35. Damian
CHAPTER 35
DAMIAN
W e marry on the kind of day that feels blessed by something bigger than us.
Late summer. Warm without heat. The sky a soft watercolor of pale blue brushed with gold. The kind of light that settles gently on your skin, not like a spotlight—but like an embrace.
The meadow behind our new home is untamed and perfect, just like her. Wildflowers bloom in soft bursts of violet, white, and faded pink. Bees hum lazily near the edge of the tree line. A long linen aisle runner rests atop the grass, gently ruffling in the breeze.
We don’t have an altar.
Instead, there’s a pair of curved wooden chairs beneath a living arch of branches and flowers, woven by hand the day before by Isabelle and her artist friends.
Our guests are seated on vintage wooden benches, each one covered with simple ivory linen and pale green garlands. Just family. Close friends. No media. No flash.
This isn’t a statement.
It’s a promise.
The quartet starts playing something slow and warm, a reimagined version of a classical piece that sounds like it was written just for her.
Isabelle appears at the top of the meadow path, sunlight catching in her hair.
Everything stops, and my heart stumbles.
She wears a silk gown the color of antique cream. The bodice hugs her gently, embroidered with tiny white wildflowers and vines that look like they’ve grown right out of her skin. The sleeves are sheer, brushing her arms like a whisper. The train flows behind her like a sigh.
Her hair is half-up, threaded with tiny gold pins shaped like stars. Her bouquet is a loose, hand-tied bundle of wildflowers, herbs, and vines—unruly, colorful, free .
She meets my eyes and smiles, and I forget how to breathe.
She walks toward me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at, barefoot on the linen runner, the earth beneath her just as sacred as anything we could have built in stone.
When she reaches me, I take both her hands and whisper, “You look like a miracle.”
Her eyes are already glassy. “You look like home.”
The officiant is a close friend of hers, a soft-spoken woman named Evie who once ran a nonprofit and now teaches poetry in the city. She reads a brief piece, something about roots and wings, and we move straight into the vows.
Mine are raw and real, every line wrapped in the humility I had to earn. “I don’t want to own you,” I say. “I want to grow with you. I want to rise with you. I want to spend every day proving that power was never the point. Love was.”
Isabelle’s voice trembles, but she never looks away. “You were once the most unreachable man in the world,” she says. “Now, you’re the man who chooses to reach for me every time, and I will never stop reaching back.”
We exchange rings—hers a thin band of twisted gold that wraps around the engagement ring I gave her in the gallery. Mine is brushed black titanium with a tiny engraving on the inside: For us.
When the officiant says we may kiss, I don’t hesitate. I kiss her with my body, soul, and heart. She’s everything to me, and she deserves all of me always.
* * *
The reception is held under a canopy of trees strung with warm light and soft white lanterns. There’s no assigned seating. Just wooden farm tables filled with seasonal food, laughter, stories, and far too much champagne.
There’s a corner where one of Isabelle’s friends is sketching portraits for guests, another with a guestbook made of handmade paper and dried flowers.
Our first dance isn’t choreographed. We just dance, holding each other, slowly, wrapped in each other.
The world fades. She’s all I’ll ever need.
At the end of the night, someone hands us sparklers, and our friends form a tunnel of flickering light. We run through it, hand in hand, laughing like kids, like the world is wide open and ours.
We’ve already built something indestructible.
Not a kingdom.
Not an empire.
A life.
* * *
Finally, it’s time for our wedding night. Enough time has passed that we leave our guests to enjoy the rest of the reception themselves, and we sneak off to our house. Again, it’s quiet. Still no photographers and no press.
Isabelle steps barefoot across the hardwood, her fingers trailing along the edge of the entry table as she slips out of her heels. The hem of her gown gathers in one hand, the other still clasped in mine.
She turns to look at me, and there’s something in her eyes that’s both new and achingly familiar.
“Now what, Mr. Kincaid?” she teases.
I smile, slow and reverent. “Now I spend the rest of my life showing you what ‘ours’ really means, Mrs. Kincaid.”
She laughs, quiet and breathless, but when I scoop her into my arms and carry her toward the bedroom, she goes still against me.
Our bedroom glows with soft amber light from the sconces I left on before we left intentionally. The bed is already turned down. The sheets are crisp and white, tucked the way I know she likes them. On the bedside table, a single vase holds a sprig of wild rosemary and soft lilac.
She notices it and smiles. “You remembered.”
“I never forget anything you love.”
I set her down beside the bed and reach for the zipper at the back of her gown.
Her breath catches as I slowly pull it down, the sound loud in the hush between us. The silk slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stands there in soft lace—nothing else—and looks at me like I’m her favorite painting.
I move closer and trail my hands along her bare arms, her waist, her hips.
“I want to take my time with you,” I murmur. “I want to feel every inch of our beginning.”
She leans into me. “Then take it.”
I undress slowly, letting her help, letting her kiss each new place she reveals. When we’re both bare, I lift her onto the bed and cover her body with mine, bracing on my forearms so I can watch her face as I kiss her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her belly.
Her fingers slide into my hair. “Damian…”
“I love you,” I say, not as a vow but as a truth already written in our bones.
And then I sink into her. Deeply. Slowly. Completely.
She gasps, her legs winding around my waist, her hands gripping my back, her breath warm against my cheek as I start to move.
I make love to her like she’s sacred.
Every thrust is deep and controlled, my body pressed flush to hers, our mouths constantly finding each other. I want to hear her moan. I want to feel her nails in my skin. I want her to know that this isn’t about lust.
It’s about forever .
She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me close, rocking her hips up to meet mine.
All too soon, her body tenses, and her mouth parts in a trembling gasp. The way she squeezes my cock is too much for me, and I follow.
Later, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand tracing circles along her spine.
She presses a kiss to my collarbone and whispers, “So that’s what marriage feels like?”
I smile. “No,” I say, voice thick with emotion. “That’s what us feels like.”
Beyond power, beyond legacy, beyond anything I thought I needed, this is the life I was always meant to build.