Page 157 of Wicked Savage

As he lifts my veil, his eyes locking with mine, a flood of emotions rushes through me as I remember the time when I could have pictured myself marrying him without hesitation. Back then, the thought was a comfort, something I held on to. But now it feels like a chain, heavy and suffocating.

When his mouth captures mine, my hands instinctively grip the lapels of his jacket, desperate to hold on to something I’ve wanted for so long, even when it’s the last thing I should do.

Cheers erupt around us as we pull away, but I'm still lost in him, in this quiet daze that surrounds me when he looks at me this way—full of longing. Even in this moment, as much as I fight it, he holds my heart.

Soon enough, we find ourselves on the dance floor, his arms pulling me close as we begin to sway, my hands resting on his shoulders.

“I can’t believe they pulled off this wedding on such short notice.” My attention momentarily sweeps around the elegant setting—the floral centerpieces of white calla lilies, the black tablecloths with gold runners—everything is just as I envisioned.

A soft melody drifts from the band, a song about love, about being open to it even after the heart’s been broken. I can’t help but wonder if Cillian chose this song intentionally.

“My stepmother has a gift for last-minute planning,” he says with a half-smile. “Once she found out, she was all in to help.”

“Well, they did a good job. If I wasn’t marrying you, I’d actually say this is the nicest wedding I’ve ever been to.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Mrs. Quinn.”

“Wait, youhavefeelings?” I raise a brow.

His lips curl into a small smile. “I’ve missed this.”

The back of his hand brushes softly down my cheek. A touch so familiar, yet laced with something bittersweet.

“Me too,” I whisper, feeling a rush of warmth spread through me as the song fades into another.

As his gaze lingers on me, I want more than anything to trust him again, to believe in him. But the wound is still fresh, the fear too heavy.

Just as we’re about to get swept up in another song, something catches my eye—a figure standing at the edge of the crowd. A cold wave of dread sweeps through me and I instinctively clutch Cillian’s hand tighter.

“Dinara, are you okay?” His voice sounds distant, muffled by the rising panic clawing at my chest.

Through the sea of people dancing and laughing, I see him.

My father. His face is as cold and unforgiving as I remember as he stands alone, watching me with a chilling intensity.

“Dinara?” Cillian calls, sharper this time.

I snap my focus to him, trying to shake off the fear that threatens to swallow me whole.

“What’s going on?”

“I…” My words falter as my attention darts back to where my father was standing.

But he’s gone. Vanished into the crowd, or maybe he was never really there at all.

The rational part of my mind tells me that I’m imagining things, that the years of fearing him have twisted my perception. But the lingering terror, the gnawing feeling in my gut, tells me something different.

I force a shaky smile at Cillian, trying to push the unease down. “Nothing. I’m fine. Let’s go sit for a moment.”

Cillian’s brow furrows, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press further. He simply nods, leading me back to our seats. As we settle down, a nagging question burrows deep in my mind.

Was he really there? Is my father still lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike? Or is it just fear playing tricks on me?

Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. That this night isn’t over yet.

Minutes pass before the clinking of a glass draws everyone’s attention. The music fades, conversations hush, and all eyes turn to Konstantin as he rises to give a toast, a smirk tugging and a drink in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins. “I’m grateful to see you all here, gathered to celebrate Dinara and Cillian. Now, I don’t know if you all are familiar with the torturous history between these two—because believe me, it was torturous.”

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