by Angel Payne
“Oh, blergh! Noooo, not now!”
But my sister’s protest isn’t quick enough on the mark. All too swiftly, Reece is boldly scooping a hand around mine and then tugging me close. And then closer still as he slides his mouth down over mine. And in the space of one second gives back the orbit for my sun and the ground wire for all of my electrons. This. Here. The connection of our energies, bound by the simple contact of our skin, sizzling every drop of my blood but stabilizing every edge of my composure. He’s my center. My reason. My destiny. My more.
My life…
And, so blissfully soon, my husband.
An assurance that rings through me with such surety, I think nothing of the wicked laugh I get to toss ’Dia’s way as soon as the man lets me have some room to breathe. In return, my sister teeter-totters her head, ensuring the twilight wind turns her strawberry-blond waves into a curly halo around her impish smirk. “Go ahead, baby girl. Have your gloat now. I’m already popping the popcorn to watch when the tables are turned—especially because it’s damn clear why the two of you are this late.”
I blush furiously. Even Reece has the grace to color, if only for three seconds. It’s hard to tell because his skin is so beautifully burnished by our hours in the canyon, but Lydia nonetheless preens in her triumph.
“I just need to know how the hell you two pulled off this role reversal thing,” she charges, folding her arms—a good thing, allowing me to mirror the stance.
“Excuse me?” I volley.
“Role reversal huh?” Reece blurts at the same time.
“You heard me,” Lydia rebuts. “Now come on, give it up. How is it that your maid of honor and best man have been hard-up, moony-eyed, and trapped at opposite ends of this place for three hours, while you two have been out—errrmmm…” Her stare narrows as she reaches up, pulling on a hock of my hair before gingerly extracting a small bit of something from it. “Doing whatever it took to get freaking bird feathers in your hair.” She goes on, even as I snatch the tiny feathers from her, “And what’s this schmutz all over your shoulder? Cement residue?”
I blush even deeper before deadpanning, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Reece follows my quip by barking out a laugh. “You should see the pants we had to ditch.”
“Not helping,” I mutter.
“See?” Lydia jabs one pointer finger at him. “I told you keeping spare costumes in the cars was a good idea!”
He stiffens. “Not fucking costumes.”
“And still not helping, kids,” I cut in. “Either of you.” Though both of them clearly don’t buy a word. Honestly, I don’t either. My heart has wrapped around the truth of all this along with my mind, so even if the ranch’s exotic animals got out of their pens and decided to have a fun time at the reception for themselves, I’d be a happy loon as long as they left the minister standing for the ceremony. However it happens, if I can leave this place as Mrs. Reece Richards, there’s nothing anyone can do to yuck my yums today.
“Emmalina. Paisley.”
Not even Laurel Crist appearing on the back porch and spewing my name as if it’s become Beetlejuice, only without the magical help. Or maybe with it. They summoned that guy because he was good at scaring everyone away, right?
Only that’s not right either, because I’m not scared. Oh, everything’s here that I should be dreading—that I have been anxious of since we left the dam—but suddenly, Mother’s disapproval and disappointment aren’t the duality of disaster that had me anxiously checking the time and psyching myself into my special dealing-with-Laurel Zen space.
“Hello, Mother.” And just like that, the Zen is with me. No, it’s not—because I suddenly realize I don’t need it. I’m able to look at my mother now with a glow of real love, not mixed up with a need for her approval. The force of it inundates me, feeling a lot like those critical moments in the lab back at the ridge, when Fersh and Alex aimed the force of the sun at me and filled me with new power. Except that this doesn’t hurt as much—unless I count all the tangled-up rocks I keep trying to finger-comb out of my hair. “Wow. You look fantastic.”
So there’s usually not a day when she doesn’t, but I can tell she’s taken extra care to make sure all the wrinkles have been tamed and all the hair is in place. She’s wearing an elegant sheath from her favorite designer, St. John, with a deep V-neck and cap sleeves, in a shade slightly darker than Lydia’s dress. In short, it’s a look designed to make everyone question how she can possibly be the mother of the bride—and “everyone” is such an eye-popping list. To her perception, and probably a lot of the outside world’s, it’s close to a hundred of LA’s and Hollywood’s A-Listers—but to Reece and me, they’re people like us. Working hard at our jobs every day, though we just happen to be doing it very much in the public eye.
“She’s right, Mom.” Lydia steps back, admiring her from head to toe. “You’re stunning.”
Mother discernibly mellows. The glow around her head, visible only by me, softens from crimson to pink. I wonder if she’s ever been at a true contented gold, even as the color switches back and she returns to her previous business of scrunching her nose and clearing her throat. “Well, I’m not the one getting married.” It seems to be her motivator for forcing her sights back to me—though clearly, she questions herself for doing so. If her rough huff doesn’t convey the point, the double eyeballs to the back of her head do the trick. “Oh, Emma. For the love of—are you pulling rocks out of your hair?”
For reasons beyond my control—and apparently, my sanity—I spurt out a laugh. “Errrmmm, seems so.” I peer at the brown bit between my fingers. “Though this one looks like a twig…of sorts. Or chipped bark? Or shredded rust?”
Mother escalates the huff to an outraged choke. “Now you’re just being lippy.”
Reece ducks his head until a bunch of hair falls over his forehead and then mutters, “And here I thought it was a good thing when your lips get involved.”
Thank God my answering snicker gets swallowed by the next stage of Mother’s rant. “You do realize that your wedding invitations say six o’clock, right? Six o’clock, Emma—as in, twenty minutes from now. That means no sleek up-do and whatever magic Corinne can pull together with your makeup. She’s the best there is, but she’s still not a miracle worker. And please, please, please tell me you remembered to pick up the roses from Muguet. They called at six this morning to confirm they received the custom order from Holland, and they were clear that the flower food in the vials had to be—”
She cuts herself off with a huff, taking a defined turn toward horror as soon as I grimace and jab a hand through my hair—revealing I’ve already chipped most of my nail polish. Which was—surprise, surprise—as specialized a project as the bouquets.
“Oh, Emmalina Paisley.”
Though with that, she unwittingly gives Reece the biggest chance he’s ever had to be my true superhero.
“Laurel. Please. All of this is on me.” As he moves forward with decisive steps that scream I am Alpha, he steals back one of my hands—and every shred of my libido. “I didn’t see my girl all day yesterday”—thanks to the last-minute spa and night club thing Mother insisted on planning as my bachelorette party—“and I was feeling a little…needful.”
His sultry murmur draws me in and mesmerizes me to the point of stupid—almost making me forget that his “need” was practical as much as lustful. Not only did we sneak in the extra training session, but our travel time out to the dam gave him a chance to fill me in on Alex and Fershan’s reconnaissance trip to the seaside villa in Monterey he’s picked out for our honeymoon getaway.
Addendum: the absolutely perfect place he’s picked out. I fell in love with the villa upon seeing pictures of the place, which sits right on the shoreline with its relaxed, modern lines. The décor is a blend of creamy modern luxury with rustic driftwood accents and has a huge king bed in the master that I already have wicked plans for.
Yes…five days
’ worth of plans.
Yes, worthy of the naughtiest honeymoon memories.
Yes, worthy of the most incredible man who ever zapped his way into my life, charmed his way into my heart, and loved his way into my soul.
Now knowing that the guys have installed additional security around its perimeter, identical to the system we’ve got in place out at the ridge, I’m damn ready to be done with the wedding foof-fest and move on to the part of the adventure that really matters. Pampering my superhero with all the wanton, wicked, supersized sexiness he can possibly handle.
Yesssss…
But somehow, despite how ready my Zeus looks for exactly that, I keep my outward demeanor on the dignified side of things. Yes, even as I manage to murmur, “Errrmm, yes. Needful…”
And just like that, he and I are back to our hottest, steamiest interpretation of the word. But he’s going for it, and so am I. Greedily. Shamelessly. Openly basking in his husky thunder voice, his hot lightning gaze, and his fire-in-the-rain touch, which flows through my veins like liquid gold.
I swallow hard, fighting to keep its sweltering glow from bursting out of every pore in my body. While I hate him for the torment, I’ve never loved him more for adding “needful” to my favorite words list. It’s right up there now, along with classics such as macaron, alphabet, riverboat, and an oldie but goodie, golf course.
“Oh, my.” Mother’s mutter jolts us back to the present—though as always, Reece doesn’t give away a single tell about the tripled heartrate I feel in the pulse at his inner wrist. The man, still breathtakingly suave even in his leathers and a faded Eagles T-shirt, simply sweeps my knuckles up to his lips before throwing his devastating stare at Mother.
“Goodness is certainly right,” he says. “And exactly what you’ve given me in this perfect piece of the sun.”
If there’s anything left of my mother’s ire—as well as my vow not to talk him into a detour at the coat closet before Corinne gets her hands on me—he quashes it by circling those gorgeous grays back on me, turning my hand over, and kissing the center of my palm.
“Oh, my,” Mother reiterates.
“Gag me with a takeout spork,” Lydia mutters.
“Well, here comes the bride at last!” A new voice breaks in—though as we all look to the petite blonde with the trendy glasses, cigarette capris, and statement heels, Reece leans over and tucks me close, as if bidding me an affectionate goodbye.
Instead, the cocky hunk murmurs for my ears alone, “Already handled, Miss Corinne. Times three.”
I giggle, glad for the chance to be distracted by Corinne’s explanation about the “archaic” tradition of forbidding a groom to see his bride before doing the I-Dos. Maybe the woman’s just glad that Reece has seen what she has to work with right now, because anything from my frazzled state will likely be an improvement. And though I should care about that too, I just don’t. I’d spout all my lines here and now in the driveway if that’s what it would take to keep Reece Andrew Richards looking at me like this for the rest of our days—however many fate will bless us with, considering the crazy existence she’s chosen for us.
But I don’t want any other existence. I don’t want any other man.
I want him.
His energy, pure and powerful. His smile, steady and sure. And his gaze, taking me in like I really am the sun upon which his existence rises and sets.
Because he sure as hell is mine.
REECE
The sun has just disappeared beyond the ranch’s lush vineyard hills—or so everyone here thinks, especially as the strains of “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” fill the air.
They all don’t know what I do.
That the sun has just appeared.
Right here.
Holy God. Right here.
Walking down the small path between the capacity crowd gathered on this windswept hilltop, maybe blushing because of their admiring sighs, though I notice nothing like that—because I’m blinded by her. Drenched in the perfect, shining splendor of her. Amazed and astounded, humbled and hollowed, lost but then located again…right where I should be.
She and her father complete the journey up the aisle. I tell myself to breathe in order to stay standing. She turns her face up and blows me away with the light in her eyes. I blink with desperate force, attempting to clear the blur out of my own.
What the hell?
The blur?
Why is everything so blurry?
Well, fuck.
And yet, fuck it all.
It’s my goddamned wedding day, and if there was ever a moment to find out if lightning blood mixes with a saltwater stream, this is it. I refuse to turn a drop of this shit off. Today, there are no disguises. No alter-egos. No pretending for the masses. I’m just a flesh-and-blood man promising myself to the woman of my dreams. The person who’s turned my existence into a life. The human who’s made my humanity possible.
Even so, I stuff the emotion down long enough to commit all of this to memory. Though I’m conscious of the two photographers flitting around the periphery of the ceremony—Emma and I allowed one magazine to record the day, in exchange for a generous donation to the Richards Reaches Out program—they can’t capture all of this beauty the way my soul can. The way my heart needs to.
They can’t see the adoring lights glittering in her eyes, like stars turned into sapphires.
They’ll never capture the poetry of her hair flirting with the white roses embedded into her loose up-do or how my fingers already ache to know the ecstasy of yanking free the loose braids piled atop her head.
They’ll never interpret my primal satisfaction as I gaze down her form, encased in a white dress that could probably be called Bohemian, especially with her adorable wedding Keds peeking from beneath the lacy hem. The whole thing is made out of that same relaxed lace, meaning I’m already thinking about what she’s wearing—or not—underneath it.
I’m filled with even more caveman possessiveness when observing the only “bling” about the ensemble is her tanzanite engagement ring, moved to her right hand so her wedding band can go on her left, and the matching earrings that I bought her back on July fifth. We were beat that day, drained from the fallout, emotional and physical, from what we’d just endured at the hands of Faline Garand. Still, I dragged Emma to my jewelry guy in Beverly Hills, declaring we needed to commemorate her first day as a full-fledged electric mutant superheroine. But the truth was, I was just damn glad to have her alive. To be alive with her. And to prove it.
And right here and now, before we even get to the out-loud parts of all this, I stare into her stunning blues and swear to her, with every corner of my spirit and fiber of my heart, that our alive will always be my prime directive, my guiding light, my soul’s compass, my core command. I make that promise knowing that we haven’t seen the last of Faline yet—and that when the bitch does come to collect her pint of payback blood, it sure as hell won’t be Emma’s that gets spilled.
But today isn’t for wasting a scrap of thought on that nasty bitch.
Today is the day I celebrate taking Emmalina Paisley Crist as my true mate. My soul’s other side. My lifelong partner. My resplendent, incandescent bride.
My bride.
They’re the only words that’ll stay put in my mind, though I don’t miss a single prompt from the minister and know—and know—that I mean every word that I speak, vow, and promise to her. But I don’t need any of them plastered in my brain because they’re already ingrained in my heart. Have been since the moment we confessed our love to each other.
No. Before that.
I’ve loved her, honored her, cherished her, and even held her for forever. Since before my soul knew who she was. Since the days, deep inside my cell at the Source, I didn’t think I had—or deserved—a soul anymore. When fate proved me wrong and I had to believe in my soul because there was nothing else to cling to, she was there, as well. I didn’t have her name yet, but she sure as hell was. In that darkness and to
rture, she was my will to survive, my perseverance to live, and my ability to face every day, even when I wasn’t sure when one day ended and another began.
After I escaped, she turned into something else again. The beauty I began to notice in every sunrise and sunset. The hunger, tiny at first but growing every day, to make my freedom matter. To believe in the force of good again and the role I could play in that. And yes, she was that force inside me, still so intangible yet powerful, that made me strive to be better.
To believe I could be better.
She’s the reason I keep thinking it now.
She’s the reason for so much.
And yes, she’s really here…the most stunning sight I’ve ever seen…agreeing to be mine forever. My woman. My reason. My bride.
My more.
And just like that…my wife.
I don’t believe it.
But I’ve never been more ready to believe.
Even as the minister speaks the words.
Mr. and Mrs. Reece Richards.
And even as I let her grab at my jaw, pulling me down to her for the kiss that seals the deal. Even as I remind my heart to keep beating as a swell of cheers rises around us, confirming this is really happening. Even as I remind myself nothing’s really changed, but everything has.
She’s mine, before God and man and the whole fucking cosmos.
There’s another astounding recognition that hits me along with that one. For the first time in over two years, I’m not agonizingly aware of every lightning zap in my blood and every electron jolt in my pores.
For right now, for just this moment, they’ve all been edged out.
By the light of pure happiness.
EMMA
I didn’t believe the man could make me any happier, but the superhero-who-will-not-be-named-today is all about accomplishing the impossible.
And holy shit, how he looks ready to do so.
After our vows—the short, sweet version of the traditional stuff, because “using our words” this time would have resulted in more tears than what we did shed, as well as insulin shots for all our guests—he leads me across the grass, past the casual seating areas between the appetizer and drinks stations, through the sea of banquet tables with their fragrant centerpieces, and to the middle of the dance floor.