Chapter Thirty One
Cassandra
The church smells like flowers and old wood. Roses and lilies and polished pews, but none of it hides the sharp scent of nerves clinging to the air. The aisle stretches too long, too bright, sunlight spilling in fractured beams through stained glass. It should feel holy. Magical. Hopeful.
Instead, it feels like a funeral dressed up in white.
Not because Lola isn’t beautiful—God, she is. My best friend, radiant in lace, her smile trembling but real. Four months, and she swears this is forever. I should be happy for her. I should be clutching tissues, whispering I told you so, grinning like the proud maid of honour she begged me to be.
But all I can think is—how fragile everything is. How fast it can be ripped away.
My hand trembles around the bouquet, fingers tight enough on the stems to leave grooves in my skin. I hear vows, laughter, the soft catch in Lola’s throat when she says yes. Everyone around me melts. Sighs. Cheers.
And all I feel is a gaze burning into the side of my face.
Dax.
He’s in the second row, suit pressed but never sitting easy in it, his limp barely hidden when he walked in. He looks wrong here—too sharp, too scarred, too much war clinging to his skin in a place made of ribbons and promises. But he’s watching me, not them. Always me.
I should look away. Pretend. Smile for Lola.
But I can’t.
Because the way his eyes pin me—it feels like another vow. One no priest could ever sanctify. One carved from smoke and blood and something darker than love.
I swallow hard. Try to focus on Lola, on the ring sliding onto her finger, on her joy. But my body’s a traitor, leaning toward him like it knows where it belongs.
And for a second—just a second—I forget the flowers, the laughter, the veil.
All I see is him.
And all I hear is the word he whispered like a curse two nights ago, the one that still won’t leave my chest.
Love.
Applause ripples through the church. Hands clapping, voices rising, cameras flashing. Lola beams, veil slipping back as he kisses her, and the whole world pretends this is forever.
I clap too. Smile too. But my hands sting with it, my cheeks ache. Because behind my applause is the scream I can’t let out—don’t get used to it. Don’t hold too tight. Don’t believe in forever when you’ve seen how fast it can end.
She’s glowing, she’s radiant, she’s everything I should be proud of.
And I am. God, I am.
But my eyes slip again.
And there he is.
Dax hasn’t clapped once. Not for the vows, not for the kiss. His hands stay still on his thighs, his gaze locked only on me.
The church is loud but I hear him anyway. The echo of his voice the night he said he loved me, like shrapnel in my veins. Like he meant it. Like it was a truth he’d been drowning under for years.
My throat tightens. My bouquet trembles in my hands.
I tell myself: don’t. Not here. Not in front of Lola, not in front of God, not in front of a hundred people waiting for me to smile in the photos.
But I can’t stop.
My head turns. Just slightly. Just enough.
And his mouth curves. Not a smile. Not anything soft. A scarred thing, dark and dangerous, like he knows he’s pulling me apart in a room full of holy vows and white lace.
The priest’s words blur. My pulse drowns them out. I don’t hear the blessings. I don’t hear the prayer.
All I hear is my own heart stuttering when Dax tilts his head and mouths one word across the church.
Butterfly.
My knees almost give.
The woman beside me thinks I’m crying happy tears. She hands me a tissue. I take it with shaking fingers, press it to my eyes, and pray no one sees the truth bleeding out of me.
Because this isn’t about vows or forever.
This isn’t about Lola and the ring she just promised to wear until death.
This is about me and the man watching me like he’s already planned mine.
The vows are over. The kiss is done. And everyone’s on their feet, clapping like love is a miracle and not a gamble you can lose in a heartbeat.
I clap too, because that’s what you do when your best friend gets married. My palms sting with it, though. Too loud, too hollow, too fake.
Lola’s glowing. She looks like she’s walking on air, like four months apart was nothing compared to a lifetime together. I should be crying for her, happy tears, proud tears. But mine are caught in my throat, jagged, stuck.
Because I feel him.
Dax.
Even across the room, I feel the weight of his stare like a bruise pressing deeper. I don’t have to look to know his eyes aren’t on Lola or the dress or the kiss that sealed it. They’re on me. Always on me.
I tell myself don’t. Don’t look. Don’t give him the satisfaction but I do and he’s there.
Slouched in the back like he owns the shadows, jaw tight, eyes darker than the suit he’s wearing.
Everyone else is clapping, laughing, leaning into their partners, and he’s just still.
Watching me like I’m the only reason he even showed up.
My bouquet shakes in my hand.
Because I know what he’s thinking. I know what that almost-smile means. I know what he’s reminding me of.
The bridge. His mouth. His voice when he said he loved me like it was a confession dragged out of his bones.
Everyone’s cheering, but it feels like they’re cheering for something I’ll never have and then his mouth moves. Just one word. Silent. Sharper than a blade.
Butterfly.
My chest caves. My knees almost give. I grip the bouquet tighter just to stay upright. The girl next to me thinks I’m overcome, hands me a tissue with a sympathetic smile, and I almost laugh because she has no idea.
No one does.
Not that I’m standing here clapping for Lola’s forever while mine is sitting in the back, staring at me like he already owns it.
The photos drag. Family, bridesmaids, groomsmen, all of us arranged and rearranged like dolls on display. Lola is radiant. The groom beams. Everyone keeps saying perfect, perfect, perfect.
I smile, because that’s what you do. My cheeks ache with it, muscles screaming from holding something that isn’t real but I feel him.
Every time I shift, every time the photographer waves me closer, Dax moves too. Not obvious. Not loud. Just enough. A shift of his weight. A drag of his boot. A lean against the wall like he’s bored, when really—he’s waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to look again.
I don’t. I stare at Lola, at her veil catching the light, at the rings sparkling on her hand. I stare at anything that isn’t him but my body betrays me.
My spine tingles, my pulse thunders, my fingers twitch around the bouquet until petals snap off. I know he sees it. I know he’s cataloging every tremor, every shallow breath, every second I’m fighting to stay composed.
When it’s over, everyone claps again. Laughter. Champagne corks. The bride is swept inside, the groom tugging her after him, and suddenly the crowd spills apart, blurring in movement and chatter.
That’s when I see it.
The path.
A straight line between me and him. No more bodies in the way. Just him leaning against the stone archway, tie loose, shirt collar open like sin in a tux.
Our eyes lock.
The breath catches in my throat so hard it hurts.
He doesn’t move at first. Just watches me. Eyes sharp. Mouth curved, the ghost of a smile that isn’t joy, isn’t pride. It’s possession. Pure and simple.
The bouquet slips. Hits the ground at my feet and I move before I can stop myself.
One step. Then another.
The noise of the crowd blurs, the laughter fades, the music muffles, until it’s just me and him and the pulse in my throat screaming you’re a fucking idiot.
When I reach him, his mouth tips close to my ear. Not touching. Not quite. His voice a razor only I can hear.
“Run all you want, Butterfly. You’ll always walk back to me.”
My knees buckle. My chest twists. And God help me—he’s right.
The music shifts. Strings, soft and aching, spilling out into the garden as couples begin to drift onto the floor. Lola glides past in her white dress, her head tipped back with laughter, her groom spinning her like this is all that matters.
And then—his hand closes around mine.
Not rough. Not dragging. Just iron.
I should pull back. I should tell him no, not here, not in front of everyone. But my body’s already betraying me. My fingers curl into his like they never forgot.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, his mouth so close to my ear the words heat my skin.
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His hand presses the small of my back, steering me forward until the lights catch us, until the crowd blurs into a thousand faceless shadows, until there’s nowhere to run.
And then we’re moving.
Slow. Deliberate. His limp is there, but he hides it in the sway, in the drag of his body against mine, in the way his hand doesn’t just rest at my waist but brands me, fingertips burning through the satin.
I hate how perfect it feels.
My cheek against his chest, my pulse syncing to the steady thud of his heart. His breath threading through my hair. The scrape of his jaw brushing the top of my head like he can’t resist marking me even here.
The others are smiling, clapping, spinning. We’re burning.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper, because it’s the only defence I have left. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Good.” His hand tightens at my waist, his hips pulling me closer until there isn’t a breath between us. “Let them see you’re mine.”
Heat floods me so sharp I shiver.
The song swells. His mouth dips lower, lips grazing my temple, then the shell of my ear, his voice dragging through me like barbed wire.
“God, Butterfly, you feel like home. Even here. Especially here.”
My fingers fist in his jacket, nails biting through the fabric. “Dax…”
He tilts me back just enough to see my face. His eyes blaze in the golden light, blue ice turned wildfire. And the way he looks at me—like he’s about to devour me whole in front of everyone—steals the air from my lungs.
“You’re the only thing in this room worth worshiping.”
The words gut me. Break me. Make me ache in places no touch ever reached.