Page 159 of The Forgotten Queen
His mind needed to focus on something else besides her kisses, and quick.
His thoughts switched to the first thing that popped into his head.
Butterflies.
His mother and butterflies.
That should do the trick.
He pushed her away from him as his jaw hardened. Hehatedpushing her away. He forced his thoughts to catalog every stupid color on a butterfly’s wing.
“So I take it you’d marry me again if I asked?”
She smiled. “No, I wouldn’t.”
His brows bent.
She pulled him close again. This new version of her was a lot more aggressive than Marx remembered.
She kissed his cheek. “We’realreadymarried,” she whispered.
Marx straightened. “But I thought—”
Seran shook her head. “Our divorce never went through. My father didn’t get all the signatures he needed. Iaskedhim not to get the signatures.”
“So we’re still married?”
She nodded, pulling him toward the door.
Marx laughed.
They were still married.
56
Seran
The Kingdom of Cristole
One Month Later
Seran walked along the beach, letting her toes sink into the sand. She smelled the salty air and felt the damp breeze brush up against her hair and face. The sun spilled its last rays of orange and pink across the dancing water, causing the skyline to glow.
She scanned the cresting waves in the distance, looking for Marx. She placed her hand above her eyes, shielding the sunset from her view. Marx’s yellow and blue surfboard caught her eye. He floated on top of the water, turning and swaying with the wave.
She smiled.
He looked good surfing.
He rode the wave until the water lost its momentum and died down, then he twisted the board one last time, sending a spray of water into the air. He faced the beach, then his head jerked toward where she was. A giant smile spread across his lips, and he dove forward, swimming toward her. When it was too shallow for him to swim, he picked up his board and sloshed through the water. His bare chest glistened with drops of water, and his triceps stood out from holding the surfboard. He flipped his head to the side, trying to move the wet strands of hair away from his forehead. Seran lifted the hem of her yellow dress and stepped into the rippling waves to meet him halfway.
“Did you come to surf with me?” he asked as he scooped her into his arms.
She leaned her hip into him, gripping his muscled back. “I don’t have a board.”
“You don’t need a board,” he said, kissing the side of her cheek and down to her ear. “My surfer girl. We’re going to ride together.”
His lips traveled across her neck and cheek, eventually finding her mouth until Seran was lost in his arms. His kiss. His love. She felt wholly adored and complete. Her true self. Not the Seran she used to be before the shooting, and not the shadow of the woman she had been when she had woken up from her coma. This was a new version. Marx had helped her become better than she had been before.
