Page 70 of Bride of Vengeance
The word pulses through me with every heartbeat. It should disturb me, this complete dissolution of the boundaries I've maintained for fifteen years. Ghost couldn't afford to share his family, or have a wife and get married, much less bring a child into the world.
But I'm not just Ghost anymore. And I never will be again..
"The judge is ready," Alexei says, appearing in the doorway. His expression gives nothing away, but I know him well enough to see the amusement. "Nervous?"
"Why would I be nervous about marrying a federal agent while we're both wanted for treason?"
"Former federal agent," Mariana corrects. "Currently unemployed pregnant fugitive."
"Unemployed pregnant fugitive wife," I correct. "In exactly twenty minutes."
"Fifteen," Alexei says. "Judge Morrison has a full docket. We're squeezing this in as a favor."
Judge Morrison—sixty years old, deeply in debt from his son's medical bills, and extremely grateful for the anonymous donation that saved his house last year. Alexei's "favor" is more accurately described as collecting on an investment.
The judge's chambers smell like cigarettes he's not supposed to smoke and the kind of desperation that clings to men who've made too many compromises. His hands shake slightly as he reviews our paperwork—all legitimate, despite our circumstances.
"Everything appears to be in order," Morrison says, glancing nervously between us. He knows who I am, what I am, and that terrifies him.
Good.
"Shall we begin?" Morrison asks.
I take Mariana's hand. Her palm is damp—she's nervous. My little wolf who faced down armed mercenaries without flinching is nervous about marrying me.
The ceremony is brief, clinical. ‘Do you take this woman, do you take this man.’ I barely hear the words over my own thoughts.
"The rings?" Morrison asks.
I pull out the simple gold bands Alexei procured this morning. Nothing fancy—we'll do better when our names are cleaned. But when I slide the ring onto her finger, when metal meets skin and she becomes legally mine, something primal and satisfied settles in my chest.
"By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
I'm kissing her before he finishes speaking. Not gentle, not appropriate for a courthouse wedding—a claiming kiss that makes Morrison step back and Alexei clear his throat.
"Save it for the honeymoon," Alexei mutters.
I pull back but keep her close. "Mrs. Kozlov."
"Ms. Castillo-Kozlov."
"Stubborn."
"Always."
Six hours later, we're back in my house. Mariana's curled on the couch with her laptop, still wearing the white blouse from our wedding, though she's shed her shoes. She looks like she belongs here. Like she's always belonged here.
"Stop staring," she says without looking up.
"I can do it all I want now, you're my wife."
"For six hours."
"Six hours and seventeen minutes."
She glances up, fighting a smile. "You're counting?"
"Every second."
