21. Wedding #2
Not on the hair. Not on the cheek. He was kissing me on the mouth, taking it deep, basically fucking me with his tongue—and I let him. Worse, I encouraged him. I dug my fingers into his chest, clutching him closer to me, and when he finally broke the kiss, I was wearing his ring on my finger again.
I took it off. Pissed I let him manipulate me so easily, I slammed it into his chest.
He fisted my hair, kissing me a second time. Once again, I was helpless to resist him. The ring made its way to my finger again, and the smirk on his face when he pressed his forehead against mine told me that he could play this game with me all day.
So I left the ring on. Pushing his shoulder, I shoved him away from me so that I could put some space between us. Eventually, I grabbed a notebook, and now I’m trying to explain to Connor that just putting a ring on me while I was knocked-out does NOT make us married.
He agrees so readily, that I’m suspicious. You’d think by now that I would know better than to underestimate Connor Heyward.
Because, when he says, “I wanted to see it the ring fit, but don’t worry, Mrs. Heyward, by the end of this afternoon, we’ll be legally wed,” I think he’s well and truly lost it.
And that’s when he adds, “Father Francis is making a housecall, specifically so he can marry us. That’s good enough for the Order, babe.
And don’t worry. I made a big enough donation to the church that he’ll conveniently forget he saw you until after we’re ready to make our big reveal as a happily married couple. ”
Insane. He’s fucking insane.
He can’t do that. He can’t bribe a Catholic priest to perform a marriage ceremony and think that means we’re married. I mean, the entire diocese in Harmony Heights is crooked as fuck—we all know that—since they basically serve the King before God, but he can’t do that… can he?
Seems like he thinks he can, and since there’s no convincing him otherwise, I go with a different tactic.
What about your parents? Are they coming?
Can I beg Mr. and Mrs. Heyward to help me out of this madness.
Connor shrugs. “They’re busy.”
They don’t want to see you married?
“They just want me to be happy, sweetheart. And once we’re married, I’ll be very happy.”
Nuts, nut, nuts, nuts, nuts.
I scribble on a fresh page.
Afraid they’ll cut you off if they find out you stashed an Offering in your basement and are forcing her to marry you?
Connor looks at what I wrote. He snorts under his breath and, before I can tighten my grip on my pen, he eases it out of my grip.
He crosses out forcing.
I roll my eyes. He has to know that, if he pulls this off, he’s forcing me. He didn’t propose. He didn’t ask. He just put that ring on my finger as though it was a done deal.
Because he’s crazy.
Connor hands the pen back to me. “Do you know Paul Rutger?”
Weird change of subject, but I do and I nod.
“Right. So you know he’s the chief of police in town. Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Did you know that my dad is currently spending most nights being fucked in the ass by his wife while Paul double-teams Mom with Judge Mullins?”
Uh. No. I didn’t know that.
No wonder he’s not worried about getting trouble beyond the Order.
The King could ruin both of our lives if he chose to, but I was thinking that there had to be someone else to help.
But if Connor has that much dirt on the chief of police, plus a highly respected Owed judge…
yeah. They won’t do anything to help me, will they?
“My parents are swingers,” he adds needlessly.
“Considering their only son is still a virgin at his big age of twenty-seven, they’ll be proud I’m finally married because then, at some point, my Order bride will have to fuck me and give me kids.
So if you think a little thing like keeping you locked in my house with me will stop them from letting me do whatever the fuck I want with their cash…
I hate to disappoint you, Haven, but the only one who has a problem with my methods is you. ”
Don’t I fucking know it.
I hurriedly write on the page.
I’m still not sleeping with you
If I expected that to throw him, I’m surprisingly wrong.
“I know. Haven, love… I’m not rushing you. Whenever you want to take that next step with me, I’ll be ready, but that’s not the reason I want to marry you—”
I snort.
“Not the only reason I want to marry you,” he amends without skipping a beat. “I just want the ceremony done first so there’s no doubt that I belong to you. The ‘H’ only does so much, Haven. And with the Claiming ceremony tomorrow… fuck it. Let’s Claim each other today.”
That’s interesting. The way he said that… not that I belong to him. He’s considered that to be true since the day he decided I would one day be his wife. But he wants all of Harmony Heights—and me in particular—to know that he belongs to me.
I think about it for a second, then write:
What about the Heirs?
Connor grins. “It’s adorable you still call us that.”
That didn’t answer my question.
I tap the page. I get why Connor would keep his parents out of the loop. He’s obviously not close to them. But the other Heirs are basically his brothers. You’d think he’d at least want them at this farce of a wedding.
Another shrug, though there’s a hard set to his jaw when he says, “Adrian will find out after it’s all said and done.”
Ah. So that’s what this is about. He still has this delusional idea that me and Adrian will run off with each other.
I don’t even tease when it comes to that.
Besides, the way I panicked when I heard Adrian’s voice in the house shortly after my rescue…
Connor wouldn’t buy it. I want nothing to do with Adrian Heller, and the fact that I still loathe him more than the Heir who basically kidnapped me? That’s saying something.
After that, no amount of scribbled defense changes his mind.
I even force out a hoarse please after Connor kisses me again, then tells me to shower and get ready for our wedding.
He bought me a dress—a simple white gown similar to the ones I wore every Claiming ceremony for the last nine years—but as though I’ve been able to retain some of my stubbornness, I pull on my heather grey legging and my maroon hoodie.
He doesn’t care. The fact that I showered and brushed my hair was enough for him, even though he changed into a pressed pair of slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a new pair of loafers before disappearing only to return with Father Francis, the lead priest at St. Catherine’s, in tow.
That’s how I get married. In a basement, wearing an oversized hoodie that hides my body, hides my shape, while Connor beams next to me.
I had tried to point out that, while this might count for the church, there’s no way it can be legal—but right before the ‘ceremony’ started, Connor produced a honest to God wedding license.
It’s forged. Of course it is. I know I didn’t sign it, and there are signatures on the two lines meant for the witnesses: Dallas Collins and Sebastien Reynolds. As the officiant, Father Francis signed it, too, even as I pleaded with him to refuse.
But I couldn’t say a word to stop him—not even when he pulled the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace shit’—and when he did the world’s fastest recitation of wedding vows, Connor answered for the both of us by saying, “We do.”
Connor hugs me to him. While Father Francis has the decency to turn his head away, partly ashamed as he mumbles, “You may kiss the bride,” I glare at my new husband, warning him not to even try.
He does. I bite him, hard, getting the tip of his tongue before he can distract me with the taste of his mouth on me, but all that does is make it so that he arches my back to kiss me deeper, all while he happily bleeds inside my mouth.
And I know that, as though the ring on my finger is as permanent a brand as the scar on Connor’s palm, that there will be no escaping him ever again.