“Not my woman,” I state.
It’s a lie I keep telling myself, but it’s a fucking dirty one, because nobody believes me when I say it.
“Are you going to bring her home?” Shocker asks.
I turn my head, my gaze sliding over to my bike, then the clubhouse, before shifting back to meet his own. I think about those words, about that question. If I get on my bike right now, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to bring her here—home.
And I’m going to keep her.
I won’t have the choice but to keep her for myself. I don’t think Piggy would let me just take her away from Paul, break the contract, and not keep her. I doubt he’ll even give me the choice. Lainey will be mine.
I have to really weigh that shit.
Then my lips twitch into a smirk at the thought of it. At the idea of Lainey-Rose being in my bed every fucking morning, her sexy-as-shit body, her curly blond hair on my pillow. Her soft body pressed against mine.
Fuck me, but yeah, I could get used to that shit.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I’m bringing Lainey home.”
Shocker chuckles, then he lifts his arm, and I feel his fingers curl around my shoulder, jerking it slightly. His gaze never leaves mine. I can tell by the look on his weathered face that he’s happy. This is what he wants. He wants us all to find our women, our peace—our home.
And I’ve found that in Lainey, even though it took me a long-as-fuck time fighting it.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
I just want Lainey.
LAINEY
“You may kiss your bride.”
Those words fill me with dread. I’m not sure why, because I’ve kissed him before, and it’s been nice. I mean, I did not complain when his lips and tongue were between my legs. I liked it, and I should want to kiss him.
He’s my husband.
As he leans down, shifting closer, his mouth touches mine. I expect him to just give me a chaste kiss, but his tongue slides across the seam of my lips before he lifts his head and straightens his shoulders.
I blink, unsure of what to do next, but at the same time so damn scared that I don’t know what the hell is going on. He turns to face the guests, and I do the same. I look out at everyone, but I don’t see anything.Nothing. Every person who looks back at me is nothing but a blur.
I can’t even make out my own brother in the crowd. My heart slams against my ribs as Paul laces his fingers with mine, then lifts our hands in the air. I lift my other hand in the air, the one holding the ugly bouquet, as the crowd claps for us.
It’s real.
It happened.
Together, we lower our hands, then walk down the aisle as the guests stand, continuing their clapping. I see none of them. They are just blurs of dresses, hair, and suits. Nothing more, nothing less.
When we step out of the church, I expect the bright sun to blind me, but it’s not so bright after all. It’s sliding down, though not setting just yet. And now I’m married. Married to someone who isn’t Gunnar Lund. When I lay my head down tonight, I won’t be looking into his blue eyes… ever again.
Paul stops walking, and I watch as a black car pulls up. It’s a fancy sedan. I don’t even know what kind, but I can tell it’s expensive just by the looks of it. I watch a man get out of the driver’s side, then walk around the front and open the back door for us to slip inside.
He dips his chin as a silent invitation to move forward and climb into the back seat. I don’t move, not a single inch, but Paul does. He takes one step forward, then another, before he dips down and steps into the car. He tugs me forward a bit.
My feet become unstuck. But when his hand falls from mine and it’s up to me to climb in behind him, I’m not sure I can. Every move I make feels extremely final. Like this is just cementing everything.
And climbing into the back of that car beside this man, it’s more permanent than just cement. I don’t know what it would be, but that’s what it is. My breathing comes out in short pants while I try not to pass out. My eyes search Paul’s, who is waiting patiently for me as if he knows what I’m wrestling with.
My brain fights the urge my body has to run away. Far, far away. To him. Straight to Gunnar. But that would be beyond fruitless. Lines in the sand have been drawn, and being with Gunnar, or rather him claiming me, is one of them.