And I won’t ever have to see those green eyes of hers stare at me in horror like my mother’s did.

TWELVE

WEDDING

Melanie

I wake up to find my red dress hanging on the knob of my bedroom door, facing me. I blink and terror spins through me as I realize he was here. In my bedroom.

“Is anyone here?” I cry, pulling my sheets to my neck.

Silence. I leap out of bed and race to slam open all my doors, hard—in case there’s someone hiding behind them. I’m exhausted by the time I’ve gone around my apartment like some deranged person. Sagging against the wall, I let my eyes scan my dress. It’s perfect. No mark on it. It even has the dry cleaner’s stamp. My arm trembles as I touch the silk, snippets from last night flashing across my mind. Hands. Blood. Tears.

Seems like we both survived, my dress and I—but I’ll die before I sleep at home tonight. I’ll make Pandora invite me over for a couple of days, or I will spend the night at a hotel, alone.

God, but I don’t want to be alone.

I want another night with Greyson. I have lain in my bed for two weeks remembering that night we were together, and what I feel for him is so far beyond wanting, it feels like a needing. A hungering. I want his arms and his mouth. I want his heat and the look in his eyes to make me forget that I have bruises on my thighs, in my pride, and in my heart.

Exhaling, I hurry into my bathroom, lock the door, fill up my tub, and remind myself my best friend is getting married today.

After my bath, I rub myself with coconut-almond oil, slide on my sleekest thong, my red dress, some turquoise heels, a thick yellow wristband—at least three colors on me, which always makes me feel good—and I hurry over to Brooke’s place, telling myself to stop wondering if I’ll really have a date, if I’ll ever pay the debt, if I’ll ever have a good night’s rest again. Today it’s all about my best friend’s wedding and I am going to enjoy this day.

I’ve dreamed and dreamed of this for Brooke even before she knew she wanted it herself, and the moment Remington Tate leapt out of the Underground ring and asked for her number, I felt butterflies on her behalf and immediately gave him the number myself. Brooke would have never given it to him otherwise.

Now she’s as in love as I never imagined she’d be. She’s covered in white and I’ve just shooed the men to the church—because there’s no way in hell I’m letting Remy and Brooke start with any bad luck on their side. The groom just cannot see the bride in her dress until the wedding.

Grudgingly, they left, though Remington did not look pleased about it. Now big ole Josephine, the bodyguard turned nanny-bodyguard, and I are helping add the last crystal flowers to Brooke’s hair as we wait for Brooke’s mother and sister to arrive.

“Whose turn to hold Racer? He just drooled on my dress and I don’t want him puking on it too,” Nora says, nodding in the direction of a little dark spot on the bodice of Brooke’s dress.

Dropping her gaze, Brooke studies the stain and rubs it with her thumb, a weary disappointment showing on her face.

“Brooke, your guy won’t even notice the spot, I guarantee! Hand Racer over to me!” I demand as I grab little Racer and set him on my lap, rubbing my lips over the top of his round little head. He smells like talc and slaps his arms all over the place.

Brooke is busy texting the groom and glancing ahead. “I swear, this traffic,” she groans.

“It’s not like he won’t wait for you,” I squeak excitedly before handing Racer to his grandmother, who goos and ahs all over him, and I go and switch seats and try to hug Brooke even through all the tulle of her skirt. “Brookey, Remy was waiting for you all his life! He’ll wait ten more minutes, trust me.”

Brooke points a finger at me. “Don’t you say anything to make me cry,” she warns, discreetly patting the corners of her eyes.

I nod with a grin, but my windpipe tightens when I take her hand and squeeze it.

She’s my best friend. I’m an only child.

I have Pandora, my goth friend who’s my opposite—negative, sarcastic, and dark, and who I love. But Brooke is Brooke, and there’s only one for me. Brooke won’t be staying in Seattle because the nature of her husband’s work demands he goes on tour with the fighting league, and this moment is a very emotional one for me. Nobody ever thinks about the best friend when the bride is getting married. But right now, I’m so happy I could burst, and, at the same time, as miserable as I could be. First because I will miss her, and second because since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to be draped in white and to have the kind of groom she has waiting for her at the altar, madly in love with me, ready to protect me, spend the rest of his life with me.

Instead, I’ve never gotten through a month of dating anyone.

Instead, last night I was almost . . . God, don’t think about it now.

Brooke steps out of the car and I’m glad for the distraction of getting her ready to enter. I told her that since Pete, Remy’s PA, is the best man and also Nora’s boyfriend, she should just ask her sister to be maid of honor. Who wants Nora scowling at her for the rest of her life anyway? Not me.

So I’m the proud bridesmaid along with Pandora, who’s also in red for probably the first time in her life. Not that she seems happy about it, but that’s nothing new.

As I walk behind Brooke into the church, I see him. By the door. And my legs turn mushy under my dress.

Greyson. He wears this really nice black suit as easily as he wears his self-confidence. God. It’s almost as if those nearby sway toward him.

I almost can’t handle the tug of his magnetic presence. He doesn’t know that just standing there, dark and powerful by the wide church entrance, he’s rescuing me from my thoughts and my fears and my loneliness, which yesterday felt as absolute as night. After twenty-five years of not being good enough, in the eyes of this man, I am. I am desirable. I am worth being here. What I feel is odd and exciting. Raw and gritty, precious and fragile. He doesn’t know the sight of him curls like warmth inside me, warming me in secret places, taking my fears away. My mind is on a one-track speed all of a sudden.

He came.

And by the way he levels those fierce hazel eyes on me, he’s not going anywhere. Not without . . . me.

During the ceremony, I start crying. I don’t expect to, but the fear of last night mingles with the much-wanted fact that the guy I want is here for me, all of that mingled with the low, rough words of my best friend’s boyfriend pledging his life to her.

I hate that I’m ruining my makeup but as I stand by and hear my best friend pledge her vows to one of the most protective, sexy, and kind men I know, I remember how it was me who told her, DO IT! Go after him! I remember it was me who said, have an adventure, live your life, come on, Brooke, it’s REMINGTON FUCKING TATE, nobody says no to the guy!

Now I feel a pair of narrowed hazel eyes on my profile, and when I steal a look his way, that possessive look he wears couldn’t be improved on by the devil himself. My heart squeezes as I try to stop crying, telling myself that at least for tonight, I’m going to be safe. I will feel safe. Because he doesn’t look like he’s letting me go anywhere without him.

God, I could’ve died yesterday.

I could die tomorrow.

I’ve always lived my life in the moment, but always planning and waiting for my perfect future. What if there is none? I don’t care what he’s here for and suddenly nothing matters but that I know what I want tonight.

I sniffle and wipe my tears, then meet his gaze almost imploringly, my tummy aching when he returns my stare with one that tells me so much more than simply I’m going to do you. There’s concern in his gaze, but there’s fire, simmering in there, promising to burn me in the most delicious way. He’s here because he wants me. He craves me and I crave him back. I crave the man I met that night in the rain, the one who wouldn’t let me get wet and quietly asked about me as he kissed me all night. The one who came back to see me and asked for another chance. His magnetism just pulls at me, the pull irresistible. Unprecedented.

And as the vows are exchanged in the chapel, I make a vow to myself. I vow that whatever this thing is between him and me—a fling, a catastrophe, the worst call of my life—tonight I’m going with it. I’m diving in, and I’m following my gut, my heart, and every single tingle in my wanting body or my f**king name is not f**king Melanie.

THIRTEEN

TONIGHT

Greyson

The ceremony takes a million f**king years.

I stand here armed with my SIG semiautomatic, just over two pounds of steel, but my c**k feels twice as heavy and my chest ten times as much. I’m like week-old roadkill. Seeing her crying yesterday wrung me out. Now her gaze is stripped na**d of emotion as she seeks me out in the crowd, and I can’t even process how I feel.

From the moment she stepped out of the limousine with the bride, I groaned at the sight of her. I’m still raging with the impulses to get close to her, touch her, smell her.

Melanie’s a bundle of contradictions in a bridesmaid’s dress. All smiles, but snapping out orders like a general. I watched her pull the train of the bride’s dress behind her so it “looked pretty” while a dark-haired girl with a frown passed a set of flowers to the bride. Melanie avoided looking at me. Maybe on purpose, maybe not.

Now that the vows are done, I’m on the sidewalk outside the church, impatient. There’s a chorus of people around, but above their noise, I can hear her laugh. I turn my head and see the priest saying something that delights her. God, I want to kiss that f**king laugh to silence. Then I want to do something to wake it up again so it trails into my mouth, where I can trap it. Taste it. Play with it.

When a group starts to gather around the limousine, I don’t waste another minute. I close the distance between us, stopping a mere two inches behind her, taking a moment to enjoy the fetching picture she makes: loose hair tumbling over her shoulders, tight red silken dress down to her ankles, the open back dipping in a V that ends almost at the start of her round, perky ass.

“Are you deliberately ignoring me?” I murmur, sliding my hand around her waist.

“No.” She smiles down at the sidewalk as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

I drop my head until my lips are almost grazing that ear. “Good, because I’m not someone you ignore.” Using my grip on her waist, I pull her back against my front. I’m testing the limits, glad that instead of making any sort of protest, she leans against me.

Good f**king sign, King.

Fuck, now I’m itching for more. Taking her by the elbow, I ease her away from the crowd and tuck her into an alcove near the entrance to the church.

Her breathing’s heavy, and that’s an even better sign. She wants you too, she wants you just like you want her.

I push her up against the stone wall using my body. Her br**sts press against my chest, her thighs against mine. A low groan gets trapped in my throat as I slide my lips over the lids of her eyes. To say I’m starved is an understatement. I wish I had ten hands—two are just not enough as I run my palms up her sides, fingers cupping her butt and then pinning her to my h*ps so I can feel her, alive and perfect, safe and untouched.

She nuzzles my throat and takes a deep breath as if she craves my scent. I squeeze her against me, feeling her shiver in my arms.

I’m highly trained.

I can sense fear, arousal, excitement.

But the mixture I seem to produce in her intoxicates me more than anything ever has. I bring her tighter to me. A gasp leaves her lips, and it takes everything in me not to bend my head and take it. No. When I take those red-painted lips, I’m not stopping until she’s na**d beneath me and I’m as deep as a curse inside her.

Tonight, I vow to myself.

I reach into my suit coat and pull the necklace I brought her out of a velvet bag.

“What is this?” She peers down at my fist.

I let her open my hand, and she looks down at the diamond necklace in my palm. It’s a high-quality tennis diamond necklace, simple yet extraordinary. Like her. “Something for my girl,” I murmur.

“Your girl?”

I lift the necklace and hook it around her neck.

“It’s too much, Greyson, I can’t take it,” she protests.

“I can’t take it back and it’s not my size.” I run my knuckles up her throat, and it’s warm and silky. “Besides, it’s meant for a queen, a princess.”

I adjust the sparkling strand so it rests against her collarbone, just beneath the flutter of her pulse point. I’m tempted to bend my head and slide my tongue in there. Hell, I’m tempted to do more. I dip my finger into the little crook instead, touching her pulse and lifting my eyes to hers. “Melanie, when you’re waiting for me to call,” I stroke the pad of my thumb over the diamonds one more time, “look at these stones and know for certain that that phone will ring.”