Page 44 of Forged

“Yeah, we did.” I take a sip of coffee. “I’m in Vegas a lot but can’t say I’ve ever gotten married. Now I can say I’ve done it all.”

We drink in silence for a moment. It isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable in a way that makes me uneasy, like my system is adapting faster than my instincts can warn me.

“So,” I say eventually, setting my cup down. “Do you regret it?”

Lars studies me. “I want you to answer that question first.”

I should pause. I should ask for time, or space, or answer with logic. Instead, the truth surfaces unfiltered.

“No…for some fucked-up reason, I don’t regret it.”

He leans back. “Neither do I.”

“I’m not saying it was smart,” I add, because I need to show the part of me that still values control. “Or practical.”

“I don’t think either of us were in the condition to be practical last night,” he says quietly.

“So, what do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer me right away. He closes the distance between us instead, stopping just close enough that I feel his warmth. His thumb brushes my ring.

“We’ll go back to Austin,” he says with a tilt of his head. “You’ll move into my condo and we’ll figure shit out.”

Something in my throat tightens. This is madness. I’ve known this man for two weeks and I’m his wife, but something in me loves the rush—and might want to see where this goes.

“Okay,” I say flatly before I smile. “I guess we can’t get it annulled, since we consummated the marriage with you destroying my poor pussy last night.”

He laughs, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Get used to it. Your sweet little pussy is going to be full of me every night now.”

Fuck me.

We finish our breakfast, share a shower, and then pack efficiently, moving like two people who know how to function under pressure. By the time the driver arrives, I’ve tucked my questions back into orderly compartments. I can do this. I can enjoy this without tearing it apart.

The jet feels smalleron the return flight, or maybe I do. I settle into the leather seat, shoes kicked off, knees tucked beneath me. Lars sits across from me, jacket on now, posture composed. He looks sharper in daylight—edges more defined, presence more intense.

The plane lifts smoothly. Vegas recedes into the desert below us.

That’s when Lars’ phone rings. He checks the screen and stands.

“I need to take this.”

I nod, pretending not to care as he steps into the small bedroom at the back of the jet. The door doesn’t fully seal when he shuts it. I don’t mean to listen, but the plane cabin carries sound too easily.

“…can’t keep operating like this without tightening the perimeter,” Lars says. “Falco’s pushing.”

Lars has the call on speaker, and I hear a man’s voice answer, deeper, with an authoritative tone.

“I’m sending reinforcements; they’ll be there this evening,” the man says. “Assure the Saints we’ll take care of them and keep tracking Falco.”

My ears perk at the mention of the Saints. Men have talked about them at the games. A local Motorcycle Club that protects the peace on Austin’s east side and might dabble in other not-so-valiant things.

“Already on it,” Lars tells him.

There’s a pause before I hear the man speak again: “How was your birthday? I saw the flight records. Are you on the way back?”

“Yes.” Lars sighs. “And it was…fuck. I, uh, had a good time.”

“So, who is she?” the man says like he already knows.