Page 12 of Yours, Now and Always
Gage married me in this chaos.
No speeches.
No audience.
No patience.
Just a pen, two rings, an officiant who looked vaguely terrified, a witness who looked way too entertained watching her boss in hisobsessed and wreckedstate, and a husband whosigned our marriage certificate like it was a contract to own my soul. Which, to be clear, he already did.
We sped through the vows.
Gage looked one second away from telling the officiant toskip to the good part.
We signed the certificate, and just as he turned to kick everyone out, I gripped his jacket, and said, “Wait. We need a photo.”
I fell in love with him a little more in that moment. Because he looked like he had exactlyone shredof patience left, and taking a photo was going to requireatleast two.
Lucy was directed to take the photo.
I wasn’t happy with it.
Another.
Nope. Still notthe one.
But let’s be honest. I got ready in under ten minutes.
Still had traces of raccoon.
My hair was in a full fuck-it bun.
And I’d applied makeup so fast I might have used bronzer as setting powder.
Today was not the day I was going to getthephoto.
Gage allowed three takes, max, before calling it.
He practically chased the officiant and Lucy out the door.
Andthen?
Then he prowled to me.
Took my face in his hands.
Kissed me like I was the sun, the moon, the whole goddamn galaxy.
And then carried me into my bedroom and proceeded to ruin me, one skin vow at a time.
Gage Black married his wife at 1:30 p.m. on a Wednesday in a Manhattan condo filled with chaos, coffee stains, and soul-deep certainty.
He’s spent the past three hours taking my body apart, vow by vow, stroke by stroke, until I forgot my name, my address, and the basic function of speech. And now I’m lying here, glossy-eyed, probably dehydrated, wrapped in his arms, draped in his shirt that I definitely didn’t put there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to re-enter my own body.
I have been emotionally loved into the afterlife.
Sensually obliterated.
Legally wrecked.
