1. A Most Inconvenient Marriage #2
She’d asked if I really wanted to do this before launching into one of her trademark tirades about how awful marriage was. Obviously, I didn’t want to go through with any of this. But I couldn’t tell her that.
Even if I wished she could save me.
Her stance on marriage was strange, considering she’d never been married. Maybe she was bitter about that. Or perhaps she just hated men. Or maybe she was really talking about my parents, whose relationship had always felt more like a business partnership than a love story.
According to my father, once upon a time they’d been madly in love. Now he had to live with the regret that Mom had died when things between them had been anything but wonderful.
And now here I was, walking straight into the most loveless marriage since Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Only mine came with fangs.
The processional music played by the small orchestra Julian had insisted upon swelled louder the closer I got to him.
I wondered if he had purposely chosen “Air” by Bach, knowing I would feel at this moment like there wasn’t any air to breathe.
For all I knew, Julian had known Bach and it was a tribute to an old friend.
My groom had been careful never to mention his real age, but I knew he had to be much older than the forty he claimed to be. His mannerisms and regal way of speaking made it obvious that he was the product of a different time.
With shaking limbs and a throbbing ankle, I halted with my father just feet from Julian. He stood like a dark statue at the altar while beside him the kindly priest beamed at me, his crinkled green eyes and oversized ears radiating warmth. The contrast nearly undid me.
My best friend—really my only friend—Daphne stepped forward to take my ornate waterfall bouquet, which was spilling over with white roses and orchids that had cost more than a hundred dollars a stem.
Julian had insisted that “our day” be outfitted with the finest things money could buy to make this sham look legitimate.
Given my father was one of the wealthiest men in Savannah, I supposed that made sense.
However, I would have preferred a simpler day if it were truly my wedding.
Maybe in my mother’s rose garden, since it was September now and the unbearable heat and humidity of summer had subsided just a little. A very little.
Daphne looked stunning in her gold evening gown, the color glowing against her golden-brown skin, a gift from her Peruvian mother.
Her father, as white and Southern as they came, owned one of the trolley tour companies in town.
She was the perfect blend of the two worlds—warm, grounded, and glowing. Exactly who I needed beside me today.
I handed Daphne my bouquet.
She winked through the enormous glasses she prided herself on.
We had lovingly called ourselves the “geek squad” growing up.
While our high school classmates were out getting drunk on the weekends, we were hanging out at the historic county library that Daphne was now the librarian of.
We’d spent our nights there, lost in the pages of our favorite fantasies and talking about our book boyfriends since we didn’t have real ones.
Fictional men were far superior to the living, breathing kind .
. . or, as I now knew all too well, the undead kind—whatever The Vampire Diaries or Twilight may have led you to believe.
Sadly, Daphne was more than thrilled for me. When I told her Julian had proposed—and insisted we marry before the end of September—she hadn’t hesitated to believe he was madly in love with me, ignoring the whispers that I wasn’t sophisticated or beautiful enough for him.
Julian was the epitome of a GQ model. Meanwhile, I was the girl who lived in ponytails and baggy clothes because they were comfortable, and because no one was looking at me. At least, not until recently.
I should have realized someone like him would have never normally paid attention to me, but after my mother’s death I was distraught and not thinking clearly.
When we first met, before I knew who or what he really was, he’d offered a distraction from the grief and even a desperately needed shoulder to cry on. What a fool I’d been.
“Who gives this woman?” Father Francis asked, his voice echoing through the cathedral.
Julian stepped forward, his hand outstretched, playing the part of an eager husband-to-be.
I stared at Julian’s masculine, perfectly shaped hand that looked like someone had carved it out of marble.
Once upon a time, before I knew the truth, I would feel this surging connection and a sense of belonging at the touch of his hand.
Now, the thought of touching him revolted me.
And to think I had mistaken his chilly hands for a blood circulation problem.
In a way I was right, since his heart only beat a few times per minute.
It was more surprising that he had a heart at all.
My father’s grip tightened. He kissed my cheek. “I love you, Nicolette.” His deep, commanding voice wavered, and tears blurred my vision. It had been years since he’d said those words.
“I do,” he answered Father Francis, though it sounded more like a plea than a declaration.
To spare him further pain, I let go. Freely, bravely—or as close to that as I could come. Hoping my courage might lend him some of his own.
Julian seized my hand the moment it was free, sparing my father the burden of placing it in his. He lifted our clasped hands to his mouth and pressed his lips against my skin, closing his eyes as though savoring the bouquet of an exquisite Bordeaux.
“Amore mio,” he crooned, his voice a velvet blend of British refinement and Italian seduction. A byproduct of the countries he’d lived in the longest.
I forced myself not to flinch—or worse, shiver and giggle like a schoolgirl. I refused to be taken in by his lies and sensuous ways. Still, resisting him was its own battle. The ambrosia on his skin, the hypnotic gleam of his eyes, the elixir on his breath—all of it was weaponized allure.
A vampire’s greatest weapon was seduction. And Julian wielded it with lethal precision.
The first time he kissed me—while I was still under the ridiculous impression that he was just some random guy I’d met at a small café and coffee shop I frequented in town and connected with over our mutual love for Alexandre Dumas—I had tittered for minutes on end like I was drunk.
The second time was worse. I started unbuttoning my shirt, humming a striptease number. Which was ridiculous because I didn’t know anything about stripping or teasing. And the dirty words that had come out of my mouth would have made a sailor not only blush but wash my mouth out with lye soap.
Oddly, Julian had stopped me from making a bigger fool of myself. He’d buttoned up my shirt and then kissed my forehead. At the time, I’d thought it was sweet. Now, I knew the truth. It was just part of his game. I was only a pawn on his chessboard.
I steeled myself as we approached the altar, ready to come together in an unholy union. Do not giggle. Do not shed any clothing. And for the love, do not shout, “If you don’t take me now, I might die.” Unfortunately, it had happened before. That was the third kiss. Dang vampires.
I stood clenching Julian’s hand, resisting the maddening urge to run my fingers through his high-top fade of dark hair that played between bad-boy rock star and CEO in the boardroom.
Or touch his stubbled, carved-to-perfection cheeks.
The call to do so was loud and real. In my head, I silently repeated how much I loathed him, hoping to quell the unwanted desires.
Cyrus carefully eyed me as if he could tell how much I hated his brother.
Julian had promised me that vampires couldn’t read minds but they had heightened senses, including the ability to hear even the faintest of sounds.
Cyrus could surely hear the way my heart frantically pounded.
I prayed he took it as wedding nerves. But I’m sure he had to wonder if his brother and I were truly in love.
I dared to fully face Cyrus. His blue eyes were darker than usual, which meant he needed to eat or get an infusion of plasma. An icy shiver shot down my spine. It didn’t go unnoticed by Julian.
He looked between Cyrus and me before leaning in and whispering in my ear, “You are more than lovely, darling.”
A giggle bubbled up in my throat, begging to be unleashed even though I knew Julian was lying. I pressed my lips together, desperately trying to keep my composure. The giggle refused to be held back, and I half snickered, half snorted, trying to keep it in.
Several guests laughed.
Julian smirked.
I hated him—passionately.
I needed to find out what it was about Julian that made me act so foolishly and neutralize it as soon as possible. Perhaps it was something in his breath, or maybe the scent he gave off. I would have to get some DNA samples from him and analyze them in the lab.
The priest beautifully orated the ceremony in Latin. I was glad I understood only words here and there. My study of science and medicine meant that I knew some of the dead language. Fitting, since the groom was undead.
Julian gazed into my eyes with unwavering devotion, leaving me no choice but to pretend to reciprocate. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to make “googly eyes.” I probably looked deranged. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Only madness could explain me agreeing to this.
When the vows began, Father Francis switched to English, ensuring I understood exactly what I was signing up for. Oh, I understood. It was called hell.
“Julian Alessandro Rossi, do you take this woman to be your wife? To love and to cherish her all the days of your life?”
I closed my eyes, silently begging him to say no. Better the humiliation of being left at the altar than face the coming days and weeks. And judging by the whispers in the pews, most people expected it anyway.
Julian tilted my chin with the crook of his finger. The unexpected touch forced my eyes open, only to be caught—ensnared—by his gaze searing into me. He wanted me to witness his answer not just with my ears, but with my soul.
I stilled, my heart thudding unnaturally, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. For a split second, I swore sincerity flickered in his eyes when he said, “I do.”
The breath I’d been holding escaped in a pitiful sigh. All that remained was for me to agree to this nightmare dressed as a wedding.
“Nicolette Grace Hart,” the priest intoned.
For a moment I lingered on my middle name. Grace. My mother’s name. I needed her—and grace itself—now more than ever.
“Do you take this man to be your husband?” The words rang like a curse in my head.
I wanted to scream. He wasn’t a man. He was a monster.
Julian gripped my hand tighter when I hesitated, reminding me of the consequences.
Tears welled in my eyes as I lowered my head in defeat. “I do.”
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Father Francis happily declared while Julian, without warning, reached into his pocket and retrieved two rings.
A simple gold band and a gorgeous antique Edwardian diamond cluster ring.
He hurried to slip them on our fingers. Though the ring was delicate and fit perfectly, it pressed against my skin like an iron shackle.
As soon as the rings were securely in place, the priest said the words I’d been dreading. “You may now kiss the bride.”
I braced myself. Oh dear Gandalf the Grey. Please, please don’t let me react foolishly.
“My love.” Julian cupped my cheeks with his cool hands, leaning closer. His sweet breath invaded my senses, flooding me with oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—chemicals meant to heal, now weaponized. I was overdosing on desire.
My hands trembled, aching to grab his lapel and pull him flush against me. I loathed every craving, yet they surged through me, relentless.
His parted lips brushed mine, and a moan escaped before I could stop it. A thousand curse words ricocheted through my head.
Then his mouth pressed harder, sending an electric wave of pleasure through me. “Yes! Yes!” I blurted, laughter erupting from the pews.
I. Hate. My. Life.