Page 60 of Wicked King

But that dark gaze rakes over me, and I’m a hopeless captive.

Marco’s head slowly dips, and the faintest hint of a smile tips up the corner of his lip. It shouldn’t affect me like it does, but somehow, the ice coating my veins thaws, and I take a wary step forward, clutching the bouquet of jasmines in a death grip.

Yéye takes advantage of the sudden movement, and we’re suddenly whizzing down the aisle, all the curious stares and unfamiliar faces a blur. My gaze locks on the gilded cross above the altar, and somehow, my legs continue to propel me forward.

I blink, and we’ve already arrived at the first step. Yéye brushes a kiss to my cheek and hands me over to my uncertain future. Marco’s hands grip mine, and I’m surprised to find moisture coating his palms. It’s so unexpected, I hazard a glance up and meet those stormy eyes.

A tight smile melts the hard set of his jaw for an instant before we turn to face the priest. He begins to speak, but the mad drumbeat of my heart muffles his words. My head begins to spin, my lungs struggling for air. I think I’m having a panic attack. Instead of allowing the darkness to swallow me under, I focus on Marco’s unwavering gaze.

That look is so raw, so turbulent, and yet it anchors me to the present. My own emotions are a tangled mess, the rush of nerves and fear crashing against the undeniable attraction and desire. Had I made a terrible mistake agreeing to an open marriage?

Clenching my teeth, I resolve to remain strong. Even if I hadn’t, I doubt the philandering male would’ve kept to our wedding vows. The idea of Marco with another woman sends fire surging through my core and jealousy tearing at my insides. Yes, I need to hold onto that. To the fury, the anger. It makes me strong. The uncertainty, the onrush of feelings, they only make me weak and vulnerable.

I think back to the vow I’d made when I’d been ambushed by my grandfather into this nightmarish arrangement: I’ll kill Marco Rossi the first chance I get. As I stare into those mercurial eyes, my heart pinches.

And I’m certain in that moment, I could never do it.

I may resent the man and distrust him, but I could never be the cause of those darting eyes closing for all eternity.

As if Marco has plucked the thought right from my mind, his hands tighten around mine. He inches closer, and I blink quickly, certain I must be imagining it.

“…and now you may kiss the bride.” The priest’s words pierce the chaos of my scrambling thoughts, and all the oxygen rushes from my failing lungs.

Marco’s mouth captures mine, stealing the remaining air, and my head spins. His lips are soft, moving tentatively at first, but when I don’t immediately pull away, he deepens the kiss. For a second, I’m back in the limo when I offered a kiss in exchange for a visit with Lei while my fiancé tortured him. That kiss had been an inferno, fueled by anger and desire. This one, in contrast, is almost tender, a gentle flame that warms rather than burns.

And my heart staggers at the difference.

When I finally summon the wherewithal, I pull away and draw in a much-needed breath of air not tainted with Marco’s intoxicating, musky scent. Applause echoes around the cathedral, snapping me from the emotion-fueled haze.

Marco spins us toward the guests and raises our interlocked hands triumphantly. I barely muster a smile as the thunderous applause rages on. Once it finally dies down, we’re moving again. This time it’s my fia—husband ushering me down the aisle at a hurried pace instead of my grandfather. Oh, God, husband?

The myriad of faces rush by in a whirlwind as guards move in around us. Once we reach the vestibule, we’re hastily escorted to the classic silver Bentley parked outside.

“Why are we running?” I murmur.

“Aren’t you anxious to put an end to this farce?”

I nod slowly as the driver yanks the door open. Of course, I am. But maybe for an instant there, I wished it hadn’t all been an act. I slide into the backseat and curl against the far door. “Where are we going now?” It’s embarrassing, really, that I have no idea of the order of events for my own wedding.

“There will be a cocktail hour at the Astor Salon featuring a variety of hors d'oeuvres, then we’ll move into the Grand Ballroom for the plated eight-course dinner.”

“Eight?” I grumble. This nightmare of an evening would drag on forever.

“What’s wrong, spitfire? Are you anxious to get our wedding night started?”

“No…” I hiss and press closer against the door to put as much space between us as humanly possible.

“You do understand that in order for the wedding to be valid, we must consummate it, right?”

I clear my throat, drawing out the silence for a lengthy moment. “I am aware of the Catholic traditions.” I pause and nibble on my thumb. “But then again, an open marriage is not permitted under the eyes of the Lord either, so I’m not sure any of this is necessary in keeping with this sacred ritual.”

He grinds out a rueful laugh, shaking his head. “So even on our wedding night, you’ll deny me? Do you want me to celebrate the grand occasion with someone else?”

“Fuck you,” I spit.

“I’m trying…”

“God, I hate you.”

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