Page 88 of Bronson

I should have let Bronson kill him.

I am still shaking from anger and grief when Bronson takes me to my room. After a hot shower, he towels off my body. He caresses every inch of my skin, massaging it with rose-scented lotion. He sits me down at my dressing table. He lovingly blow-dries my hair for me.

He watches as I do my makeup. Seeing the look on his face as he stares at me is almost worth getting kidnapped for.

It is utter, total adoration.

When I am ready, he slips the white satin Dior over my head. It fits like a glove.

“You take my breath away,” he says.

I blush.

“I apologize for breaking the rules,” he says.

“What rule?”

“Seeing the bride before the wedding. After today, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you out of my sight again. You’ll be sick of seeing my face.”

My hand strokes his cheek. “I’ll never grow tired of seeing this face.”

We kiss.

I ask, “What do you have planned? We missed the church service. The caterers were cancelled. There isn’t a single place in New York City open this last minute to accommodate the number of people we have.”

He says, “It’s all worked out. As long as you are sure you’re up for a wedding, after the trauma you’ve faced⁠—”

“My parents are dead to me. I won’t wait another day to become a Bachman. To officially join your family.”

He hooks his arm in mine. “What are we waiting for?” We go down our stairwell and out to the car.

What feels like moments later, we arrive at the place we had booked for the Bachman-only reception.

Now, we ride the elevator up three flights. The doors open.

To reveal the most elegant evening wedding.

My eyes widen so hard they hurt, taking in the scene before me.

Hundreds of white globe lights crisscross above us, dotting the dark sky.

The breeze blows, the scent of roses brushing by with it. The flowers are everywhere. The Bachmans must have ransacked every florist in the city.

Thirty bridesmaids line up on one side. Thirty groomsmen on the other.

Creating an aisle.

Bronson gives me a smile. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Arm in arm, we head down the ‘aisle.’ Ingrid hands me a bouquet. All of my friends hold out their palms, touching mine as I walk. Each smiling face precious to me in its own way.

Bronson gives his groomsmen high-fives as we go along.

We reach the altar, a bar top table that had been covered in tulle and rose petals. A preacher, not the one we booked, stands behind the table. Bronson whispers in my ear that the man officiating our wedding has connections with the Bachmans, and a little Robin Hood in his heart.

The man smiles at me, welcoming me.