Page 195 of Filthy Promises

She fucking came.

It’s fitting that I see her like this, standing on a threshold. It’s fitting that, this time,I’mthe uncertain one.

Two doorways.

Two moments that changed everything.

The first time, I winked at her. This time, as she looks at me across the crowd, across the distance, through veils and tears and promises made and broken, it’s her turn.

Rowan winks.

And as she does, something cracks open inside my chest. The purest, rawest, most indescribable thing I’ve ever felt. Joy and fear and sorrow and hope, so much fucking hope.

It hurts, this feeling. Like my heart’s grown three sizes too big for the space it’s been assigned.

With each step she takes toward me, I remind myself to breathe.In through the nose. Out through the mouth.Basic fucking shit that suddenly requires conscious effort.

When she reaches the altar, her mother, who came from the hospital to escort her daughter down the aisle, squeezes her hand, then steps back one step shy of the steps.

That feels deliberate. It puts a smile on my face.

There’s no one to give her away. Rowan givesherselfaway, strong and proud and entirely her own.

When she’s finally close enough, I reach for her veil with trembling fingers, lifting it back to see her face clearly for the first time. Those green eyes meet mine.

“You came,” I whisper.

“I came,” she says.

The officiant begins the ceremony, but I barely hear the words. I’m too busy memorizing every detail of this moment.

“I do,” she says.

“I do,” I echo.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declares. “You may kiss the bride.”

I pause, suddenly uncertain. We’ve barely touched since she returned to me, sleeping in separate wings, keeping careful distance.

But now, with everyone watching, I don’t know what she wants.

Rowan makes the decision for me. She steps forward, rising onto her tiptoes, and presses her lips to mine.

It’s a chaste kiss. Briefer than I’d like.

But it’s real.

It’s a promise, maybe.

A beginning.

When we turn to face our guests, my arm slides protectively around her waist. Mine to protect now. Mine to cherish. Mine to love, if she’ll let me.

“Mrs. Akopov,” I murmur against her hair as we walk back down the aisle.

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” she whispers back. But she doesn’t pull away.

The reception is held in the grand ballroom of the family estate. Everything gleams—crystal, silver, the polished wood of the dance floor. Security is tight, with men positioned at every entrance and exit, watching for threats.

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