Father Brennan nodded, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Of course.”
His Bible was leather-bound, and the wind tore at the pages as he held them down with trembling hands, his voice barely rising over the howl of the violent borderland gusts.
“If?if we could all bow our heads for a moment,” he began, darting a glance at Cormac, who paid him no heed. He was watching his daughter like a hawk—his daughter, who was still glaring at her soon-to-be husband as if she wanted to gouge out his eyes.
Fedya was staring at her features, at how strikingly similar she looked to her father. He stared at her mouth?red and full, the bottom lip fuller than the top?and for a brief, lucid moment, he imagined those lips kissing down his stomach, unzipping his pants with her teeth.
“We are gathered here, in the eyes of God, to witness the union of this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Though the setting is unconventional,” the priest faltered briefly, “the commitment made here today is no less solemn.”
Fedya reluctantly tore his blank gaze from Maeve and stared at the Father instead. Even with him here, there was nothing sacred about this marriage. It was a transaction that still felt surreal, even with his wife-to-be staring daggers at him like he was the one who came up with the plan in the first place.
“Marriage is a sacred covenant, instituted by God, signifying the spiritual union between Christ and His Church. It is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, soberly, and in the fear of Him.”
He paused, then looked at Fedya.
“Do you, Jonathan Riley, take this woman, Maeve O’Rourke, to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, from this forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and cherish, as long as you both shall live?”
This was truly happening then.
Fedya didn’t blink. “I do.”
Then the priest turned to Maeve, his tone softer, almost apologetic. “And do you, Maeve O’Rourke, take this man, Jonathan Riley, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and?”
“Yes.”
Father Brennan let out a faint breath, and a guard stepped forward from nowhere, holding a small velvet box. Fedya wasn’t surprised; he was certain it wasn’t just the three of them here. As capable as Cormac was in dealing with his own shit, he never moved alone.
There were two simple gold bands, and Fedya plucked one of the rings out.
“Come here,” he said to Maeve, needing her closer since they were a considerable distance apart. They looked more like strangers than two people who just got married. Then again, they really were strangers.
Maeve parted her lips, her scowl drowning her face at the authority in his tone. But her father spoke before she could.
His voice was as cold as ice. “Do as your husband says.”
Maeve’s eyes tightened, her hands curling into fists, her breath shaky upon her father’s request. Silently, she took a few steps forward, shortening the distance between them.
Her hands were by her sides, though, her fists still curled, even though they both knew Fedya was about to slide the ring down her finger.
“Give me your hand.”
She didn’t look at him as she lifted her hand. Heat thrummed softly on Fedya’s skin at the sight of her fingers: smooth, long, and slender. Unblemished. Acrylic nails as black as midnight.
He took her hand in his, ignoring the tingle he felt as he slid the jewelry down her finger. He raised her hand to his cold lips, but she wasn’t looking at him, and he hated that she wasn’t looking at him. So, he tugged her forward roughly, and she let out the tiniest gasp as her body collided with his.
Now that her wide, angry yet perturbed eyes were on his, he held her gaze as he pressed a wet kiss to her knuckles. Her breathing stilled, and her muscles locked up, as if she couldn’t bear the contact between them. The wind finally succeeded in tearing her shawl loose, sending it fluttering like a dark banner behind her. Her long red hair whipped across her face, strands catching over her eyes and sticking to the blood-red lipstick on her mouth.
The wind carried the scent of her shampoo to his nose, a sharp, floral, and dizzying smell. Fedya inhaled deeply, like a man possessed, uncaring for his two-man audience. His hand rose and curled around the delicate line of her neck, and then his mouth was on hers—a deep, hungry kiss. It was wet, hot, and possessive. And so brief it felt like it barely even happened because Maeve had frozen only for a split second, before shepushed against him, struggling against the feral press of his lips. Her body twisted in rejection, and Fedya read the message before abruptly pulling back, a bit dazed and confused as to what had come over him in that second.
Maeve’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wild and blazing, her chest rising and falling. Disgust so hot seared into her face as she stumbled back from him, dragging her trembling hand over her mouth so hard her lipstick smeared against her cheek in a crimson streak.
Her eyes were violent, brimming with heat, not tears, and she spat onto the dirt between them, every line of her face carved with revulsion. Still shaking, she grabbed the second ring without ceremony and shoved it onto his finger. She stepped away the moment it was done, widening the space between them like it could undo what had just happened.
Venom dripped from her breathy voice when she spoke. Her nostrils flared with indignation. “Touch me like that again and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
Her hand curled into a fist, then she scrubbed violently against the fabric of her dress, over and over, like she could rip the memory of his lips against her knuckles.
And Fedya nearly smiled. God, he was so close to breaking out into a grin.
