Chapter 33
DOMINIC
Aoife is silent for the rest of the drive to The Shelbourne, clutching her bouquet on her lap so hard her fingers are white.
She looks breathtakingly beautiful in her dress.
Anyone who dares to question the authenticity of my affections for her would only have to take one look at us to be convinced.
When we arrive, St Stephen’s Green is drenched in afternoon sun, illuminating the cream stone facade like a temple. The hotel looks exactly as it always has—regal, unshakeable, dripping in old money and quiet power—but today it’s been dressed for war.
A deep red carpet unfurls from the revolving doors, cutting a bold slash across the pavement, a deliberate provocation in broad daylight. On either side, towering arrangements of blush-pink peonies spill from crystal urns, soft and extravagant, just as I requested.
She gasps beside me as she drinks them in.
Guests gather in clusters beneath the awnings, champagne glasses catching the sun, silk dresses and tailored suits murmuring with curiosity. Lewis cuts the engine and steps out of the car, ushering everyone inside as they squint and stare at the car. Thank fuck for the tinted windows.
Ciaran waits on the step outside, flanked by two of his own protection detail. When the guests are all inside, Lewis opens the BMW door for us. I climb out first, then offer Aoife my hand. She takes it like a lifeline, her palm clammy in mine.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the happy couple.’ Ciaran approaches, slapping my back playfully.
‘Aoife,’ a woman calls, practically jogging towards us in a blush pink dress and four-inch stilettos. Huge silver eyes dart wildly over my fiancée.
‘Abby!’ Aoife exclaims.
The best friend.
She snatches her hand from mine, and the two women embrace like sisters.
‘Are you okay?’ Abby takes a step back, scanning Aoife from head to toe like she’s searching for scratches.
‘I’m fine.’ Aoife twists to face me.
Abby’s eyes land on mine. Her mouth falls slack. Her pupils practically double in size. ‘What the…’ she whispers.
I flash her a wolfish grin, one that she’s probably imagined every time she heard a rumour about what I’m capable of.
‘It’s okay,’ Aoife promises, squeezing her friend’s hand.
‘You’re marrying that beast?’ Abby hisses. She doesn’t even attempt to hide her horror. She’s brave, like Aoife. No man has dared to call me a beast to my face.
Aoife nods, motioning her friend towards the entrance, before returning to my side. ‘It was the only way.’
Was, not is—I note. Now that sounds promising. I’m praying to every god I don’t believe in that this is as real for her as it is for me. Because the alternative doesn’t bear contemplating.
‘He’s actually quite… charming underneath it all,’ Aoife’s mouth breaks into a smile.
‘Why thank you,’ I offer her my arm and she takes it, clinging onto it like a safety net.
‘You’re going in together?’ Ciaran’s eyebrows wing up.
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘Worried she’s going to do a runner on you?’ He teases.
‘It was my idea,’ Aoife admits, glancing at Ciaran, then back to me. ‘I feel better when he’s by my side.’
That tiny admission sets my soul alight.
Abby gasps. Ciaran’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he ushers us up the stairs.
Inside, the hotel is bright. The light flooring is polished to perfection.
The sun slants in through tall sash windows, illuminating the ivory painted walls.
Lewis and James remain stationed discreetly outside the double doors.
Fifteen of our men are inside, dispersed around the building, some in the congregation.
The ballroom doors are open. The organ begins to play.
I spent all week trying to work out which song we should walk down the aisle to.
It came to me yesterday. ‘Songbird’. Fleetwood Mac.
There’s no lyrics, but I hope she understands the meaning of it anyway.
When she barrelled into my bar, I wiped her tears away.
Now, there will be no more crying. I’ll love her, protect her, cherish her. All she has to do is let me.
I look down at Aoife; she’s gnawing on her lower lip again. ‘I’ve got you sweetheart.’
She nods then, straightening her shoulders. ‘Did you pick this song?’ She whispers.
‘Yes,’ I smile down at her. ‘Wait until you hear what I picked for our first dance.’ My smile stretches into a full-blown grin as we step into the ballroom together.
White wicker chairs are arranged in rows of six on either side of the aisle.
The registrar waits at the top of the room under a floral archway.
Aoife’s cobalt eyes blow wide as she drinks in every detail.
Her grip on my arm tightens as we stride slowly, purposefully along the aisle. Our guests ooh and ahh beside us.
Aoife’s focus remains rigidly on the registrar—a woman in her late forties with silver hair and sharp spectacles. When we reach her, Abby stands beside Aoife, and Ciaran stands beside me. The music fades to silence.
The registrar clears her throat. ‘Welcome, Dominic and Aoife.’ She smiles at us both in turn. ‘Are you ready to begin?’
Aoife unhooks her arm from mine. I take her hand and squeeze it in what I hope is a reassuring gesture.
She trembles slightly but she doesn’t pull away.
I tighten my grip, subtly trying to ground her, stroking my thumb over the back of her hand, her wrist, soothing that fluttering pulse point again.
She sucks in a breath. ‘Yes,’ Aoife nods to the registrar, who then begins the formalities.
It’s utterly surreal. I listen to readings about love. A poem Mama K insisted on reading. More music from the organ player, but I don’t—can’t—take my eyes from the stunning woman in front of me. The trust in her expression is my undoing.
I silently swear here and now to do everything in my power to give her the entire world.
Finally, we get to the vows.
‘Do you, Dominic Kincaid, vow to love, honour and protect Aoife O’Shea? Cherish her and respect her for as long as you both shall live?’
There are two hundred people in the room, yet you could hear a pin drop.
I don’t hesitate. ‘I do.’
The registrar turns to Aoife. ‘Do you, Aoife O’Shea… vow to love, honour and protect Dominic Kincaid. Cherish him and respect him for as long as you both shall live?’
There’s the smallest pause.
Then her chin juts out. Her irises swarm with heat and that ever-present hint of vulnerability. ‘I do,’ she whispers.
Ciaran exhales loudly behind us.
‘Rings, please,’ the registrar says with a smile.
I pat my top pocket until I locate the wedding band I picked up last week—a five millimetre platinum band encrusted with enormous diamonds. No man in this world will be able to miss the fact that she’s mine.
I slide the ring gently onto her finger beside her engagement ring.
My thumb brushes the inside of her wrist again.
Her pulse thunders beneath my touch. I reach inside my pocket again, plucking out a second platinum band.
It’s six millimetres wide, no diamonds but still utterly unmissable.
I drop it into her palm. Our eyes meet again as she slowly slides it onto my finger.
The registrar beams at us.
‘By the authority vested in me…’ Her words blur.
All I see is Aoife. White chiffon. Blue eyes. Fire in place of her previous fear.
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.’
Aoife’s eyes search mine. Then slowly she rises onto her tiptoes. I inch down to meet her in the middle until my lips meet hers. Her mouth is warm and soft and tastes like the sweetest sin. Her big blue eyes remain wide open, like she’s committing every second to memory. And right there—I see it.
Love.
She loves me.
She hasn’t said it, but she doesn’t have to.
Her lips part, and I sweep my tongue inside her mouth, sliding it against hers, publicly claiming her as my wife. Her body melts against mine like it has done so many times before, but this time it feels different. Sweeter.
My hands drop to her hips, thumbs stroking over her dress and the womanly curves beneath. She reaches for the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I smile against her mouth because Aoife O’Shea is mine—properly mine.
And I’m going to spend the rest of my life worshipping her, loving her, and protecting her.
Our guests burst into raucous applause. Wolf whistles split the air, but I don’t take my lips from hers. I can’t.
Finally, the registrar clears her throat again, and Aoife jolts back, bringing her fingers to her swollen lips.
Ciaran mutters, ‘Jesus Christ.’
Abby laughs nervously.
The registrar claps her hands. ‘Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Kincaid.’
Our guests erupt again.
Mr and Mrs Kincaid.
The name settles around us like armour.
Protection.
Promise.
Outside, somewhere in this city, Rory Kavanagh’s world is about to burn.
And Aoife O’Shea just handed me the match.
But that is categorically not the reason I’m beaming like a lunatic.