Page 102

We stay locked together, both of us breathing hard, and then he rolls and pulls me onto his chest, one arm banded firm across my waist.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he says softly against my hair, and it is a promise this time, not a command.

“Ours,” I correct him, and I feel him go still, and then his mouth curves against my hair.

“Ours,” he agrees, and kisses my bare shoulder, slow, as though he means to spend the rest of the night proving he understands the difference between the two words.

I look down at the flower of gold and diamond on my finger, a ring from the devil who chose me over the world, and something finally settles into place. I have spent years carrying trays through other people’s celebrations, engagement toasts and anniversaries and birthday rounds, standing at the edge of every happy night that was never mine.

This time, at long last, it’s my turn.

EPILOGUE

DELANEY

The sky stays a colorless gray from the moment I wake, and it’s still gray when I sit down at the mirror and the stylist tucks the last strand of my hair into place. Rain crawls in slow lines down the rose-tinted glass.

Margo tosses her coat over the back of a chair and plants herself in front of the window to block my view of it. “Rain on your wedding day is good luck,” she declares, then she bites her lip. “I looked it up five minutes ago, so it’s official.”

My stomach tightens, my heart galloping with anxiety, and it has nothing to do with Lev. I decided to marry that man a long time ago, and that part of me has not wavered since, not even for one tentative second.

I’m nervous because I designed every last detail of this wedding myself, juggling everything from the flowers to the seating to the exact angle of the light. I have planned exactly one wedding before this, in what feels like an alternate reality, for a groom who never agreed to it, and somehow, with my nerves in a roil, I still cannot schedule my own heartbeat.

Milo pokes his head around the door. “You can’t run, you know,” he says. His bow tie sits askew, and his hair is gelled into a helmet.

“Who said anything about running?” I ask, stifling a smile.

“Um, Maksim did,” Milo says. “He says all brides want to run on the day.”

“Maksim is suddenly an expert on brides now?” Margo sighs. “The man whose own engagement fell apart this year in another shouting match?”

Milo nods along, very serious, like a tiny mob boss.

“He also told me to hide Uncle Lev’s fast car keys,” Milo adds, eyes darting to the open door. “In case you tried to make a break for it in one of them.”

I laugh, and the tightness in my chest finally loosens a little. His earnestness makes something in me go soft.

I kneel beside him, straighten his gel where it has clumped, and fix the bow tie. “Are you nervous?” I murmur.

“A little,” he admits.

“Me too,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Milo’s eyes go red at the edges, the ache of tears coming on. “I wish Mom could see this,” he says, voice thick and wobbling, and the words land in the softest part of me, right where the old needle of grief still lives and a small, sad part of me aches for her too.

I nearly crush his hand in mine. “She can see it,” I insist. “I promise you she can.”

Margo sniffles loudly, tucks into herself, and turns away toward the wall.

“Nobody is crying over mascara this expensive,” Margo hisses.

“You’re already crying,” Milo points out, pragmatic as ever.

A knock comes, and Maksim smooths back his hair as he leans in the doorway in a sharp black suit. His smile has lost the ruthless edge it used to carry, worn down into something cleaner.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice darkened by his thick accent.

“Ready for what, more of your escape lessons?” I tip my chin toward him.