Page 125 of Cold Mercy

My heart lurches so hard it hurts, and something in my chest cracks in a way I don’t want to examine.

He must see the way my breath stutters and my fingers tighten around the bouquet, and it's that very realization that makes me snap out of it.

I lift my chin. “Nice try, maybe next century.”

His smile deepens, softer this time, and somehow worse.

“Couldn’t blame me for asking.”

If this rehearsal goes on any longer, I’m going to kill him or kiss him, and I genuinely cannot tell which one would happen first.

I run straight for the house, my pulse still wrecked and my skin burning where his hands touched. My brain is absolutely useless, and all I know is that I need distance. A wall, a country, anything to put between us.

But I barely make it ten steps before fingers wrap around my wrist and tug me out of sight, behind the floral arch. Thomas pulls me just close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

His voice is lower than I’ve heard it since we got here.

“Not willing to risk a wedding night with me?” My glare snaps up, when he raises both hands instantly.

The arrogance of it is almost laughable. I let a slow, pitying smile spread across my face, meeting his gaze with a look designed to dismiss him completely.

“Oh, Reed, that's cute.” I tilt my head slightly. “But I'm looking for a man, not a boy who thinks a smirk is a personality. You couldn't handle me.”

I know he could break me, and the terrifying part of me that is drawn to his darkness wants to see him try.

His smile widens, turning sharp and dangerous. He leans in until his voice is a low, rough murmur meant only for me.

“Couldn't handle you?” he repeats, a dark amusement in his tone. “Sweetheart, I wouldn't just handle you. I'd ruin you. You'd be on your knees, begging me, before I even got my shirt off.”

A hot coil of something I refuse to name tightens deep in my stomach. He's not just boasting, he's describing a fantasy so vivid, so infuriatingly accurate to my traitorous thoughts, that I can barely breathe.

I shove the bouquet into his chest, using the motion to create space between us.

“You wish,” I snap, my voice colder than I feel. “Now go shower, you're pathetic when you're desperate.”

“Come with me.”

He says it so quietly I almost convince myself I misheard.

I choke out a disbelieving laugh.

“In your dreams.”

His eyes drop to my mouth again, and God help me, I feel it all the way down my spine. I walk away before I can do something catastrophically stupid.

Inside the prep tents, chaos is unfolding like a circus on fire, but one of the smaller storage tents is half-zipped, dim.

I hear a sniff and find Elizabeth sitting on an overturned box, a veil draped limply over her lap. Her mascara is smudged, and she's muttering murderous things under her breath about ‘two mothers, one wedding, and zero survivors.’

Her head snaps up the moment she sees me. “Soph! Hi,” she says, quickly wiping under her eyes. “For the record, I’m not crying.”

I slide inside the tent and zip the flap behind us, creating our own private bubble. “You look beautiful,” I say gently, taking in the smudged mascara and the veil pooled in her lap. “And stressed, mostly stressed,” I amend with a soft smile, “but definitely beautiful.”

She groans dramatically and drops her face into her hands.

“I love them, but if my mom and his mom argue one more time about chair angles, I’m eloping, and you’re coming with me.”

I laugh and sit beside her, bumping her shoulder.