Page 47 of Stolen Hearts

Dimitra doesn’t talk about our dad, or much about Atlas, either. But still, when I think of two people in love, that’s who I think of: her and my grandpa Jonas.

And I think even though she knows Castle and I aren’t her and Papou, part of her is trying to inject a little hope and joy into today’s event. Which is why she’s insisted on a “real” wedding.

So, no courthouse. I’m wearing the big white poofy fucking dress. There’s a priest involved, and our families will be in attendance.

“I know it’s for business reasons, Calliope,”she told me last night.“And I know it’s just for a year. But you’ll still want the pictures.”

So, that’s why we’re having a real wedding today.

For the fucking photos.

She’s actually also not that off-base.Imight not need the photos. But other people might. Other people like the Carveli family, not to mention the four other families that make up The Commission—the Italian version of the Irish Council of Clans, or the Russian Bratva High Council.

Massimo, of course, made a huge stink when Ares sent him word about my impending marriage to Castle. But it was sent along with asurgicallycrafted legal document drafted by Elsa, outlining the specific clauses of the blood-marker pertaining to these abrupt change of plans.

Massimo might be—probablyis—fully aware of the mountains of bullshit he’s being fed. But after his initial retort and a phone call so vicious that it had Ares holding his cell away from his ear, there’s been radio silence from the Carveli camp.

Still… Fake as it may be, this marriage does have to look real.

So sure, fine. I want the photos.

I’ve told myself that it’s to silence any dissent from Massimo, if he comes looking to stir things up. But another part of me—even though I completely realize it’s all fake and means nothing—feels…

Giddyat the idea of seeing myself in a wedding gown next to Castle in a tux.

It’s like I said: a crush is a disease. And it’s one without a cure or medicine to ease the symptoms. Which means that even though kissing Castle has turned him into a giant sourpuss with a frosty shoulder whenever he’s around me, when I’m near him, I still feel it.

The pull of gravity. The air being sucked from my lungs.

The inescapable pain that comes from knowing—truly knowing from that dark, cold look in his eyes—that this crush goes strictly in one direction and one direction only.

And that’s something I’m going to have to make peace with. Because in five hours, I’mmarryingthe guy.

* * *

It’s stilla strange mix of feelings as I step out of the French doors into the gardens, dressed in white.

One the one hand, I truly know it’s fake. I know the outrageously beautiful but stoic man standing at the altar doesn’t want to be here. I know he doesn’t wantmeat all, and that all of this is merely to fix a problem, not celebrate love.

But still.

Still.

When I walk down that aisle past the small group of friends and family toward Castle, there’s an undeniable bounce in my step. An unmissable flutter in my stomach. An inescapable thudding in my chest.

The wedding might be fake, but the emotions—my emotions, at least—are all too real.

I teeter on the heels I’m wearing just as I get to the altar. What? The man I’m about to marry is like six foot five, and I’mmaybefive foot three. I needed some height. For the photos. Sue me.

Castle’s eyes burn into mine when I come to a stop in front of him. His jaw grinds, probably with annoyance.

The priest Ya-ya brought has been fully briefed on what this is. But still, he’s a man of the cloth, and so he has Castle and I join hands. Before he begins, though, Castle leans down. For a second, my breath catches and my pulse skyrockets as I feel the warmth of his breath across my neck.

“Don’t forget the rules, Callie.”

Great timing. Thanks for the reminder, jerk-face. No touching. No kissing.

I got it.

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