Chapter 3
Tori
His hand was enormous. The size of it shocked me as it moved toward me, fingers thick and powerful, the skin across his knuckles scarred and weathered.
Strange patterns marked the back of his hand, dark lines that might have been tattoos…
or something else. Something damaged, scarred, rather than chosen.
The marks curled across his skin in jagged arcs that hinted at battles I couldn't begin to imagine.
War. Every beast from the show came from The Colony.
Veterans of the Coalition Fleet's endless war with the Hive.
Warriors who had survived things most humans could barely comprehend.
Had he been captured? Tortured? My mind flooded with questions even as my pulse raced faster in my throat. I wanted to know everything about him.
He moved slowly as his hand approached my face, giving me time—more time than he probably needed to.
Time to recoil. To scream. To bolt down the aisle and disappear into the chaos now fading around us.
I didn't move. Couldn't. A strange certainty held me rooted in place.
My body leaned toward him instead of away, my breath catching as his shadow fell over me.
I wanted him to touch me. No. I needed to know what his skin felt like.
His palm finally cupped my cheek. The contact sent a jolt through my entire body. Heat surged through my veins like lightning striking water, sharp and electric and impossible to ignore. His skin was hot—far hotter than any human's should be.
Or maybe that was me overheating. Wanting to rip his pants off and have my wicked way with him in a freaking church.
I was so, so bad.
His warmth seeped instantly into my own skin, spreading outward from the point of contact until my entire face tingled beneath his touch.
"Beautiful," he murmured, the word rough and reverent all at once.
"Mate." The rough pad of his thumb brushed slowly across my cheekbone.
The movement was gentle, almost careful, but I felt the calluses there—thick ridges of hardened skin that spoke of weapons and battles and years spent surviving things that would destroy ordinary men.
I should have been terrified. Any sane woman would have been terrified.
So maybe I was insane. So what? I had tried to do the practical thing.
I had said yes to Derek when every instinct in my body had begged me to say no.
I had tried to be logical. Sensible. Responsible.
But part of me had still wanted something more.
Wanted to believe in love. In fate. In ridiculous fairy tales and impossible knights who showed up exactly when you needed them.
I had watched every season of Bachelor Beast. Every episode.
Every behind-the-scenes documentary. I had read the articles and lurked on the fan forums late at night when I couldn't sleep.
I knew about the Atlan Warlords. I knew about their beasts.
I knew about mating fever—the biological imperative that drove them to find the one female meant for them.
The way the beast chose, and once that happened there was no negotiation.
No changing their minds. No wandering eyes.
No cheating. The beast bonded once. And that was it.
Forever. Obsessive. Protective. Unbreakable.
The enormous warrior standing in front of me had decided I belonged to him.
The realization should have sent me running for the nearest exit.
Instead, something deep inside my chest stirred awake.
Something that had been quiet for a very long time.
The same part of me that leaned unconsciously into his touch now, pressing slightly into the warmth of his palm as if my body recognized him before my mind could catch up.
Hope. That ruthless bitch was back, and she was dancing through my bloodstream like tiny jolts of lightning inside my veins.
The feeling was almost dizzying. Like I had just stepped away from an execution I hadn't realized was about to happen.
This was impossible. A miracle. I was a nobody.
Not famous. Not rich. Not brilliant or extraordinary or breathtakingly beautiful.
I was just… me. And yet this massive, terrifying alien warrior had walked into my wedding and looked at me like I was the most important thing in the universe.
"Mine." The word rumbled from his chest, barely audible, a low growl that vibrated through the bones of my skull.
But he didn't stop there. His massive body straightened to its full height, shoulders rolling back as if the entire church suddenly seemed too small to contain him. He threw his head back. And roared.
The sound tore through the sanctuary with shocking force.
The stained-glass windows rattled in their frames.
I felt the vibration in my teeth, in my ribs, in the soles of my feet pressed against the cold stone floor.
The roar wasn't just loud—it was primal.
Raw. Something ancient and untamed that ripped straight out of his chest. It was the sound of a creature who had searched too long and finally found what he was looking for.
The echo rolled through the church like thunder, slamming against the high ceilings and ancient wooden beams before slowly fading into the stunned silence that followed.
Then the panic started. Screams erupted across the sanctuary as guests scrambled from their pews. Chairs scraped across marble. People shoved toward the exits in a frantic rush. I barely heard any of it. Because he was looking at me again.
His enormous hand still cradled my face, his thumb brushing slowly across my cheek in a motion so gentle it contradicted the violent roar that had just shaken the building.
His other hand rose. Massive fingers brushed against my hair, carefully catching a loose strand that had slipped free from my elaborate bridal updo.
The touch was surprisingly delicate as he tucked the strand behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my temple with infinite care.
"My female," he rumbled softly. "My mate. Mine."
I remembered watching Wulf find his mate during the first season of the show, the moment his beast had recognized her.
I remembered the footage of Warlord Tane at the Cinderella Ball, the way the Atlan Warlord had looked like gravity itself had shifted when he saw the human female across the ballroom.
This felt exactly like that. Except now I was the one standing in front of the beast.
The massive, glitter-dusted Warlord who had crashed my wedding was staring at me like I was the answer to every question he had ever asked. "Who…" My voice barely existed when it came out, thin and breathless beneath the fading chaos of the room. "Who are you?"
He leaned closer. Slowly. Carefully. Until his forehead rested against mine.
The contact stole the air from my lungs.
I could feel the heat of his skin, the slow rhythm of his breath mingling with my own.
Cedar and smoke wrapped around my senses, the scent thick and masculine and impossibly intoxicating.
The rest of the world faded away. There was nothing left but golden eyes.
Warm breath. And the dizzying sense that my life had just tilted onto a completely different path.
"Egon," he growled softly. "Warlord. Atlan." His gaze softened slightly as he studied my face, the intensity still there but threaded now with something gentler. "You. Name?"
I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. "My name is Victoria Smith," I said quietly. Then, because something about him made honesty feel easier than breathing, I added, "But my friends call me Tori."
He paused before answering me. The movement was subtle, but I felt it immediately where our bodies almost touched.
His chest expanded beneath a slow, deliberate breath, his massive frame shuddering slightly as though he were wrestling with something powerful inside himself.
When he spoke again, his voice came out rougher. "Tori."
The way he said my name sent a strange tremor through my chest. His gaze darkened as he drew in another breath, the muscles in his jaw tightening as though the scent of me alone demanded effort to endure. "You. Are. Mine."
Around us, the church had dissolved into pure chaos since the roar.
Guests shoved past one another in their frantic rush toward the exits, heels scraping across marble as people stumbled over overturned chairs and crushed rose petals.
Somewhere behind us, someone was crying.
Someone else shouted for the police. The camera crew did the opposite of fleeing.
They pushed closer. Three large cameras rose over shoulders and pews; their massive lenses pointed directly at us with almost frightening intensity.
The operators moved with professional focus, weaving through the chaos like sharks scenting blood in the water.
And behind them— Chet Bosworth. My brain struggled to keep up with the sheer absurdity of the moment as the sequined show host waved his arms wildly, his bright feather boa shedding yellow fluff everywhere it brushed against the wrecked flower arrangements.
"Get this angle!" he barked toward one of the camera operators, pointing frantically. "No, no—closer! Closer!"
Derek was shouting something behind me. Security guards were shouting something else.
Pastor Johnson had apparently abandoned ship entirely.
None of it seemed to penetrate the strange stillness surrounding Egon and me, because I was looking into a pair of golden eyes that held the promise of something I had stopped believing in a very long time ago.
Something I had convinced myself didn't exist outside of fairy tales and cheesy movies.
True love. Destiny. Kismet. Every ridiculous romantic fantasy I had ever rolled my eyes at suddenly seemed to collide in one impossible moment.