She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. Her pulse is jumping now. I can feel it in her wrist where it rests against my shoulder, rapid and light, and the satisfaction of knowing she's affected is so intense it borders on dangerous.
I laugh. Quiet, genuine, a sound that surprises me almost as much as it surprises the room. Several heads turn — Stavros, mid-conversation with a Romano uncle, looks at me like I've pulled a weapon. Lex's eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch, which for him is equivalent to falling out of his chair.
"I think I'm going to enjoy being married to you, Siobhan."
"I think you're going to regret saying that."
The song ends. I don't let go immediately. Neither does she.
"May I steal a dance with the groom?" Elena appears beside us, warm smile, appropriate distance. "For old times' sake?"
Siobhan steps back, not pushed, not pressured, a deliberate release. She nods at Elena, squeezes my hand once, and turns toward Finn, who's been watching the dance floor with the expression of a man cataloging everything. She's fine. She chose to let go.
Elena takes my hand. She's a good dancer — we danced together at a dozen family events growing up, and the muscle memory is still there. Her hand on my shoulder is familiar, comfortable, the touch of someone who's known you since you were both too young to know better.
"She's lovely, Nico. You chose well."
"I did."
"You seem..." She studies me. "Different. With her."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like something's been released." A pause. Her smile stays warm. "I hope she knows what she's gotten into."
It sounds like concern. The tone is right, the eyes are right, the gentle pressure of an old friend making sure the new wife is prepared for the reality. But something catches — a micro-hesitation before the wordhope, like she tested it before she said it.
I let it go.
"She knows exactly what she's gotten into. She walked into it with her eyes open."
"Good." Elena squeezes my hand. "That's all I wanted to hear."
The dance ends. She steps back with the same grace she's always had, and for a moment I see the girl she was at sixteen — running through the estate with Lex and me, laughing at something I can't remember, before any of us knew what the world would demand. I feel a pang of something. Not desire. Nostalgia, maybe. Or guilt.
I cross back to Siobhan. She's with Finn, talking about something that makes them both serious, and when I approach, she turns to me and the seriousness softens into something I'm starting to recognize: she's glad to see me. Not performing glad. Actually glad.
I touch the small of her back. She leans in.
The reception winds down the way these events do — slowly, then all at once. Families depart in armored vehicles. Security sweeps begin. The candles gutter. Elysium starts to shed its wedding skin, and the war room underneath shows through.
I help Siobhan into the car. Our hands touch over the center console. Neither of us lets go.
The penthouse is twenty minutes away. His home.Theirhome.
The wedding night begins.
Chapter 8
Siobhan
The Wedding Night
* * *
His floors are cold enough to feel through my shoes. Everything in this place is beautiful, and nothing is warm.
I stand in the foyer of Nico Konstantinos's penthouse — my penthouse now, I suppose, though the wordminedoesn't attach to any surface in this room — and I take it in. Glass walls facing the city. A skyline that glitters thirty floors below, indifferent and expensive. Furniture that looks like it was chosen by someone who wanted to exert control rather than comfort. It’s all clean lines, dark leather, surfaces you can see your reflection in, but wouldn't want to touch. Art on the walls that I'd bet money is investment-grade. A kitchen with a six-burner range that's never been loved.