Page 53 of Owned In Misty Mountain

We kept it small.

Misty Mountain’s version of small still means half the townturned up, but the ceremony’s held at the lookout point. Snowcapped peaks in the distance, soft green budding on the trees, the sun high and golden.

Mike stands at the end of the aisle in a crisp dark shirt and rolled-up sleeves, a simple boutonniere pinned to his chest. No tie. No jacket.

He looks like he couldn’t care less what anyone thinks.

Except he does.

Because when I take my first step down the aisle, he forgets to breathe.

His chest rises once—deep and sharp—like he’s been holding it in for weeks and can’t anymore.

And then his jaw locks.

His hands flex at his sides.

And his eyes—God, his eyes—burn into me like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

—-

I walk slow.

Not because I’m nervous.

Because I want him to look.

The dress is off-white, fitted, hugging every curve he’s already ruined and worshipped a hundred times.

My veil is short, my heels are low, and my lips are painted in the shade he once growled “mine” against.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t blink.

He just stares like I’m the only fucking thing in the world that matters.

When I reach him, I don’t wait for a cue.

I take his hand.

His fingers wrap around mine and hold tight.

Still no smile.

But his voice—when he leans in close enough for only me to hear?

Low. Rough. Unsteady.

“I’m gonna fuck you in this dress later.”

I nearly laugh.

I nearly faint.

“Not if I fuck you first,” I whisper back.

That earns me a low rumble in his chest.

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