Saint squares his shoulders. I hear him take in a breath. Huh. Is he as nervous as I am? I peek a glance at his profile—patrician nose, square jaw, the hint of a cleft in his chin. His mouth tightens. His jaw tics… He is feeling something, all right. Perhaps this entire situation is as strange for him as it is for me? Of course, he’s the one who proposed it, so why does he seem so unsure?
He shuffles his feet and his shoulders flex.
"Saint?" Edward asks, his brow furrowed.
"Ask me again," he growls.
Edward wipes all expression from his face. "Do you, Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell take Victoria to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to cherish and protect, ’til death do you part?"
Saint’s throat moves as his swallows. The skin of his knuckles is stretched tight. He’s...under pressure, all right. Nervous energy emanates from him. The force of his dominance pins me in place; it’s mixed with something else—anger, frustration, the usual edginess, but multiplied.
He rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen Saint uncertain…unsure. My heart twists. A hot sensation stabs at my chest. I reach over and run my finger over the back of his palm.
He stiffens. Then catches my hand, threads his fingers with mine.
A murmur runs through his friends. Edward shoots them a glance. It dies down.
Saint straightens, grips my hand. He stares ahead. "I do." His voice is hard, confident. I swallow. If I closed my eyes and focused on his voice, I’d think he means it. If I bring my attention to where we are joined... Where his hand encloses mine, where he holds my hand firmly, his much bigger palm engulfing mine, I will have no doubt that he means every word of his promise.
I swallow. Heat flushes my skin. The blood thuds at my temples, my pulse pounding. This…this is so right… That surely, it is all wrong. This, whatever is between us, cannot survive. There is no space for it. We are two people colliding at the wrong place, wrong time… Nothing good can come of this… Unless I find a way to make this right. I have to hold on to the time I’ve been given with him, show him the real me. Love him, open myself up to him, and hope and pray that when I leave, he will not hate me. That he’ll realize I had no choice but to do what I did.
I draw in a breath, focus on Edward’s words.
"Do you Victoria take Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do you part?"
"I do." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know that I mean it. Something inside of me seems to settle. A calmness washes over me. It’s as if my entire life, I’ve been headed in this direction. Everything I’ve done and experienced, all of it has brought me here, to stand next to Saint, holding his hand in mine as he turns to face me.
"I suppose it was too much of a rush to get rings so—"
"I have a ring," Saint replies.
"What?" I open and close my mouth.
A murmur runs through the assembled group.
"You do?" Edward frowns, then jerks his chin, "Okay, then."
Saint pats his breast pocket, his forehead crinkling. "Uh, maybe I forgot it…"
"Saint!" Edward admonishes him.
He releases my hand to feel his left pocket. "Oh, shit," he grimaces. "I can’t believe I left it behind."
"Come on, Saint," Arpad calls out.
"Get with the program, you tosser," Damian smirks.
"You losing your touch, old sport?" Weston chuckles.
Edward holds his forefinger and thumb to his lips and blows. A piercing whistle echoes through the space.
The group settles.
"Right, now that you grownups, who prefer to behave like children, have settled down…" He trains a stern gaze on Saint. "Stop dicking around, will you?" Edward scolds him.
Laugher breaks out from the crowd.
Saint pats the right-hand pocket of his slacks, pulls out a ring. "Here it is."
He reaches for my left hand, slips it on my ring finger. An emerald, set in a simple platinum setting, gleams in the light from above.
"It belonged to my mother," he says.
I shoot him a surprised glance.
"Don’t read anything into it." His features harden, "It happened to be at hand."
Right.
"You may kiss the bride," Edward grins at us.
"No, wait—" I begin to protest, but Saint hauls me close, bends me at the waist, then he kisses me. It’s not hard, not punishing, nothing like his previous kisses. He nibbles on my lower lip, and when I open my mouth, he licks his tongue across my upper lip, tracing the curve of my cupid’s bow. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, curls the other around my waist. He pulls me so close that his warmth surrounds me, his body shields me, and his shoulder blocks out the sight of everything else. I close my eyes, sink into the warm, trembling, buttery sensations that melt my insides. My toes curl and my scalp tingles. All the pores on my body pop. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, tangles his tongue with mine. His taste is enticing, with that dark edge that calls to me, pulls me in, tugs me in, shudders down my spine, coils in the pit of my belly, slides warmth between my thighs. Liquid heat bleeds through my veins, turning me into a mass of quivering, burning, aching goo. An aching hollowness that wants, needs, demands— He breaks the kiss.
I open my eyes, gaze into those burning cerulean depths of his. His features wear an expression of shock…surprise…lust… His nostrils flare. His gaze drops to my mouth. "Gigi, I—"
A burst of applause rings out. I shudder. He firms his lips. A nerve throbs at his temple. He straightens, pulling me up with him.
The clapping intensifies.
He smiles down at me. The expression on his face is open, carefree. So damn happy. In
