by Leah Wilde
“I can’t go through with this, Daddy. You can’t make me.”
It was hard to explain why I was so afraid. Hadn’t my night with Micah been otherworldly? I’d played it back so many times in my head, while falling asleep, or relived it in my dreams. Every time he’d texted or called me, I’d wanted so badly just to pick up the phone and hear his sexy rumble again.
Maybe it was because I started to associate Micah with my father’s wrath. The night I came home from the party was like the day of the vase all over again, except this time, I was in my mother’s shoes. I’d cowered against a wall. Begged. Sobbed. When he raised his hand above his head, I wanted so desperately for someone, anyone, to intervene.
But there was no one. Nothing to stop that hand from hurtling down from far above and striking me bluntly across the cheek. Nothing to stem the flow of blood from my split lip. It was just me and him. Not the Daddy I remembered, but the one I feared.
So yeah, maybe Micah was an angel in my memories. A dark angel with a tongue between my legs and a hand in my hair. But my father had been an angel, too. Until he wasn’t anymore.
“You’re going to do it, Paris.” His voice was soft and hard at the same time, like velvet wrapped around steel. “I refuse to take care of some bastard grandchild. You made the mistake, and now you will do what it takes to fix it.”
“Can’t I do something else? Anything?”
“There is nothing else you can do.”
“But, Daddy, please.” The tears were thick now.
He stood up. “It’s almost time. Finish getting ready.”
Then he left.
Chapter 14
Micah
I felt like a goddamn clown standing on the altar with this monkey suit on. Never in a million years did I imagine that this would be one of the stops in my life. I figured at worst I’d have an outlaw’s wedding, where I took the broad to the tattoo shop and got my name inked on her skin. Not this officiated bullshit. For God’s sake, there was a priest here and everything. This would be as legitimate a thing as it could possibly be, valid in the eyes of the Lord and the benevolent state of New Mexico.
Bolt and Zeke sat in the front pew, with a few of the other brothers scattered throughout the remaining rows on the left side of the church. Most hadn’t come, which was just fine with me. I wanted to get this shit over and done with, so I could go back to figuring out just how the hell to get out of this mess without risking the lives of my men by tempting Tristan to declare an all-out war.
The right side of the aisle was barren. Not a single person was here for Paris. I wondered what kept them away, if there was even anyone to come in the first place. Was it shame? Or fear of Tristan? Both options were equally likely.
I shifted back and forth. I couldn’t find a comfortable position to stand in. The shiny loafers on my feet were stiff, the starched shirt collar scraped at the back of my neck, and no matter where I put my hands, I felt ridiculous.
Finally, at long last, the organist started playing and the double doors at the far end of the room opened. All eyes shifted towards them to see Paris standing there, arm in arm with her father.
My jaw dropped. Thoughts disappeared. For one long second, all I could do was gape. She was motherfucking gorgeous. The dress she was wearing was long and flowing, its hem sliding across the floor as she and Tristan began their slow canter towards the front. From the wide skirt, it rose up into a corset that hugged her ribs and accentuated her slim waist. Her bare shoulders shone pale and flawless. I couldn’t make out her face behind the veil, but the blonde tresses of her hair were coiled into an intricate heap on the top of her head.
It looked like she was glowing. I rubbed a knuckle in my eyes. They had to be deceiving me. No, they weren’t. The light pouring in through the stained glass windows set high in the walls was lighting up her skin and the dress in rich reds and blues. Where it came through clear, it set off an ethereal radiance.
They paced up the aisle and then, before I could properly process everything that was happening, they were there. Tristan stared at me for a long moment as he released Paris’s arm. She stepped gracefully up onto the altar and pivoted to face me.
That skin—it was so perfect. Just like Anton’s kid. Just like I’d done in Val’s apartment, I looked down at my own hands. What I saw disgusted me. Scars etched deep into my skin where I’d taken knife blades or smashed my knuckles into another man’s face until my own skin split. Tattoos, crude, dark. Oil stains that no amount of scrubbing could get rid of.
I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I was a filthy, dark bastard. I’d seen and done too much shit. Just being near me would spread it. I couldn’t do that. Not to her. I needed to keep my distance and find the nearest exit as soon as I was able.
I looked up at Paris, but she refused to meet my gaze. She kept her eyes fixed at the floor between us. I couldn’t read her expression behind the veil. Her features were blurred, impossible to distinguish. What was she thinking? Hell, what was I thinking?
The priest began to speak, but I barely heard a word. When he told me to repeat after him, I did so numbly, through thick lips that fought against cooperating. I’d never felt so clumsy and hollow before. But at the same time, I’d never wanted a girl so badly. Those shoulders were screaming to be touched. To be claimed. Made mine.
No. I stamped a mental foot down. I wouldn’t entertain those thoughts for a goddamn second. I’d made my decision and I wasn’t the type of man who went back on a promise to himself. I wasn’t going to lay a finger on this girl. Icy, foreboding distance, that was what the situation called for.
“Micah, you must say the words,” the priest said. I realized I’d zoned out, too deep in my own thoughts to keep up with the proceedings.
“Which ones?”
“I do.”
The question was, did I? Did I promise to protect this girl, take care of her, be a companion to her? Hell no. I promised to stay the fuck away. That was the nicest thing I could offer. But I’d sworn to Tristan that I would do as he asked. I hated kowtowing to him, but I didn’t have a choice. On with the show.
“I do,” I said.
The priest nodded and turned to Paris. “And do you, Paris Jenison, take Micah Youngblood as your lawfully wedded husband?”
She looked up at me for the first time since the ceremony had begun. I saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “I do.”
“Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I stared at her. She looked back at me, and I could see that she was trembling, but she refused to break eye contact. I didn’t know what was in her eyes. Was that hate? Fear? Some combination of the two? Whatever it was, I didn’t think that it boded well for our lovely little matrimony. Tristan was a fool. This couldn’t possibly be the way to handle things.
My gaze fell to her stomach. Had he told the truth? It occurred to me with a jolt that he could have been lying to me the whole damn time. Maybe this was all some sick ruse and he was using his own daughter to pull the wool over my eyes, to butter me up before roasting me for breakfast. Was that a tiny bump I saw? Or was I imagining it? Shit, I didn’t know the first thing about pregnancy. That shit was voodoo as far as I was concerned.
Better get learning quickly, said an unwanted voice in the back of my head. If Tristan’s right, you’re gonna be a daddy real soon. Jesus, I felt sick. I was the last person on this planet who should be procreating right now. I was a wild man; I did what I wanted when I wanted and if someone didn’t like how I did things, then I was as liable to punch them in the mouth as anything else. Some parental role model. My kid would be in juvie before he could walk.
I heard an awkward murmuring and shuffling from the men and realized I’d been standing there for an awfully long time, just staring at Paris and not doing a goddamn thing. I’d have to take Tristan at his word. For the time being at least, this was my reality—life with a wife. An innocent, hot-as-fuck wife, one with
a body that I wanted to claim over and over again.
But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wouldn’t let myself do that. Distance, Micah, distance. I reached out a hand and lifted the veil over Paris’s head. She was frozen. I couldn’t read what was going on in her eyes, but they looked stormy as hell. I was sure her thoughts were just as fubar as mine. Hell, the thought of what this all looked like from her perspective was almost amusing to me. I bet I looked like one crazy motherfucker. A grizzled, inked, brooding bastard who could rip her clothes off without even trying. She must be scared for her fucking life.
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t find the heart even to appreciate that kind of gallows humors. Poor girl. She hadn’t asked for this. She deserved better than me. Or different from me at the very least.
I saw her flinch when the back of my knuckles accidentally grazed her face as I tucked the veil behind her head. She was like a china doll, all fragile porcelain. Would she break if I touched her? Would she shatter in my hands?
I felt like I was on autopilot as I leaned towards her. Just one kiss, that’s all it would take. That’s as far as things would go. Ever. I lowered my face towards hers, those damn Bambi eyes getting bigger as I got closer and closer. My lips were almost on Paris’s.
But then I paused. She was too beautiful. Too pure. I wasn’t going to corrupt her. This was her father’s idea, and I’d agreed to it for the sake of my men, but the words I’d just spoken were as far as it went. We were married in name only. Nothing else.
Just before my lips touched her mouth, I turned slightly and pressed them against her cheek instead. Quickly, roughly, then I pulled away.
“We’re done here,” I murmured, half to myself and half to Paris and the rest of the people in the church. “Time to go.”
I walked off the altar without waiting to see if she would follow.
Chapter 15
Paris
I was frozen still on the altar. I hadn’t moved since Micah had surprised me by kissing me on the cheek instead of the lips. My cheeks were burning red, but I didn’t know if it was from embarrassment, fear, relief, or some other emotion that they hadn’t even invented words for yet. All I knew was that I was way out of my depth. My life was spinning rapidly away from everything I knew and loved, faster than I could get a grip on what it was becoming, on where I was headed. It almost made me feel dizzy.
His back grew smaller as he stormed down the aisle without looking back. What had that expression in his eyes been? Tortured was the word that came to mind, but that just didn’t make a single lick of sense. What did he have to be tortured about? He wasn’t the one with a child in him. He wasn’t the one being shipped off by their parent. He wasn’t going through the things I was going through. No, that was just me. All alone.
I looked at my father where he sat in the front pew. Not a single other person had come to the wedding. I wondered if he’d told them about it, or if he’d even gone so far as to warn them to stay away. I couldn’t figure out what he was thinking. Did he love me? Hate me? It was impossible to say.
He and Micah were alike in that sense. Both men were dark and unreadable. The door swung open at the far end of the aisle and Micah disappeared through it. All eyes were fixed on me. My face felt so hot that I was sure someone could see me blushing from space. Without any other ideas, I stepped gingerly down from the altar and walked as fast as I could down the aisle after Micah. No one followed me.
He was waiting outside. I saw that he had undone the bowtie and the top few buttons of his shirt. The tie hung loosely around his neck and the starched white fabric of the shirt parted to reveal a bronze chest glimmering with ink. He’s beautiful, came the unbidden thought.
Shut up, I reprimanded myself mentally. He’s the reason you’re in this catastrophe to begin with. Back and forth went my thoughts, pinwheeling from the same awestruck intimidation I’d felt when I first met Micah to a cold anger at his role in getting me here.
His bike was chugging behind him, still resting on its kickstand. He didn’t look at me as he swung a leg over and heeled the stand up, straightening the handlebars like he was about to leave.
“Are you coming?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” I shot back. I felt suddenly furious. Jeez, my emotions were wildly out of control. One minute I was angry, the next I felt like I wanted to sit in a dark room and cry until there was no water left in my body.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He eased out on the clutch and started to roll forward.
“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Are you just going to leave me here?”
He turned to look at me for the first time since the bizarre non-kiss a minute earlier. His face was blank but strained, like he was working as hard as he could to prevent himself from showing me a single sign of normal human emotion. Or maybe I was just imagining that. Maybe he was actually just incapable of feelings at all. “If you don’t want to come with me, then go back with your dad.” He jerked his head towards the church behind us.
I shuddered at the thought. I had buried thoughts of my father as far below the surface as possible. I wasn’t even close to ready to opening that can of worms. Just the word dad made me feel dizzy and nauseous. “No,” I said stubbornly. “I’m not going with him.”
“It doesn’t seem to me like you have a lot of choices, hon,” he drawled. “You go with me or you go with him. Your call.”
I looked behind me. The church rose tall and blank behind us. I remembered coming here with my mother every now and then when I was little. Daddy had never joined us, so it was just my mom and me, wearing our cute dresses and coming here to sit in the back and clap and sing. I actually liked it. In my memories, I associated this building with singing and my mom’s warm hand holding mine. She was never religious or anything; she just liked to hear the music. I hadn’t been back here since she’d died.
What kind of life was ahead of me? I felt like getting on the back of the bike was the real vow, like everything we’d just said on the altar had been a big build-up to this moment. If I got on there with Micah, that was it; no turning back. We’d peel out and my life would officially be taking a sudden and extremely unexpected turn, one that was going to take me into territory I was completely unprepared to enter.
But did I have a choice? Micah was right. I had him or my father. And Daddy had closed all doors that led back to him. It wasn’t a choice at all. There was only one way to go. I bit my lip, then hiked up my skirts and walked over to the bike. Swinging one leg across the seat, I clambered up. Micah nodded once I had settled on and we took off, headed for God only knew what.
# # #
The smell of fresh paint overwhelmed me as Micah opened the door to the apartment. I followed him inside. The place was practically bare, with just a few pieces of furniture scattered across the wood floors. Nothing hung on the walls. It looked like a monk’s cell, although I did notice that there were big windows along one wall that let the sunlight stream in.
Micah threw the keys onto the kitchen counter. He strode to the couch, then eased himself onto it with a groan as he ripped off the jacket and tossed it aside, followed by the bowtie. He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, revealing brawny forearms rippling with veins. Then he leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
“Does anyone actually live here?” I demanded. I was bristling with irritation for reasons I couldn’t explain. How could he just sit there and look so freaking comfortable? Did he give a damn about what was happening to me? About what he was doing to me? What he was making me do? It sure as hell didn’t look like it. He looked like the most content man in the world, leaning back on that couch with his eyes closed like he was about to take a nice little cat nap.
He didn’t open his eyes when he spoke. “New place,” he murmured. “Just got it.”
“Do you own anything? Furniture, kitchen supplies…?”
“Nope. What you see is what you get.”
“You’re joking.�
�
“It’d be a pretty bad joke.”
I crossed my arms and huffed. I knew I was coming off as petty, but for the moment I didn’t care. I wanted him to react, to do something or say something so that I knew he wasn’t just some tattooed robot. He had to be feeling something. I had emotions enough for the two of us, but that wasn’t good enough. I needed to get behind that pretty face of his and figure out just what he planned to do now.
“Why did you agree to all of this?” I asked.
“Eh?” he grunted.
I waved my hands around. “This! All of this! Marrying me, for crying out loud!” Could he really be so dense?
“Dunno.”
“What?”
“I said, dunno.”
I stared at him in disbelief. I wanted to slap him. This wasn’t the smooth, charming biker who’d more or less swept me off my feet at a party. The man sitting on the couch a few feet away from me was a mute Neanderthal with the emotional capacity of a rock. I wanted to wake him up, jolt him to life, shake him until he admitted that he actually gave a damn about what happened next.