Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Trey
Midnight Sky – Jared Benjamin
The courthouse smells like ink and old paper.
I was never the kind of guy who dreamed about marriage, but standing here—under these humming fluorescent lights—it feels a hell of a lot like waiting at the DMV.
Only difference is, this line ends with a ring, not a registration form.
Bureaucracy can be sexy, I guess.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
Up front, Mac and Logan stand shoulder to shoulder, whispering and smiling like this is just another Tuesday.
Clay and Dean flank the side wall, both dressed in black, built like they were born to be human walls.
Sam and Chace? Loud as hell, laughter echoing off marble until Mac shoots them a look sharp enough to slit throats. Even Sam shuts up after that.
Then there’s her.
Seraphina.
She looks like a verse in a song I haven’t written yet. Lace drapes over her like it was made for her skin. Her red hair falls in a loose braid over her shoulder with tiny white flowers threaded through it.
Vanilla and cherries. That’s what she smells like. Sweet and forbidden all at once. Probably something Mac picked out, but knowing those fiendishly close Hallmark brothers, it could’ve been them.
I steal another glance, pretending it’s casual. It’s not.
This stranger beside me—this woman who’s about to become my wife.
Fuck. I can’t stop looking at her.
Her fingers are looped through mine, trembling slightly. I tighten my hold, hoping it steadies her. But maybe I’m the one who needs steadying.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
Why am I freaking out? It’s not like I haven’t done crazy before.
It’s not like I’m marrying some random stranger off the street.
Except that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Somewhere out there, her dad has probably already seen the headlines, ready to march down from his holy pulpit with fire and brimstone.
Good thing I’m a better lover than a fighter.
Although, that’s to be debated.
Because the fighter in me?
He’s still there—kept on a tight leash.
It's all just smooshing bodies.
My old man made sure I could fight, trained me to throw punches before I could walk. But the second Braden pulled me out of that underground ring, out of his house, I swore I’d never look back.
I haven’t.
Not until now—standing here beside this girl who makes me want to fight again.
Only this time, it’s not for survival.
It’s for her.
The officiant clears her throat, pulling my gaze forward, but I can still feel Seraphina beside me—feel the warmth of her body, the way her breath catches when everyone looks our way.
My chest tightens painfully. I shouldn’t want to pull her closer.
I shouldn’t want to trace that delicate line of lace down her shoulder and follow it with my mouth.
But I do.
Every fucking part of me wants to peel that dress from her body, slow and reverent, and memorize the sound she makes when I whisper her name against her skin.
I blink hard, shaking the thought away.
None of this is real.
She’s not mine.
She’s the girl I’m marrying to protect, not to claim.
The clerk says our names, and that’s when it hits me.
Wait. I’m getting married.
Like, actual vows and rings and legally binding shit.
Oh, fuck. What are my vows going to be?
I promise not to love and not to hold you, because we’re only doing this, so your deadbeat dad doesn’t show up with the jilted groom in tow?
Yeah, that’ll go over real well, Baker. Real smooth.
The officiant starts speaking—words about vows and promises and love—and I swear I can feel my pulse echoing in my throat.
I nod when I’m supposed to, answer when I have to, but I barely hear a damn thing.
All I can see is the way Seraphina’s lip’s part slightly as she watches me, the way her eyes flicker between mine like she’s searching for something.
When the officiant asks me to take her hand, I do—both of mine wrapping around hers. They’re so small, fragile almost, but when she looks up at me, there’s a strength there that steals my breath.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
I’m gonna hurl.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
Fuck me.
“Do you, Trey Baker, take Seraphina Carmichael…”
Her name sounds strange next to mine. Strange and…beautiful.
Like it was always meant to be there.
God, no.
No.
Hell no.
No. No. NO.
“I do.”
Wait—did I just—?
What’s that ringing in my ear?
Why has my heart stopped beating?
Oh. Nope, still beating.
Great.
My body has apparently decided to keep living while my brain short-circuits in front of an audience.
Mac’s grinning like she’s watching a live episode of The Bachelor.
Logan looks proud. Which is worse.
Seraphina—She’s looking at me like I just hung the moon and promised to keep it shining.
Jesus Christ.
Seraphina’s voice trembles as she repeats the words back.
“I do.”
Fuck me.
I’m somebody’s husband.
I swallow, trying to breathe, but it feels like my lungs have gone on strike.
I should say something.
Something that’ll make this less insane.
Instead, all that comes out is a broken laugh.
“Guess that’s me then. Mr. Seraphina.”
The clerk blinks.
Seraphina smiles soft and shy—and just like that, my world stops trying to implode.
If this is madness, I’m already too far gone.
Mac sniffles softly behind us. Logan’s arm comes around her waist, and I don’t even need to look to know he’s smiling.
The officiant says something else—something about rings and forever—but my head is already somewhere else. In this space between truth and pretense, where she’s looking at me like maybe she feels it too.
I slide the ring onto her finger, my thumb brushing the back of her hand. She exhales quietly, her eyes locked on mine.
“You may kiss your bride.”
The world stops.
Every sound fades—the murmur of the others, the faint hum of traffic outside, even the soft rustle of Mac shifting beside Logan.
It’s just us. No pressure.
I lean in, close enough to feel her breath against my mouth, close enough to see the way her pupils dilate. Her lip’s part, and for one insane, heart-stopping second, I almost do it. I almost close the space between us and make the lie real.
But then I remember why we’re here.
So, I touch my lips to hers instead. Gentle. Soft. Barely there.
When I pull back, she’s looking at me like I’ve just undone her.
Her ring catches the light—a simple gold band—and it feels too heavy, too meaningful, for something that was supposed to be just a deal.
Applause breaks out the second we turn from the officiant.
Mac’s eyes are glassy, her smile bright and proud as Logan wraps his arm around her shoulders. Clay and Dean both give me a smile and a curt nod—their version of congratulations or possibly an open invitation to their morally questionable, painfully attractive cult of perfection.
Jesus, those guys. They’re the type you want to hate, but can’t, because they look like they were sculpted by angels and airbrushed. If typos were caused by lust, the entire English language would collapse the second those two walked into a room.
Helping people.
Healing them.
If they ever turned out to be serial killers, the documentary would be called Catch & Release—a tender story about incest, redemption, and maybe…cannibalism? I don’t know. They’d probably still get a Netflix deal and fan merch.
Enough about those sweet-like-candy motherfuckers.
It’s Chace who breaks the hush first.
“I thought you were gonna bolt or pass out for a minute there!” he grins, clapping a heavy hand against my shoulder. “Gotta be honest, man—I did not have you down as the first of us to get married. Thought for sure it’d be Sam—marrying his protein shakes and his NutriBullet.”
Sam scoffs. “Best for macros. And Chace, aren’t you the guy who once tried to marry a stripper in Vegas because she had your name tattooed on her thigh?”
“Details,” Chace mutters, waving him off before his attention swings to Seraphina.
His grin softens, almost boyish. “I’m Chace,” he says, offering his hand before looking her up and down with an exaggerated shake of his head.
“And Mrs. Baker—no disrespect—but you are way too beautiful to be married to this guy.”
Seraphina laughs quietly, cheeks blooming pink as she takes his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Chace.”
“Lovely?” Sam echoes, deep voice warm and teasing as he steps forward. “Wait until you actually get to know him.”
He offers his hand next, and his smile is surprisingly kind. “I’m Sam. Congratulations, both of you.”
Her small hand disappears into his, and she thanks him softly, voice barely above a whisper. There’s a tremor there—nerves.
I should say something. Make a joke. Say a line. Anything.
But my brain’s still somewhere between the echo of I do and the feel of her hand in mine.
Because just like that, it’s done.
I married her.
I married Seraphina Carmichael.
The courthouse doors burst open into a wall of sound—shouts, clicks, flashes.
Camera shutters pop like gunfire, a full-blown sensory assault. For a second, Seraphina flinches, her hand tightening around mine, and all I can do is pull her closer, one arm wrapping firm around her waist.
“Mrs. Baker! Over here!”
Yeah. That part I definitely forgot to mention.
Somewhere between hey, let’s get married and we’ll be fine, I might’ve skipped the part where the press turns into a pack of starved wolves if you don’t hand them a story.
And if you do hand them one—like, say, a mysterious bride fresh out of nowhere—they’ll eat it alive.
“Trey, give us a smile!”
“Who’s the mystery girl?”
The questions hit like bullets.
I feel her shaking beside me. So, I dip my head, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Just look at me, Dove.”
She does.
God help me, she actually does. Those wide, glassy eyes lock onto mine, and everything else falls away. The noise dulls. The flashes blur. The chaos dissolves until it’s just the sound of our breathing and the small, steady weight of her hand in mine.
“Smile for me, Mrs. Baker,” I murmur.
She does. Shy, soft and radiant. The crowd loses its goddamn mind.
Mac and Logan flank us, grinning like proud parents.
Chace throws an arm around Sam, dragging him into the shot.
Clay and Dean hang back, both annoyingly composed, like they’re posing for a record cover.
The whole thing feels wild and surreal and a little bit perfect.
Then I catch Seraphina’s trembling breath, and before I can think better of it, I tilt her back—one hand at the small of her back, the other steadying her wrist. The flashes explode brighter as I lean in, closing the distance until my lips find hers.
For half a heartbeat, the world stops spinning.
Then security steps in, parting the crowd, voices calm but firm. “Make way, please—coming through!”
I straighten, keeping her tucked tight against me as we’re guided down the courthouse steps.
Cameras follow us, shouting questions until we reach the car.
My pulse is still hammering from that kiss.
I open the door for her, and she slides inside, looking up at me with that dazed, breathless expression—the kind that’ll haunt me later.
I follow her in, the door shutting behind us, sealing out the noise.
As the car pulls away, I exhale, finally meeting her gaze.
She’s still staring. Lips parted. Eyes bright.
I grin, voice low and rough. “Guess that’ll make front page.”
Her laugh is soft, almost a whisper. “You kissed me.”
I shrug, leaning back in the seat. “Seemed like the right thing to do, Mrs. Baker.” Her smile curves slow, hesitant—but it reaches her eyes. Then, she shocks the hell out of me.
She leans closer, eyes never leaving mine, fingers brushing the tattoo at my throat—the barbed wire crown—before tracing the edge of my jaw.
Her touch burns. Light but certain. Then her hand slides to the back of my neck, into my hair, and she pulls me down.
Her mouth meets mine. When she finally pulls back, breath trembling, her lips are parted, eyes shining like dawn.
I can’t move. Can’t think. Can barely breathe.
She smiles. “Now I’ve kissed you.”
Uh oh. We are one hundred and ten percent in trouble.
I let out a breath, a half-smirk tugging at my mouth. “Yeah,” I rasp. “You did.”
Her blush blooms across her cheeks, and when she smiles—really smiles—I swear the whole world tilts on its axis.