Page 47 of When Hearts Surrender

The church is silent—so quiet, I can hear a pin drop and the squeaking of shoes against the floors.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out other than my heavy, ragged breaths. My hands shake against hers as I stare helplessly into her soothing, tawny eyes. Wildflowers. Moors. Nature.

“I, Maxwell Angus Silas Anderson,” I begin, my voice a hoarse rasp, “t-take y-you, Annabelle Charlotte Law-McKenzie, t-to be my wife.”

Her hands tighten in mine as her lips part, a shuddering exhale escaping.

Blood rushes in my ears, and heat crawls up my neck. I feel the audience staring at me, their attentions foreboding and sinister, a monster waiting with bated breath for the moment to pounce and tear me into shreds.

“I promise t-to…” My breathing quickens, my lungs not working properly, and I see her beautiful face pinching at what she must be seeing on my face.

The beginning of a panic attack.

“I p-promise…” I try again, but the world swirls around me. I’m seasick on a sinking ship, staring helplessly at a wave threatening to capsize us at any second.

“You promise to be faithful to me,” she whispers, her fingers gently kneading my hands, loosening the tight muscles. “Look at me, Maxwell, just look at me. It’s only you and me.”

She steps closer, far closer than respectable in such a conservative setting, and angles us so I’m facing her and the altar only, the audience out of sight.

Belle lifts her hand, her fingers trembling as if to touch me, but she stalls mid-air, uncertainty in her features.

Closing my eyes, I lean toward her, resting my face on her outstretched palm, enjoying her warmth flowing to me, much like the night at the pier, before I succumbed to my desires and kissed her.

A soothing calm flows through my body after a few seconds of ripe tension and silence.

Opening my eyes, I clasp her free hand in mine and stare into those soulful, familiar eyes, the eyes I feel an undeniable kinship to, a deep yearning, a mysterious connection.

“I, Maxwell Angus Silas Anderson, take you, Annabelle Charlotte Law-McKenzie, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you.” My thumb caresses the back of her hand and she shivers, her mouth parted, and a heat simmers in my veins.

“In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, tolove you,” I murmur, my voice rough to my ears—and for a moment, I forget about my promise to her, about the curse, about why we are standing here today, and from how she sways on her feet, her eyes dilated as they lock on to mine, I’m guessing she feels the same. “And to honor you all the days of my life.”

Her breath catches, a wet sheen appearing in her eyes. A clawing need digs into my chest and I swipe her tear away with my thumb. I want to ravish her, to push her away, to flay myself for causing the anguish on her elfin features.

Belle’s lips tremble before she murmurs, “I, Annabelle Charlotte Law-McKenzie, take you, Maxwell Angus Silas Anderson, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

Fierce possession fires through me and I tug her closer so she’s a hairsbreadth away from me, half noticing the surprised gasps and murmurs from the clearly shocked audience.

The priest says something, and I barely notice Ryland walking up with the rings. I feel like I’m underwater; the words tumbling out of my mouth sounding muffled, the music of my heart and pulse overpowering everything else.

I only see her, my beautiful muse. Her large, familiar eyes, her soft, warm body, her heady scent of lilies and sweetness.

For the first time in my life, I don’t notice the crowds. The monster lurking inside me is abated. She grounds me.

“I pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride.”

In this moment, there is only one desperate need inside me.

To claim. To mark. To possess.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Snaking one arm around her waist, I pull her closer, so that every inch of our bodies touch. My other hand grips her nape, my fingers curling into her thick, dark strands, and I tug.

Her lips part in an erotic moan and I bend her backward and kiss those pouty red lips.

The lips that have haunted me, that have ruined me for anyone else.

I forget about the curse, the crowds, about how I vow to never kiss her again, about the Grim Reaper hovering nearby all my life.

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