“Oh God,” I whisper. The image sends my cunt fluttering again, a second, milder climax now chasing through me as I imagine Ash, his tall frame looming over me, his face implacable and angry as he fucks my mouth. As he punishes me for accepting his own gift.

And maybe that's the most fucked-up part of all, that I find that follow-up scenario just as arousing as what just happened.

Ash grunts, an unashamed, male sound, and I know he's coming right now. Know long spurts of cum are erupting into the soft silk of my blouse, probably ruining it, but I don't care. The mental image of him defiling my clothes, all because he's so aroused by listening to Embry and me, is worth it.

A thousand times worth it.

But as his breathing returns to normal, as my orgasm subsides but I still allow Embry to kiss my cunt, I look up in the mirror at myself and panic.

What the hell will happen next? What will happen to the wedding and marriage that the press has already dubbed the second Camelot? Ash calls me his princess, and maybe I looked like one before I let the best man under my skirt, but this is no fairy tale.

Or if it is, it's the most fucked-up fairy tale I’ve ever heard of.

28

The Wedding Day

Love endures all things.

I marry Ash with Embry’s bite marks on my thighs, and Ash marries me with his bite marks on Embry’s neck. There’s something kind of beautiful about that, I think dazedly as the priest recites our wedding mass. Something kind of beautiful and fucked up. Who needs a ring when you have bite marks? Who needs vows when you’ve literally bled for one another?

Then there comes the moment where the priest asks for Embry to furnish the ring—my ring—the one that will mark me as Ash’s wife and bind me to him for the rest of my life, and my tears threaten to return. I’m not sad, I’m not afraid or overjoyed or angry or guilty or excited or jealous or suspicious, it’s that I’m all of them. Every single feeling, all at once, a carnival of flashing thoughts and emotional noise inside my head. And that it has to be Embry to hand Ash that dainty platinum band…

Embry pats his pockets dramatically, and the crowd ripples with laughter at the “best man lost the ring” gag. Father Jordan Brady—a handsome young blond with that unmistakable Christian hipster vibe—is too polite to roll his eyes, but I sense he goes somewhere deep inside himself to escape the threadbare frivolity of the old joke.

Embry finally removes the ring from his pocket and starts to hand it to Ash. And instead of holding out his palm to take it, Ash turns to Embry and slowly uncurls Embry’s fingers from the ring. To everyone else, it looks like Ash is simply being careful with the small piece of jewelry, but I see both the promise and the apology in the gentle way Ash touches Embry’s skin. What does it feel like to take a ring from a man who refused yours? And for Embry, what does it feel like to still be in love with a man you couldn’t bring yourself to marry?

Despite the circus of whirling questions and emotions, the moment Ash takes my hand, I feel everything go quiet and slow and right. His hand is warm and certain around my own, his fingers sure and careful as he slides the ring onto my finger, and when I look up to his eyes, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will do everything in his considerable power to keep me safe and loved.

And I know with the same certainty that I will do the same for him.

We exchange vows, we take communion, we sing the hymns and chant the chants. And at the end, when Ash lifts my veil and kisses me firmly on the lips, I feel the faintest flickering of the one emotion I haven’t been able to muster yet today:

Hope.

“Congratulations.”

Ash and I look up from the bridal table to see Embry in front of us. He’s already given his speech, but there’s still cake and dancing to be had in the massive reception pavilion. It’s set high up in the river bluffs, overlooking the dun ribbon of water below, and less than a mile off, the skyline twinkles merrily. All around us are nearly seven hundred guests laughing and eating and drinking while the press hovers nearby like moths near light.

But Embry looks pale. Tired. He’s still in his tuxedo jacket, even though Ash has long since ditched his, and I can tell that he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink.

“Embry,” Ash says warmly. “Pull up a chair and eat with us.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to head back to the hotel,” Embry says, not looking at either of us. “I’m not feeling well. A bug, I think.”

“Stay,” I say, reaching for his hand. “Please. Drink with us. Dance with us.”

He glances at me and then at Ash, at us together at the bridal table with our rings glinting in the twinkling lights. “I can’t. Congratulations, again. I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”

And with those hollow words, he leaves.

I stand up, about to chase after him, but Ash takes my hand and stops me. “Greer. The press.”

“Fuck the press,” I grumble, but I allow him to tug me back down to my chair anyway.

“And besides,” Ash continues, “it would be cruel to ask him to stay and endure his pain so publicly.”

Love endures all things. The Bible verse from the church floats into my mind. But perhaps love shouldn’t have to endure all things. Perhaps it would be cruel to make Embry stay.

“Angel,” Ash says, taking both my hands into his. His fingers find my ring, and I smile at the possessive way he rubs it with his fingertips. “Wife. What’s your safe word?”