Chapter 19
NINETEEN
MAVEN
All my things are laid out on the floor because I have no fucking idea what I’m going to wear. I’m sitting on the bed in just a bra and panties when the door opens. I turn to look and find Boston standing there with a very large man behind him.
“I don’t want guests,” I grumble.
“This is Victor. Play nice,” Boston says, then notices I’m in my underwear. “Why aren’t you ready?” He grabs the towel I discarded on the floor and throws it over me.
“Because I don’t have anything to wear,” I whine, and fall back onto the bed.
“It seems you have plenty of stuff.” He waves a hand at the mess on the floor.
“I need white heels. I didn’t pack white heels. I was flustered because you were making me marry you with an hour’s notice. I don’t even like you,” I complain.
“You do,” he answers, then turns to the man named Victor. “Wait with her. I’ll be back.”
Victor steps inside, and I shift my gaze to him. He’s several inches taller than Boston.
Before he leaves, Boston says to Victor, “She may look harmless, but she isn’t.”
I sit up, and the towel falls to my hips.
Victor stands by the door, his hands by his sides as he stares at me. I’ve had many men see me in nothing but my underwear, and I’m not shy about my body, but not once does his gaze stray from my face.
“So, you’re friends with Boston?” I ask.
“No,” he says flatly.
“You don’t like him?”
“No.”
I smile and sit up straighter. “Want to hold him down while I kill him?” I ask.
His eyes gleam with something I can’t quite grasp. He doesn’t answer me, and I give him a wink before I stand and pick up a discarded dress.
Holding it up, I face Victor and ask, “This one?” He studies it for a moment and then shakes his head. Dropping it, I find a bright pink one. Picking that up, I glance at him and raise a brow. “Surely, this one would be good for a Vegas wedding,” I prod.
He stares at it, and I reach for the red one, holding it in my other hand. “It could be this one when you hold him down so I can kill him. He’s fast, you know,” I say with an eye roll. “But I’m sure both of us could take him.” He doesn’t respond, which disappoints me a little.
I go to the mirror and sit down on the floor where my makeup bag is. My lip has started to heal, but it still stings a little.
Victor remains quietly standing by the door, as if he’s bored.
As I apply my foundation, I start talking again. “Are you a fan of box jellyfish?” I ask, turning around so I can see his face. He simply looks at me. “I have to say, they are one of my favorite animals.” I smile as I turn back to the mirror and continue putting on my makeup.
“Did you know the larger they are, the more dangerous they become? That’s not always true for us humans, right?
” I wink at his reflection. “When they sting you, it will only be a matter of minutes before you die.” I smile proudly as I swipe my face with the foundation.
“It causes muscle spasms and numbness. Hell, it can even cause confusion.” I laugh, then keep talking, and surprisingly, he seems to listen intently, though he doesn’t say a word.
Victor hasn’t moved from his position by the door when Boston walks in forty-five minutes later with a cart that is usually used to carry suitcases.
It’s full of boxes with shoes and dresses.
I glance at Boston, confused, before I stand.
His eyes drink me in as I approach and touch one of the boxes.
“Can I have one?” I whisper. I love shoes. Please say yes.
“They’re all yours. Pick a pair of shoes and a dress to wear. Move it before Victor decides to throw both of us in the garbage chute,” he tells me.
I smile up at him and open the first box. White, perfect. The next box holds another white pair. I find one black pair, which makes me smile. There are at least ten pairs, all from a designer shop.
“I think I’ll keep the black pair for when I bury you,” I tell him, tapping that box.
Victor snorts, and I look back up to Boston.
“You know this is the way to my heart,” I say, hugging a box to my chest.
“I was hoping it was a way to get between your legs. Now, get dressed,” he grumbles.
“Oh, you need to work harder to get that.” I smile, then briefly flick through the dresses, not letting go of the heels that I think are my new favorite. “You pick the dress. I couldn’t care less. It’s all about the shoes for me.”
“She suggested red to cover traces of your blood when she kills you,” Victor offers unhelpfully.
Boston’s head swings in his direction before he turns back to me.
“Victor, why did you have to go and tell him our plan?” I grumble, setting a hand on my hip while still holding the box with the other.
“I’ll return the heels, then,” Boston says.
“No,” I reply sharply.
“They’re white. No good for killing in,” he continues.
“It’s fine; I can wait. For your blood, that is.”
“Fucking crazy,” Victor mutters, and I smile at him.
“Thank you.” I stand tall, and Boston hands me a dress. “This one?” I ask. It’s white. Very simple with lacy sleeves and a tight midsection. It’s short, looking like it will stop just above my knees.
“Get dressed, Dynamite,” he orders.
“Okay. Don’t you go anywhere.” I point a finger at Victor. He watches me with those eyes that seem like they see more than they should. The only indication he gives that he’s listening is a tiny twitch of his lips, and if I weren’t looking, I would have missed it.
“Get moving,” Boston grumbles.
Sighing, I walk to the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting ready.” I wave a hand at him, leaving the door open, since it’s too late for modesty now. Sliding the dress up over my hips, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I never wear white. It’s too clean, too pristine for me.
“A little help, please,” I call over my shoulder.
Boston’s phone rings at that moment, but he ignores it, choosing instead to step behind me. I suck in a sharp breath as the heat from his body presses close. His fingers graze my spine as he finds the zipper, brushing over my skin so lightly, I feel goose bumps erupt along my back.
His eyes, reflected in the mirror, meet mine as he slowly glides the zipper up.
We’re looking at each other through the same glass, but it’s like he’s seeing me in a way I can’t quite read.
Each breath he exhales stirs the tiny baby hairs at the nape of my neck, his scent and warmth radiate off him, seeping into me, and it confuses me.
“You could just let it go … pretend you didn’t see what you did,” I murmur, trying to reclaim control, though my voice sounds small in comparison to the heat coiling around me.
“No.” His voice is low, deliberate, and unwavering.
I shake my head, letting a smirk play on my lips. “I’ll be a shitty wife. Honestly, I’d be the worst, plus I don’t even know your first name.”
“It’s Zion.” He pauses as I take in his name; it doesn’t really fit him.
Boston, on the other hand, does. Matches him well.
“I didn’t ask for perfect,” he says as he finishes zipping me up, his hands lingering for a heartbeat before falling away.
“Plus, who else is going to cover for your murdering ass?”
“You still haven’t told me why you need me to marry you.”
He steps back, and the sudden cold that takes his place makes me shiver. “And I won’t be. Accept it or say goodbye to your sister.”
“That’s a real asshole move,” I mutter, tension twisting through me.
“So is killing people I know,” he replies.
I feel that wicked current between us flare, sparking through my chest and into a heat I can’t deny.
The Elvis impersonator announces, “You may now kiss the bride,” and I immediately hold up a hand between us, because there is no way he’s kissing me. Plus, my lip has only just started healing.
It’s crazy that I just recently learned his first name, and yet here I am marrying him. My pulse races the entire ceremony. Thankfully, the whole ordeal is blessedly short.
Boston smirks and pulls my hand away before he leans in and presses his lips to mine, softly at first, almost tenderly.
Then, I feel the pressure of his hand at my waist as he grips it hard, like he’s holding himself back.
I bite his lip, and I feel him smile before he pulls back.
There’s a small trickle of blood on his lip from where I bit it.
He doesn’t wipe it away, just licks it clean before he nods to Victor.
“You can go back to your bodies,” Boston says to him, then adds, “I’ll see you before I leave.” Victor looks at me without a word, then leaves.
“I think I’m going to be his best friend,” I tell Boston.
“Victor doesn’t like anyone.”
“Oh, he likes me. I know it.”
He takes my hand and pulls me out the door to a waiting car. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Back to the hotel.”
“No, we aren’t. You made me do this”—I motion to the dress—“so we’re going to get fucked up. The least you can do is get me drunk enough to have to sleep next to you.”
He leans forward and speaks quietly to the driver, and I sit back, smiling as I wonder what it would be like if I took a bat to his goddamn head.
“Stop smiling,” he grumbles.
“Why?”
“Because it looks like you’re working out the best way to kill me, and it makes you happy.”
“Oh, it makes me extremely happy,” I say, clapping my hands.