Page 43 of Forged

I place my hand on the breast closest to me, testing the theory that her body might be the cure for the pain in my head.

She swats my hand away without even looking. “Absolutely not. We are not doing that right now.” She shifts gingerly on the mattress and winces. “I’m sore anyway. Damn it, Lars. How rough were we last night?”

I drag my forearm over my eyes. “I could kiss it and make it better.”

She laughs, then immediately groans. “I don’t know how you’re even thinking about sex. I can barely move. How are we supposed to fly home like this?”

Fly home. The words cut clean through the fog. My eyes snap open fully this time.

“Shit,” I mutter. “We have a flight.”

I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen until the numbers come into focus. “It’s eight-thirty. We’ve got a couple of hours.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the room tilting. “I’ll call down for breakfast.”

As I steady myself, my gaze drifts across the suite. My suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. Her heels are abandoned near the door. Chips ranging from five-dollar plastic to serious money spill from a dish on the dresser.

And then I see it.

A piece of paper on the nightstand. My focus narrows. My pulse kicks.

Then I notice the weight on my hand—a ring.

Oh, fuck.

“Neomi,” I say, my voice sharp now, the haze burning off in a rush. “Why the fuck is there a ring on my finger?”

I turn toward her.

She’s staring at her own left hand, fingers splayed, a matching platinum band catching the light. All color drained from her face.

“Lars…” Her voice wobbles. “What did we do last night?”

I grab the paper from the nightstand, my grip tight enough to crease it, and turn it over. For one small, idiotic moment, I close my eyes and will it to be anything else. Maybe it’s a receipt. A joke or proof of some overpriced Vegas nonsense we’ll laugh about later.

But it isn’t. It’s a marriage license.

My name. Her name. Our signatures sprawled in messy handwriting.

I extend the paper toward her. She takes it with both hands, eyes flying over the page before snapping back to mine, wide and blazing.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Lars…we got married?”

I keep staringat my left hand, trying to remember how this ring got there.

I knew I was drunk, but fuck, this is insane. The band sits on my finger, platinum, simple, and unadorned. I’ve never worn anything that carried this kind of implication. Jewelry has always been a decoration. Something chosen, enjoyed, and discarded when it no longer fits my style or personality. But this…this is meant to be permanent.

Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains and paints the room in pale gold, softening the edges of last night’s chaos. My head still aches, but the bigger pressure sits lower, tighter, rooted somewhere beneath my ribs.

I’m married.

The words echo through my mind without bringing panic. That’s the part I can’t quite reconcile. I should be freaking out, but instead, the thought brings butterflies.

Lars moves through the room behind me, completely naked. Even though his hair is a mess and I see marks from my nails alonghis shoulder blades, he somehow seems calm. Watching him, I’m struck by how quickly my body has adjusted to his presence.

There’s a knock at the door, and Lars pulls on a robe and walks into the main room of our suite. I sit for a moment, collecting my thoughts before I take the other robe from the wardrobe. It’s soft but somehow offers little comfort for the war in my head.

I meet him on the couch as he pours two cups without asking and hands one to me before leaning back against the cushions. His gaze flicks to my hand, to the ring, and something soft crosses his expression.

“Well,” he says, voice still rough, “we certainly had a proper Vegas experience, I guess.”