Page 62 of Wicked King

“Our?” His enigmatic irises sparkle to life.

I snap my jaw closed, annoyed with myself at that slip of the tongue.

“I assumed you’d force me to sleep in my own room,” he continues.

At least he didn’t say someone else’s room. Waving a dismissive hand, I spear another tortellini drenched in the creamy sauce. “The bridal suite is huge. It would be wasteful to spend money on another room.”

“I have lots of money, spitfire.”

“It doesn’t mean you have to waste it, honey.”

His grin grows wider until it unfolds into a beaming smile, and God, I hate how all resolve crumbles at the sight. He points his fork at me. “I believe I like ‘honey.’”

“Then I’ll think of something else.” I throw him a sweet smile and shove more tortellini in my mouth before our banter turns downright civil.

The wedding planner rushes over as I swallow down the last bite. “Finish up, it’s time for the first dance.”

“Now?” Why couldn’t we have done that before the damned fourth course?

“Yes, Mrs. Rossi, now.”

Mrs. Rossi? I cringe at the sound. “That’s Guo,” I snap.

“Apologies, Mrs. Guo. And to you, Mr. Rossi, for the interruption, but the orchestra is playing the song you selected next.”

“The song you selected?” My gaze swivels between the planner and Marco.

“I picked one at random,” he mutters.

Oh. That is unexpected. Now, I’m beyond curious…

Marco scoots his chair back, the sharp squeal against the burnished wooden planks screeching over the pause in the orchestra music. A few curious gazes swivel in our direction as I stand, and Marco laces his fingers through mine.

With an increasing number of heads turning in our direction, I can’t help but lean into his towering form to hide from the inquisitive gazes. To keep from meeting their stares, I take in the Grand Ballroom for the first time tonight.

The impressive space is adorned with intricate details that suggest a long-gone era of grandeur. The ceilings soar high above, lavishly decorated with ornate crystal chandeliers. The light casts a soft, ambient glow throughout the room, reflecting off the golden hues of the wall trimmings. The walls themselves are lined with paneled silk and velvet draperies, adding a touch of royal decadence to the atmosphere.

It's truly breathtaking.

I’m still amazed Marco’s assistant was able to pull off the grand occasion in only two short weeks. And they say money can’t buy you happiness…

When we reach the polished wood dance floor, the orchestra picks up a familiar tune. I’d fully expected a classic ballad from Frank Sinatra or Etta James, but instead the eight-piece orchestra plays their rendition of Perfect by Ed Sheeran.

Marco’s arm laces around my waist, and a thousand tiny blades pierce my heart as he starts to hum the tune.

“I didn’t know you were an Ed Sheeran fan.” It’s the last thing I would have expected from the playboy mafia boss.

He shrugs. “The guy knows how to write a love song.”

“And what do you know about love, Mr. Rossi?” I curl my arms around the back of his neck because apparently Ed Sheeran is also a sorcerer.

“Not much, apparently, Mrs. Guo.” A rueful smile hitches up the corner of his lips as he pulls me flush against his chest.

He guides me across the dance floor, my body moving effortlessly with his. For an instant, everyone else disappears, and it’s only us and the magical notes and heart-filled words of the song. My chest heaves, brushing against his with each breath. His eyes darken as they latch onto my peaked nipples through the fine lace.

God, my emotions are so all over the place right now. I’ve never felt so out of control. One moment I’m certain I could murder Marco Rossi and the next, I cannot wait to fall into his arms.

“Jia, I…”

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