Savannah

An hour later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at a stranger.

The emerald green dress hugged me in all the right places, the daring neckline challenging gravity before the wedding even began. My face was a mask of glamour—makeup flawless, lashes long, lips coated in a defiant red. I looked too polished. Too put together.

Not like me at all.

I was nervously adjusting the silk when his scent hit me—that sharp, intoxicating cologne that always announced his presence. Then I felt his arms snake around my waist, pulling me back into the solid heat of his chest. He buried his nose in my hair, his breath fanning my ear.

"You look absolutely breathtaking, my love," Roman murmured, spinning me gently to face him.

My fists clenched. The reminder of his behavior this morning flared up—the threats, the insistence that this wedding proceed. He had practically betrayed my feelings thirty times before breakfast, yet here he was, looking at me as if I were the only exquisite thing in existence.

It made me want to scream. Or stab him. Or both.

So I did the next best thing. I raised my silver stiletto and brought it down hard on his foot.

I expected a curse or a wince. Instead, a dark chuckle rumbled through his chest, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.

"You're one vindictive woman, Sav."

"And you're an asshole!" I hissed, shoving at his chest, but he didn't move an inch.

"That's fair," he grinned, utterly unbothered.

I turned back to the mirror, refusing to grant him my gaze. "I'm really mad at you, Roman."

"I know." His voice softened, turning heavy with a gentleness that was far more threatening than anger. He pressed closer, molding his body to mine until it was impossible to ignore the physical claim he was laying on me.

"You're distracting me," I whispered, the protest sounding more like a whimper. My body wasn't aligned with my fury. My skin was humming, reaching for him despite the chaos in my head.

"That's the plan," he whispered, his teeth grazing my earlobe, sending a jolt of fire straight to my core.

I groaned, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. "Roman—we're going to be late."

His palm flattened against the glass above my head, caging me in. "I'm not doing anything. Yet. Unless..." his voice dropped to a sinful murmur, "you want me to."

Outside the door, the house was a storm of wedding frenzy. Bridesmaids hurried past, laughter erupted, and voices called out for missing shoes. But inside this room, there was only the suffocating tension between us.

"Roman..." my breath fogged the mirror, "what's the worst that could happen?"

He checked his watch with infuriating calm. "We arrive twenty minutes late. And the maid of honor looks... thoroughly disheveled."

I bit my lip, fighting a grin. Then something inside me snapped. "Fuck it. Fuck the wedding. Fuck Dean and Chloe." I met his dark eyes in the reflection. "And fuck you too, Roman. I'm still mad at you."

His laugh was deep and victorious. He leaned into me, his hands traveling with possessive slow motion, claiming space that only he was allowed to touch. "God, I love you."

The words slammed into me harder than his touch. My heart somersaulted, begging me to ignore the weight behind them. Best friends say that, right? But the way he looked at me in the mirror—hungry, obsessive, predatory—didn't look like friendship.

"Well?" I breathed, my pulse hammering against my ribs. "Are you going to take what you want or not?"

His answering smirk was wicked.

He didn't care about the emerald silk or the carefully applied makeup. He only cared about the woman beneath it. With a low groan, he turned the room into our own private sanctuary, ignoring the world outside.

The mirror became a witness to our collision. I clung to the edge of the vanity, my nails digging into the wood as Roman claimed me with a ferocity that made my knees tremble in my heels. Every thrust was a reminder of his power, a silent command to forget everyone else.

"Eyes on the mirror," he growled in my ear.

I obeyed. The sight nearly undid me—Roman, immaculate in his suit, his expression feral and tight with pleasure as he moved against me. Our gazes locked in the glass, and the sheer possession in his eyes burned away the last of my resistance.

I unraveled beneath him, my cries muffled by the sounds of the bustling hallway outside. When the end came, it was a crashing wave that left me limp in his iron grip. He held me upright, his breath ragged against my neck, marking me with soft, lingering kisses that felt like both an apology and a vow.

"Fuck..." he rasped, his voice hoarse and reverent.

After a moment, he pulled back with maddening composure. He straightened his suit and smoothed my dress down as if we hadn't just committed a scandal. His fingers lingered on my hip just long enough to remind me of the heat we'd shared.

Then, his lips curving into a smirk, he offered his arm as if we were about to waltz into a gala.

"Now," he whispered. "Shall we go ruin a wedding?"

I stared at him, caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to pull him back to the bed. Because the truth was, even with fury burning in my veins and guilt whispering in my ear...

I would always, always want him.