Page 85 of Brutal Vows
I smirk at her. “Any man who marries a Black Widow has to sleep with one eye open.”
Oh, how she hates it when I smirk. Her eyes glitter with anger. She says through stiff lips, “That’s a very smart idea.”
Then she draws herself up to her full height, looks at me with withering disdain, and grits out, “Mr. Quinn… will you marry me?”
I reach out and stroke my fingertips over her cheek. “Aye, viper,” I murmur, feeling my blood pump fast and hot through my veins. “I’ll marry you. But if you decide to kill me, wait until tomorrow.”
She arches a brow. “Because?”
“Because I need to feel those sharp claws of yours dig into my back at least once before I die.”
I grab her hand and lead her out of the room and back to the altar.
TWENTY
REY
When we exit the room, half the church is on its feet. The sanctuary echoes with sound. Whispering voices, muffled laughter, the rustle of clothing. The instant we’re spotted, however, the noise dies and everyone turns to stare at us.
Quinn commands loudly, “Everybody back in your bloody seats.”
He drags me to my position, says to Declan, “Full speed ahead, mate,” then snaps his fingers at the priest, indicating he wants him to get a move on.
The priest looks at Declan for direction.
Sending an amused glance toward the astounded guests, Declan says, “Maybe we should skip the mass and get straight to the vows, Father.”
“Yer bang on,” says Kieran, chuckling. “This rowdy lot’s about to start throwin’ eggs.”
I still haven’t caught my breath when the priest says to me in a heavy Irish accent, “What’s your name, lass?”
“Reyna.”
“Lovely. Best of luck to you.”
Cradling the Bible against his chest, he looks up at the crowd and lifts a hand. He keeps it lifted until everyone has taken a seat again and the sanctuary is silent. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Homer and Reyna in the blessed sacrament of marriage.”
More than one person on both sides of the aisle whispers, “Who?”
Ignoring them, Quinn growls to the priest, “Get to the kissing part.”
He’s staring at me when he says it, wearing an expression of hunger and hot impatience, his gaze darting back and forth between my eyes and my mouth.
My hands tremble so hard, all the flowers in the bouquet quake.
The priest sighs, shaking his head. “Very well. Do you, Homer, take this woman—”
“I do.”
“Hold your horses, lad,” the priest mutters. “This isn’t a bloody race.” He exhales hard and starts again. “Do you, Homer—”
“I do.”
“—take this woman, Reyna—”
“I do.”
After pausing for another aggrieved sigh, he continues. “To be your wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day—”
