Page 33 of Princes of Carnage

Atlas flanks him on one side, ever present, and I’m not surprised to find him glaring at me. He made it incredibly clear the other day that he doesn’t like me, and the feeling is fucking mutual. I’ve never liked any of the Princes of Carnage, but as I discovered the other day when he took me shopping, Atlas has a way of getting under my skin in a way that few people have ever managed to do.

Maybe he’s still pissed that I stripped down in front of him in the dressing room, but it’s what he got for following me in there in the first place.

Killian is as impassive and silent as always, standing on Nico’s other side like a statue. Atlas never really answered my questions about him at the boutique, so I don’t know any more about him than I did then. But he’s staring at me just as intently as his two friends are, and my heart thuds in response, goosebumps breaking out over my skin.

I will them away, squaring my shoulders and then walking down the aisle to join Nico at the front.

It’s a sham of a wedding—even though there is a priest present, standing up at the altar waiting for us to say our vows—so there’s no processional music to accompany me down the aisle. There’s no pomp or ceremony, just tense silence.

Killian and Atlas stand with Nico, and Fallon and Carter fall into place to stand with me. Members of our respective gangs sit in the pews, filling out the witnesses for this farce.

“If we’re ready?” the priest says, glancing between us. I just clench my jaw in response, but Nico nods, gesturing for him to begin.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

The priest starts to speak, but I tune out of most of it. It’s a standard ceremony, something generic and easy to fill in the blanks. He says something about the sanctity of marriage, and it’s a struggle not to snort with derision at the notion that anything about this shit is sanctified.

Of course, neither Nico nor I have written any special vows, because why would we? If we had to talk about our previous relationship together, it would just be about all the times we’ve pissed each other off and the rivalry between our gangs. The grudges and retaliations between us for the past several years. Not exactly the stuff romantic wedding vows are made of.

So the priest leads us in the basic shit, guiding us when it comes to what to say. It’s a little gratifying that the ‘love, honor, and obey’ shit goes both ways, because there’s no way in hell I’d make any kind of promise to obey Nico, but especially not if it was one-sided.

“Now then,” the priest finally says. “Who has the rings?”

Nico jerks his chin at one of his men, who steps forward… not with a ring box, but with a tattoo gun.

My stomach does a little swoop, and I glance sharply at Nico. “What the fuck is that for?”

“Let’s just say I don’t quite trust you yet, wife,” Nico says in a low voice meant just for me. He smiles, and I hate that he looks so fucking handsome—like a devil in a fitted suit. “So I’m making sure that there’s a sign of our union that you can’t just slip on and off when it suits you. It has to be a permanent mark. A reminder of who you’re bound to.”

My jaw clenches, and it’s hard to breathe through the anger climbing up my throat. “A ring would be fine,” I grit out.

“Would it?” His eyes narrow, like he’s searching my face. “I don’t think so.” He waves a hand, gesturing to the church, the priest, all of it. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it all the way.”

I bite back the urge to tell him that people get married with just rings every fucking day, and it doesn’t make their commitments any less permanent—but once again, he has a point, and I hate that. It’s not like we have any bonds of love to fall back on. We don’t trust each other. We don’t even like each other.

My nostrils flare as I suck in a breath, staring silently at him for a long moment. As proud as I was of the marks I left on Nico, now he’s going to leave a mark on me, and I can’t even begin to sort through the mess of feelings I have about that. Around us, my people and his all tense up as the silence builds between us, as if they’re waiting for a confrontation to break out right here in the church.

But then I nod, holding his gaze as I echo his words. “All the way.”

Nico takes the tattoo gun from his man and steps closer to me. We’re so near to each other that I can feel the heat from his body and smell the scent of his body wash or cologne. It’s warm and spicy, making me think of the other day when I couldn’t quite distinguish which was his scent and which was Atlas’s.

I guess I have my answer now.

I try to breathe shallowly as Nico tugs lightly at the neckline of my dress, exposing enough of my chest right over my heart so that he can press the tattoo gun to it.

The sound of the machine flaring to life is familiar, as is the burning sting of the needle moving over my skin. It doesn’t take long, and I’m almost afraid to find out what he might have marked on me.

But when I look down, it’s not his initials or some crude mark to symbolize the Princes of Carnage. Instead, it’s just a simple circle with overlapping lines. Just a ring.

Nico moves to step back, but I reach out and catch his wrist, stopping him. I glance down at his chest, hidden beneath the fabric of his suit.

“I wear your ring, you wear my ring,” I say, holding out my other hand for the tattoo gun. “All. The. Way.”

A half smile tugs at his lips, almost as if he would’ve been disappointed if I hadn’t insisted on tattooing him too. He puts the tattoo machine in my outstretched hand, and I frown slightly as I look down at it.

“I hope you brought extra supplies for this thing,” I mutter. “I’m not swapping pathogens with you just because we’re getting married.”

He chuckles lowly and motions to his guy again, who produces the supplies I need.

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