Page 23 of The Enforcer's Possession
“Last chance,” Papa murmured.“Say the word and we’ll call this off.Face the embarrassment.Deal with the political fallout.But you’ll be free of him.”
“But the alliance…”
He stared at me.“I’ll still get a good deal with Marco.I know he’d still accept you.”
For one desperate second, I considered it.Considered running.Calling everything off and facing whatever consequences came from backing out at the literal altar.
Then I thought of Marco.Of Papa’s original plan.Of three months instead of three weeks, and a wedding that would have ended with me trapped in something far worse.
“No,” I said, my voice steadier than my hands.“Open the doors.”
Papa signaled.The doors swung wide.
And Dante’s gaze locked on mine with an intensity that made everything else fade away.
The music started.Some classical piece that Mama had probably chosen, elegant and appropriate and utterly meaningless compared to the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Papa and I started forward.
Every step took me closer to Dante.Every step made his expression clearer.Not happy, not nervous, not any of the emotions a groom was supposed to show.Just focused.Intent.Absolutely certain.
Like a man about to claim exactly what he’d bargained for.
My pulse kicked up until it felt like it might burst through my skin.My breathing went shallow again, air catching in my throat.
Papa’s grip on my arm tightened.Warning or support, I couldn’t tell.
We reached the altar.Dante stood there in all his dark glory, his gaze never leaving my face.Up close, I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the predatory stillness of his posture, the barely leashed violence in every line of his body despite the civilized clothing.
Papa placed my hand in Dante’s.
The contact sent a shock through my system -- his skin warm against mine, his fingers curling around my hand with unmistakable possession.Not holding.Claiming.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Papa said quietly, the words meant for both of us.
Dante’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.“No promises.”
Then Papa stepped back, and I was left standing next to my future husband with no barriers between us and whatever came next.
Dante’s thumb stroked once across my knuckles.The gesture was small, almost tender.But the look in his eyes when I finally met them was anything but.
“Hello, princess,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.“Ready to become mine?”
My throat went dry.I opened my mouth to respond, to say something sharp and defiant that would remind him of our contract terms.
But no words came out.
Because Mama had been right.Papa had been right.
I’d thought I was negotiating freedom.But all I’d done was choose my cage.
The priest started talking.I heard words -- something about love and commitment and holy matrimony -- but they barely registered.All I could focus on was Dante’s hand at the small of my back, his fingers spread wide against the bare skin exposed by the dress’s low cut.Not resting there.Pressing.Claiming.Making it clear to everyone watching exactly who I belonged to now.
I tried to shift slightly, to ease the intensity of the contact.His hand pressed against my back.Not painfully, but firmly enough that I got the message:Don’t move.
I stopped trying.
The ballroom stretched out behind us.As I’d walked down the aisle, I’d noticed faces I knew and some I didn’t.The Lombardis occupied the left side -- Papa in the front row with Mama beside him.Antonio Rossi sat behind them.Luca was there too, three rows back, his face tight with concern.
