Page 82 of Desperate People

“Another oak falls!” he yells, raising his glass.

The others echo the call, howling and clinking their tumblers like this is a Viking conquest and not a high-society wedding reception.

“I still don’t get that metaphor,” I mutter to Connor under my breath.

He grins. “You wouldn’t. You’re the oak.”

“Right. Thanks. Super helpful.”

“Basically, you were all tall, broody, and untouchable. Now you’ve been chopped down by love.”

I grunt. “It wasn’t an axe, cousin.”

“Did it have a sharp tongue and long legs with a soft, creamy center? Same fucking thing, my man,” he says with a wink.

They all laugh again, and for once, I don’t mind being the butt of the joke. I don’t bristle or pull back.

I let them roast me, drink with me, slap my back like I’m one of them.

Because I am.

At least, I think I’m starting to be.

And the only reason that’s happening is because of her.

I glance through the crowd, instinctively searching for Lucy.

It takes me less than a second to find her.

She’s standing near the edge of the tent, framed in soft golden lights, her dress shimmering like starlight on water.

Her dark hair spills down her back, that diamond on her finger catching a beam of moonlight as she lifts her champagne flute.

She looks like a dream.

But she’s not a fantasy.

She’s real.

Mine.

I’ve seen every inch of her skin, tasted her moans on my tongue, and still—my chest aches every time I look at her.

I want to know more.

Learn every nuance. Decode every look and breath like I do encrypted data.

And yeah, I’ve already hacked into every part of her life—emails, messages, social media—long before this marriage was official.

But that was about protection.

Okay, maybe obsession, too.

But now?

Now I want her to let me in voluntarily.

I want her to give me—everything.

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