Page 3 of Sacrifice
My hands shake—actually fucking shake—as I push the garter past her knee.
She's holding her breath. So am I.
I force myself to stop mid-thigh, to pull my hands away when every instinct screams to keep going.
To claim what's mine in front of everyone.
"There. Happy?" I growl at the crowd, standing abruptly.
I need distance.
Space.
A fucking cold shower and a bottle of whiskey.
I storm off toward the bar, ignoring Tor's laughter and the knowing looks from the old ladies.
Three fingers of Jack, neat. Then another. The burn helps, but not enough.
The reception continues.
Dinner is served, more toasts are made, kids run wild.
I stick to the edges, doing my duty as best man without getting too close to the center of action.
Without getting too close to her.
Then I see him.
Brandon.
Some kid from Dasha's coffee shop who thinks a wedding invitation means he has a shot with Saga.
He's young, clean-cut, probably goes to college, and has a trust fund.
Everything I'm not.
He approaches her while she's getting a drink, all nervous smiles and eager conversation.
She smiles back—actually fuckingsmiles—and my vision goes red at the edges.
"Easy there, killer," Tor says, appearing at my elbow. "No bloodshed at Rio's wedding."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. That's why you're gripping your beer so hard the bottle's about to shatter."
I force my hand to relax. "Kid needs to learn respect."
"For what? Talking to a single woman at a wedding?" Tor's enjoying this too much. "Face it, brother. You've got it bad."
"Fuck off."
"Can't. Best entertainment I've had all week." He claps my shoulder. "Though you might want to intervene before he asks her to dance."
Too late.
The kid's already extending his hand, and Saga's considering it.
