Page 15 of These Deadly Vows

“Nope.” I make the motion of zipping my lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.

The biker officiating has a chaplain patch making him official. He’s an older man. Older than the man I’m to marry.

“Get on with it, Goat.”

Great. I’m being married by a man named Goat. Perfect.

“Family. Friends. I use both terms loosely.” I can feel the heat of his gaze hitting me when he says loosely. “We’ve come together tonight to witness the union of our Prez and Adeline.”

“Speed this along,” my husband to be gripes.

I don’t know where to look other than my shoes. If I see Roberto’s head again, I may faint. If I glance at my father again, I may be tempted to push him over the edge myself. If I focus on my husband’s brutal yet handsome face, I might be tempted to pretend I’m enjoying this. At least he has nice eyes.

Goat rushes through the formal vows and I murmur my I do. My compliance seals the deal.

Not that any of this would truly ever hold up, considering I’m being forced under duress. However, men like Ghost and my father tend to get what they want. Money always talks. Greed rules this city. Along with violence.

So much violence.

I stare up at my husband and his cold gaze lands on me.

Neither of us wants this.

Not truly.

I’m sure there are women who’d happily give him a child.

Knowing his history with my father makes it all odder. Why does he want to marry the daughter of an enemy? Why not kill me to make my father suffer the pain of my loss?

At least with Roberto, I knew he found me attractive. That maybe a part of him. A small sliver of his heart held a place for me, even if misguided. Ghost, though, looks at me with malice.

There’s no love or lust in his gaze as his eyes bore into me.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Ghost leans in close once more. His arm snakes around my back as he jerks me into his hard body. My pulse spikes as anticipation floods me.

His mouth descends, and I close my eyes, expecting his lips to press to mine. They barely brush my cheek. I wasn’t expecting a grand kiss that would sweep me off my feet, but the cheek is like an insult.

His mouth hovers near the edge of mine and I wonder if he’s going to go in for the kill and seal the deal with a real one, but he only inhales deeply and continues to stare at me.

He has this weird look on his face like he wants to kiss me but is afraid to.

I lean forward and pucker my lips in permission, and I have no idea why I’m doing it.

I’m surprised by the softness that greets me. The warmth of his tongue traces the seam of my mouth, pressing firmly, seeking entrance between my lips.

I open to him, afraid of what will happen if I deny him this kiss. One I hope will be our first and last.

Kissing my husband is foreign, yet our lips move in tandem. His tongue glides along mine with a controlled finesse that has me ready to submit to his every wish. I wasn’t expecting him to be such a skilled kisser. His grip on me tightens and momentarily I forget that I hate him.

That he hates me.

For this moment, we’re lost in each other.

In our kiss.

In our embrace.

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