Chapter Six
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Archie
Standing on Stryker’s doorstep in my very best red sweater vest next to my beautifully-slippered bride, I beam.
I am possibly having an aneurysm. Or a heart attack. Or some other such medically life-changing occurrence.
I’m going to vomit, and then I’m going to pass out, and then I’m going to cry. Or maybe I will do all three at once.
In an effort to make this not-often-felt feeling last as long as it may, I hesitate in front of Stryker and Millie’s door, staring at the hues of pink-stained wood—the result of a particularly brilliant prank I perpetrated last autumn wherein their previously boring brown door got a makeover.
They never did restain it, which I take to mean that they agree with my design choices.
As they should. Pink is the superior color for doors everywhere.
“Did you change your mind?” Sarelia asks, stealing my attention from the shades of pink before me. I turn toward her to allow my eyes to rest on the prettier, softer pinks beside me.
Sarelia’s rosy skin shimmers in the golden sun, inviting kisses and soft touches I just stop myself from giving. The satisfaction of her blushes under my touch will be nothing if not preceded by the agony of withholding such joy from myself. Discipline is, after all, the root of happiness.
Sarelia’s eyes dart between mine, and she sways on her feet. “My goodness, you did,” she breathes, fingers sliding up her forearms to hug herself. “You changed your mind.”
What a ridiculous notion, I think, but do not say. The light of horror beyond her hazel irises feeds me, extending the bout of uncertainty and nervousness flowing through my own chest. We are one, in this moment, together in our terror and our doubts.
Then, she sways again, and I curse.
Selfish, Archie. Your bride is swooning scared. At least have her sit down before you revel in the goosebumps along her flesh.
“Here,” I murmur, relocating a houseplant to the porch floor and offering Sarelia the stool it previously sat on. I dust away the leftover dirt, presenting it to her. “Sit.”
She does, all but collapsing onto the stool as she mutters, “Of course he’s changed his mind, Sarelia. Don’t be ridiculous. It was a fool’s hope in the first place.”
Oh, the rival to wedding bells everywhere: bridal doubt.
“I am quite planning to marry you still, my love,” I assure, stroking a lock of soft, honeysuckle hair behind her ear. “I apologize for worrying you. I simply wanted to soak in the moments of anticipatory terror beforehand.”
She blinks, then whispers, horrified, “Terror? Marrying me is terror?”
I tut. Did she not hear me before, when I told her my vows? Shall I recite them again? “The unknown is terror, dear Sarelia. Not you.” Not yet, anyway, though I long for the days when she might be. To have Sarelia as terror by my side? I shiver.
No. I cannot entertain such luscious thoughts before we’ve said our I dos. They’re much too tempting, and ravishing my bride on Stryker’s porch before she becomes my wife is not gentlemanly conduct.
Speaking of…
I swipe a sneaky little kiss across Sarelia’s forehead before turning to the large, arched door and slamming the knocker one, two, three times.
“Finally!” Millie’s voice sounds on the other side of the wood as the door creaks open, Stryker himself hefting it aside so that he may scowl at me from his entryway.
“Are you done loitering on my doorstep with your unsanctioned guest now?” he asks, crossing his massive arms over his massive chest.
Millie peeks past his shoulder with wide, inquisitive eyes aimed at Sarelia.
“He brought a princess!” she squeals, giving Sarelia a big, welcoming smile. “Hello!”
Sarelia’s eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and she smiles back while her fingers twist in her lap. “Hello.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. She even sounds like a princess,” Millie whispers, squeezing Stryker’s arm.
He grunts. “Why have you brought a princess to my house?” he asks. “The only princess that belongs here is my wife.”
One of my eyebrows creeps up on my forehead. Millie? A princess? Is he kidding me?
His narrowing eyes indicate he does not believe himself to be kidding.
Wild, that.
I clear my throat, making the incredibly mature decision not to argue over his delusions. Sure, Millie is great or whatever, but she’s not a princess.
Sarelia, though…
I turn to her and let my eyes roam over the soft waves of her hair, admiring the gentle sweep of half the dark honey tresses into a sweet white bow.
Her hair flows down, over the slope of her shoulders and further, covering much, but not all of the bodice of a dress that happens to be the princessiest of all princess dresses.
Pink, corseted, and flowy, it lays over a white floral blouse which puffs at the sleeves.
So princess.
Meanwhile, Millie is wearing…sweatpants. Stryker’s sweatpants, it appears, rolled up so much at the waist that the bump created from the rolls is visible even with the size gargantuan T-shirt she has on over them, also Stryker’s.
Mm, yeah. I think we all know who’s the princess here.
All of us except Stryker, that is.
Unfortunately, I can’t poke at him right now. Not when I need him.
A pity.
“We’ve come to marry,” I inform my delusional brother-boss, gesturing to the royalty beside me. “This is Sarelia Elowen Prim. She is to be my wife.”
Sarelia stops breathing.
Millie squeals.
Stryker squints. “Your wife?”
“Yes,” I affirm, grinning. I place an arm around her waist and take the liberty of resting my head upon hers. “Don’t we make a dashing couple? Dashing enough that you would, say, marry us immediately, no questions asked?”
“No,” he negates. “Why are you getting married? Who are you marrying? What angle are you trying to weasel out of this?”
Well.
Slowly, so as not to overwhelm him, I answer. “I am marrying Sarelia.” I frame her face with my hand, the better for him to see her with. “For convenience reasons. The only angle I have is to convenience myself, and her, and my uncle.”
Stryker’s brows furrow. “Your uncle?”
I sigh, displace another plant on their porch, and pull up a stool beside my dear, patient love, who watches the proceedings with curious, blinking eyes.
“Stone’s decided to retire,” I clarify. “Leaving the handling of my affairs to myself and myself alone. The main one being Sarelia, who dearly loves to stalk me, and I her. As such, under your brilliant advice, I’ve decided to marry her for the convenience of all.
My uncle gets his vacation, Saralia gets to stalk me from a better vantage point, and I have the same benefit. A win-win-win.”
“My advice?” he rumbles.
I nod, beaming. “Yes! You said, and I quote, ‘Marry her immediately, you bumbling moron.’ It was very inspirational.”
“That does sound like you,” Millie mumbles as her eyes flit between her husband and me. She bites her lip to hide her smile.
“What I said,” he clips, “is that I married my kidnappee. Not that you should marry your hypothetical abducted woman. Then I asked if you had someone unauthorized on the compound, if you’ll recall, and you didn’t text me back.”
Hmm. “Nope, can’t remember that.” I grin. “At any rate, we’re here now.”
He glares at me.
I flick my eyes toward Sarelia, who nibbles nervously at her cheek.
Stryker’s eyes follow mine, and his expression softens, if only minutely.
Millie pokes him.
He sighs. “Oh, fine. But we’re calling everyone over, first. I’m not listening to Sal complain about missing another wedding.”
Millie cheers when Stryker turns, waving us to follow him into the house. “A wedding!”
“A wedding!” I echo, hopping to a stand and helping Sarelia up. “Our wedding,” I tell her, squishing her hands in mine.
Her pink cheeks turn crimson as she leans into my touch. “Our wedding,” she repeats faintly. “I can hardly believe it.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” I tell her, pulling her with me after Stryker and Millie as they wander further into the house. “You merely have to feel it.”
She gulps. “That’s rather overwhelming,” she admits.
I laugh, head thrown back in glee. “Yes,” I agree. “That’s what makes it so fun.”