Page 111 of A Vow So Soulless

And neither is Mom.

“It’s OK,” I tell her, proud of the fact that I don’t feel tears in my eyes even though there’s that familiar ache in my throat. “I’ll be alright on my own.”

I don’t tell her the other thing.

The thing about how I half-expect Elio to buck tradition and come to me tonight. And if he does, I don’t want to have to kick one of my sleepy friends out of my bed to make room for him.

Strangely, imagining him coming to this room tonight pulls out the knife of loneliness and patches up the wound. A smile touches my lips, and it’s genuine. Annabelle smiles back, gives me a hug, then hurries down the hall to her room. I close my door and the last thing I see before it clicks shut is Enzo watching Annabelle walk away.

I turn around and flatten my back against the door, surveying the very large and now very empty room. It’s by far the fanciest hotel I’ve ever been inside, and from what I understand, this is one of the best rooms, reserved for the bride the night before the wedding, and for the couple to stay together the night after. The bed is huge, piled with pillows and gold-stitched bedding, and there’s a massive, spa-like bathtub in the centre of the bedroom, right in front of a crackling fireplace.

I’m exhausted, but I force myself to brush my teeth before I turn off the fire and the lights and crawl into the magnificent bed. I’ve brought my Valentine’s Day gift from Elio, the platinum case with the photo of Mom and me. In the gloom, I open it, holding it close beneath the covers, straining my eyes and wondering if Elio will come.

I fall asleep staring into my own past and dream of my future extending its hand towards me. Coaxing, waiting.

And that hand is gloved in black.

Chapter 36

Elio

Staying away from Deirdre the night before our wedding just might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done some hard fucking shit in my life. I’m only just down the hall from her. I get up three times in the night and snatch the key card to the bridal suite from my bedside table, striding to the door before I stop myself and turn back.

I want her to have this. This is a real wedding, and I want everything done correctly. Including the whole no-fucking-the-bride-the-night-before thing.

Whoever came up with the tradition deserves a boot up their fucking ass.

I miss her. And not just because I’m a ball of loose, lusting ends when it comes to her. I miss her on a cellular fucking level, like there’s not quite enough air in the room when she’s gone.

I don’t sleep much. I’m still babying my kidney, so I didn’t get blasted with Curse and my uncle and I can’t rely on the sweet embrace of alcohol to make me sleep. I spend most of the night half-hard and wanting her, imagining what she must be doing, what she might be wearing. What kind of magical, mysterious girl shit does a bride-to-be get up to the night before her wedding?

I have no fucking idea.

But I still try to imagine it anyway.

I picture her in white, lacey, wedding-themed lingerie.

I picture her completely naked.

My splint is finally off my dominant hand, and I jerk my cock to thoughts of her, but it isn’t fucking enough and I give up with a groan of frustration.

One night. Just one… fucking… night.

I must fall asleep eventually, though, because I wake with a start when someone pounds on the door.

For a single, mind-searing second, I have this terrible fucking thought. This thought that whoever is on the other side of the door is banging that loud because they have something bad to tell me.

I’m out of bed like a shot, tugging on underwear and yanking the door open.

“Where is she?”

“What?” Curse says from the other side. “You mean Deirdre? She’s in her room. Enzo was at his post until two, then Robbie took over and he’s still there now. She hasn’t left the room. Valentina and the other girls are in there now. They’re all getting ready.”

The throb inside my head eases to a dull ache.

“Good. What is it, then?”

Curse has something slung behind his shoulder. He heaves whatever it is forward. It’s two garment bags, dangling from his fingers by hooks.

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