Page 49 of Charmingly Obsessed
His usually impeccable control over his expressions, that carefully cultivated mask of charming nonchalance or ruthless efficiency, is failing him tonight. It’s as if his face, his very features, have given up trying to decide what exact emotion to project.
Instead, they all flicker across his countenance in a dizzying, unreadable kaleidoscope. Hunger. Regret. Determination.Tenderness. And something else… something that looks terrifyingly like fear.
“The staff photographer has departed for the evening, naturally. But I could, perhaps… take a few simple snapshots with your own device? For your records?”
“We’d appreciate that.”
At first, when she directs us to stand “somewhere picturesque, perhaps by the rather lovely faux marble pillar,” he places a light, almost hesitant hand on my waist.
I manage a slight, shaky smile for the camera. The photo will be ridiculous. A monument to our collective insanity. Just like this whole sham ceremony.
But after five clicks of my phone’s camera, expertly wielded by the surprisingly adept registrar, he shifts. Moves behind me. His arms come around to fold over my stomach, pulling me back against his hard, warm chest. His chin rests lightly on my shoulder. And I… I tilt my head slightly, instinctively, resting it against his. It feels… right. Terrifyingly, unexpectedly right.
I don’t ever want to see that picture. Which means it probably turned out beautifully. Hauntingly so.
He kisses me at the end. When the registrar pronounces us… whatever it is we now are. Husband and wife. It’s unexpected. And unexpectedly tender. Like this is a real wedding. Like we are real.
My heart clenches with a sweetness so sharp, so poignant, it could force a goddamn tear from my eye. If I still knew how to cry.
As we descend the grand, slightly worn marble steps of the City Hall annex, out into the cool, damp embrace of the evening, it happens again. That intoxicating, world-tilting loss of equilibrium.
Only this time, we don’t stop. We just… slow our pace.
We walk and kiss. He turns us in a slow, dizzying circle on the sidewalk, his hand a steady, possessive pressure on my back, guiding me, holding me. Spinning, kissing. The city lights dissolve into a chaotic, neon fever dream around us. The evening has fully, irrevocably arrived.
We bump into a startled passerby, a businessman clutching a briefcase. Mykola murmurs a distracted apology on our collective behalf, his lips never leaving mine for more than a fraction of a second.
Inside my head, a swarm of questions buzzes, frantic, desperate to break free. Why me? What about Royce? What about the thugs? What about Anya? But… I don’t want to ask them. Not yet. I don’t want to know the answers. Not tonight. Just for this one night, this one stolen, insane night, can we pretend? Can we pretend none of those questions matter? Can we pretend we got married simply because we wanted to? Because we couldn’t not?
“We’ll buy you some tights on the way back,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost funereal, as we finally, reluctantly, disentangle ourselves and settle into the plush leather seats of his car.
The statement is so mundane, so practical, after the surreal drama of the past hour, that I almost laugh.
At a late-night pharmacy, he doesn’t let me go in. He goes himself. Striding through the automatic doors with that same purposeful, long-limbed grace he brings to everything, whether it’s closing a multi-billion-dollar deal or, apparently, purchasing emergency hosiery for his impromptu bride.
He returns minutes later, carrying two small, discreet packages of nylons, slicing the cool night air with them in time to his decisive steps.
“Thanks.”
It’s no surprise, of course, that he picked the perfect ones. Exact size. Not too sheer, not too thick. Just right. He probably accomplished this feat in under five minutes flat. The man’s efficiency is terrifying. And, God help me, a little bit thrilling. He’s probably had more lovers, bought more lingerie, than I’ve had coherent thoughts in my entire goddamn life.
The thought sends a familiar, unwelcome pang of inadequacy through me.
In the silent, private cocoon of the elevator gliding smoothly up to his penthouse, we hold hands. His fingers are warm, strong, interlaced with mine. It feels… significant. Real.
Back in the apartment, the atmosphere is different. Charged. Expectant.
He shrugs off his expensive, perfectly tailored jacket immediately, tossing it carelessly onto a minimalist leather armchair.
“What kind of champagne,” he calls from the direction of the living room, “does my wife prefer?” He sounds… happy. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.
The thought sends another jolt, this one of pleasure, straight through me.
I’m still inspecting the rip in my trench coat, a stupid, mundane task in the face of such monumental, life-altering events. “I… I like champagne. In general. So… any kind is fine.”
The distinctive pop of a champagne cork echoes through the apartment just as I step into the main living area.
The polished stone floor is so unexpectedly warm beneath my bare feet that a shiver, not entirely unpleasant, runs through my cold toes.
