Chapter Six #2
"Oh, sweetheart. Oh, Bailey. I'm so happy for you. He's wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Did you see the way he looked at you during the vows? Like you were the only person in the room. That's real, baby. That's the real thing."
I hug her back, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.
"Thanks, Mom."
"And this place!" She gestures at the ballroom with wide eyes. "When his people called me, I thought it was a joke. My Bailey, marrying into this? But then they sent the plane tickets, first class, Bailey, first class, and I thought, well, if this is a joke, it's an expensive one."
"He sent you first class tickets?"
"And a car from the airport. With a driver who called me ma'am." She beams. "He also invited Pastor Jim, but he couldn’t make it.”
Pastor Jim’s in this world, too? He was so instrumental in helping my mom and me cope with the complex mixture of relief and grief that Mom and I battled with when my father died.
I’m glad he’s here, but I just don’t know how to process it.
Or maybe this...and the way Hewhay’s works is simply impossible to process, and I should just go with the flow and keep doing what’s right.
Devyn appears at my elbow, and my mother's face lights up even brighter.
"There he is! The man of the hour." She actually reaches out and pats his arm, and I watch Devyn's expression flicker with something that might be alarm. "Thank you for flying me out here. It means the world."
"Of course," Devyn says, and his voice is stiff. Uncomfortable. "Bailey's family is my family now."
"Oh, listen to him." My mother turns to me, pressing a hand to her heart. "Isn't he just perfect?"
I look at Devyn. He looks at me. Something passes between us—some shared acknowledgment of the absurdity.
"He's something," I say.
My mother beams like I've confirmed all her romantic suspicions.
Someone whisks her away to meet the Baron of something-or-other, and I'm left standing beside Devyn.
“Your mother...”
I nearly laugh. It’s so like my mother to leave even someone like Devyn at a loss for words.
"She hugged me."
"I saw."
"She told me I have kind eyes."
This time, I can't help it. I laugh. "She tells everyone that."
He looks at me sideways. "She seems happy."
"She is happy. She thinks this is a fairy tale."
"And you?" His voice drops. "What do you think it is?"
I don't have an answer.
Before I can try to find one, the man from the ceremony appears at my elbow.
The handsome one. Up close, he's even more striking. Dark hair artfully tousled, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes warm and sympathetic in a way that feels almost too perfect.
"Your Majesty." He takes my hand before I can react, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "What a pleasure to finally meet you. You must be completely overwhelmed."
"I'm sorry, have we—"
"Amos Karp." His smile widens. "I'm a friend of your husband's. Well, an associate, anyway."
Something about the way he says friend makes me think they're anything but.
"It's nice to meet you," I say.
"The pleasure is mine, truly." He hasn't let go of my hand.
"I can only imagine how strange this all must be.
Thrust into our world with no warning, surrounded by strangers.
" His expression turns sympathetic. "If you ever need a friend at court, someone to help you understand how things work here, I hope you'll consider me. "
It's a kind offer. The words are kind, the tone is kind, his face is kind.
So why do I feel like I'm being circled by a shark?
"That's very generous," I start, but I don't get to finish.
A hand lands on my waist. Warm. Possessive. Familiar.
"My wife doesn't need friends." Devyn's voice is calm, pleasant even, but there's an edge beneath it. "She has me."
Amos releases my hand and steps back smoothly. "Of course. I meant no offense. Congratulations on your marriage. She's lovely."
"I know."
The two men look at each other. Something passes between them, something I can't read.
Then Amos melts back into the crowd.
I wait until he's out of earshot.
"Friend or foe?"
"Neither." Devyn's hand is still on my waist. "But my instincts are never off. So make sure to keep your distance from him.”
NIGHT FALLS.
The reception winds down. My mother hugs me one last time, promises to call tomorrow, and is escorted to a guest suite.
And I follow Devyn to his chambers.
Our chambers now, I suppose.
The room is large, elegantly furnished, dominated by a massive four-poster bed that I'm trying very hard not to look at. Devyn closes the door behind us, and the silence feels deafening.
I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know where to look.
He removes his jacket. Drapes it over a chair with methodical precision. Then his cufflinks, set carefully on the dresser.
"I owe you an apology."
I blink. That's not what I expected.
He turns to face me. "The dress. It occurred to me as I watched you walk toward me. The fit was wrong. It was made for someone else, and I put you in it without thought."
I'm still processing the fact that he noticed. That he was watching closely enough to see what I felt.
"I was not raised to be sensitive to such things." The words come out stiff. Formal. "But on this, I could have done better. For that failure, I ask your forgiveness."
The apology hangs in the air.
I shake my head.
"I think," I say slowly, "I'd rather you stay exactly as you are."
His brow furrows. Confused.
"You don't care about the material things.
" I take a step toward him without quite meaning to.
"The dress, the decorations, the flowers.
None of that matters to you. But you care about what matters most." My voice softens.
"Like flying my mother all the way from Oregon so I wouldn't have to be alone today. "
Something happens to his face.
It's subtle. If I weren't trained to read micro-expressions, I might have missed it.
A flush stains his high cheekbones.
My eyes widen.
"Are you—"
"Say another word," he says, his voice low and rough, "and you'll regret it."
"Blushi—mmph!
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Nothing like the kiss at the ceremony.
This kiss is a man staking a claim. His mouth is demanding, insistent, swallowing whatever I was about to say. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and his other arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him.
My toes curl.
My brain empties.
I grip his shirt because my knees have forgotten how to work, and he kisses me deeper, harder, like he's punishing me for making him blush, like he's been wanting to do this for days and finally doesn't have to hold back.
When he finally pulls back, my heart is pounding against my chest.
And when he guides me backward, toward the bed, I don’t say a word.
He guides me backward, toward the bed. Gentle now. Patient.
I have read love poems. I have photographed brides glowing with anticipation. I thought I understood what they were feeling.
I understood nothing.
What happened between us...
It’s a garden I have never walked in. A language I have never spoken. He leads and I follow, and every touch writes something new on my skin. His heartbeat races beneath my palm, matching mine, two rhythms finding each other in the dark.
The contrast between us steals my breath. His strength. My softness. The way he holds me like I'm precious, like I'm fragile, like I'm the most valuable thing he's ever touched.
I am remade with each breath, each whisper, each moment that stretches into eternity.
I am his, and he is mine.
Something in me shifts. Opens. Becomes his in a way I cannot undo, would not undo, will carry with me always.
I will never be the same again.
AFTERWARDS, WE LIE tangled together in the dark.
My head rests on his chest. His arm is wrapped around me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.
I feel different. Not just physically. Something deeper. Like a door has been opened that can never be closed again.
"The marriage is unbreakable now," he says quietly. "In the eyes of my court. In the eyes of the law. You are mine, and I am yours, and nothing can change that."
I don't respond. I'm still floating.
His hand stills on my shoulder.
The silence stretches.
And then, so quiet I almost don't hear it:
"Who sent you, Bailey?"