," he whispered, guiding my hand to the remaining buttons of his shirt.
My fingers fumbled, clumsy with nerves, but he didn't rush me. When the shirt finally joined the growing pile of clothing, I placed my palms against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my touch.
A flash of memory intruded—Tyler, impatient with my hesitation, roughly grabbing my wrists, forcing my hands where he wanted them. I flinched involuntarily.