Page 72 of Vows in Sin
She winces as I step on her bare foot.
“Christ, sorry?—”
She laughs.
“I don’t dance.”
She leans in, breath tickling my neck. “You’re a terrible dancer. But you’re an incredible kisser.”
I pull her in. Crush my mouth to hers.
And nothing else exists.
Not the wedding. Not the danger. Not the secret we’re keeping.
Only Seraphina, and the fire she lights in me.
I sneak her back in the nick of time. Tabitha’s looking for me. She wants us to join the others for the father-daughter dance. The bride sways in the arms of her father, Falcon, a man with a graying beard. It’s not lost on me that I’m only a few years shy of him.
I try not to step on my daughter’s feet. And hold my tongue.
When the music fades and guests begin to slip away to guest rooms or the terrace for drinks, I return to the garden alone. The smoke from the candlelit ceremony still lingers in my clothes. My wounds ache. And I feel more alive than I have in years.
I go back to Blaze and Cleo’s place. The house bustles with quiet, with laughter, with whispered stories from the escape. People carry wine glasses and talk about the fire in soft voices like it’s already part of our history, not a trauma still vibrating in our bones.
I overhear someone. “Reign had a feeling. That hunch saved us all.”
I can’t hear any more. I slip past the voices. Up to my room.
Where her strawberry essence still lingers.
Her room is just down the hall. Right next to Tabitha’s.
I run a hand through my hair. Look in the mirror.
Not a young man.
Not a gentleman.
But not a beast either.
Only a man who’s finally found the thing he was sure he’d never see again.
Suddenly, her image appears beside me in the mirror. At first, I think I’m dreaming of her again.
Barefoot. Wearing one of those silk robes that the estate staff sets out in the guest rooms, except on her, it looks indecent like temptation itself. The moonlight cuts across her skin, softening everything—her curves, her cheeks, the uncertain glint in her eyes.
“You okay?” she asks.
I should lie. Tell her yes. But tonight, I’m too tired to pretend. I shake my head once.
She walks to me. No hesitation.
I sit on the edge of the bed, one arm still in a sling, the other gripping the edge of the mattress like it’s the only thing anchoring me. She kneels in front of me, her fingers brushing my knees, her eyes searching mine like she can see the storm inside me.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I murmur. “This is a bad idea.”
“No,” she whispers. “I was going to say I missed you. At the wedding. It was weird to be so close yet not be able to touch.”
