Page 85 of Their Greatest Strength

My throat’s gone dry and tight. It’s impossible to cough to clear it.

She’s gripping Nate’s hand where it rests on her forearm, and those deep, panicked green eyes are on me, begging for help. I release a puff of air and smile, extending my hand long before she’s reached the altar.

Her dress swishes on the ground and trails behind her as she closes the rest of the distance between us and grabs my hand like it’s the only lifeline she has. Nate watches me for a few moments, hiding the threat in his gaze well. I don’t back down from it and tip my chin in silent agreement.

Blakely moves to stand across from me and takes my other hand, gripping them both.

“You’re gorgeous, Bandit,” I murmur.

Her eyelids lower, a tiny smile curving her pale lips. “Thank you. Your suit isn’t pink.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Some of the fear in her expression drifts just enough to be replaced with her signature annoyance.

“If I tell you how good you look, we won’t get out of the church door with your inflated head,” she mutters quietly.

By the choking noise coming from where my family is sitting, it seems she wasn’t quiet enough.

I let loose a breathy laugh. “Do I at least look good enough to be up here with you?”

“Better than.”

“Works for me, baby.”

The minister clears his throat and starts to speak, welcoming everyone to the ceremony. It’s hard to concentrate on the specific words when I’ve got Blakely in front of me. Shit, it’s hard to do anything but think of how beautiful she looks in all white.

Time moves fast. Words are spoken from beside me as I lose myself in the flecks of gold and brown in her green eyes and the tiny hairs above the arch of her brow. Her lashes move up and down, so black against the dark makeup smudged across her eyelid.

I lean forward, curious how many more lashes will appear with less distance. She releases my hand and circles my wrist, tugging lightly enough to appear nonchalant about it.

It’s dead silent as I look to the minister, then the crowd, and finally at my bride. She’s rolling her lips, the corners of her eyes crinkled.

“You’re supposed to be repeating our vows,” she whispers.

Seeing her amused is more than worth making a fool out of myself.

With a glance at the minister, I ask, “Can you give me a do-over?”

He doesn’t share the same sense of humour as we do, clearly. With a straight face, he repeats his words, and I don’t miss a beat before saying them to Blakely.

She does the same, and then we’re saying I do.

The two syllables melt off my tongue like butter. Maybe it’s the nerves or the excitement that’s building up inside of me out of nowhere, but I’m practically buzzing.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

It’s my wife who I seek approval from. And I get it when she takes a confident step into my arms.

Without another moment of hesitation, I have her face in my hands and our mouths a breath apart. She shuts her eyes softly, and I delve a hand into her hair, taking one final look at her like this before finally kissing her.

My thoughts jumble before becoming clearer than they’ve ever been. Kissing Blakely is a mix of all my favourite things. It fills me with excitement and adrenaline yet carries the ability to steady me before I get too carried away. Like a parachute on your back while diving out of a plane.

A safe danger.

The perfect paradox.

I trap a moan in my chest and coax her lips apart just enough to steal a small taste of her before forcing myself back. She plants a hand on my chest and releases a shuddered breath, keeping her eyes closed.

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