Our hands were firmly tied together. We stared at each other.

Too close.

Too intimate.

Too exposed.

Our guests stared, wide-eyed, in shock and awe. My mouth hung open, a mixture of fascination, surprise, and most dangerous of all—sheer bliss swirled in my chest.

“This is…beautiful.” The reverend let out a breath. We said our vows. I didn’t puke, despite wanting to, bad. “I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride. God knows you want to.” He chuckled, making everyone in the church erupt in wild laugher.

Cillian tugged me using our bandaged hands, jerking me into his firm body. He dived down with eyes that turned from calm, rich gold to smoldering, molten lava. My breath caught in the back of my throat as he crushed his lips over mine with devastating warmth, bringing our hands to his chest and lacing our fingers together. His lips were possessive, demanding; his almost-familiar fragrance of dry cedar and shaved wood made my knees weak.

“Kiss me back,” he growled.

He pulled our tied wrists, righting me back up to my feet. I slid limply over his body, too dazed to function. Kill deepened our kiss, devouring me, opening his mouth and connecting his tongue with mine. It was deliberately rough, and heated, and sexy, and new. I’d never been kissed this way before. The claps, whistles, and cheers drowned under the white-hot desire washing over me. I forgot where we were and what we were doing. All I cared about was the demanding pressure from his delicious mouth, and the way our hearts rioted in unison, beating wildly against one another.

I felt his smile on my lips as he withdrew slowly. Calculatingly. I blinked, still drugged from the unexpected kiss that screamed things I didn’t dare whisper. But when I looked up, he was the same cold and detached monster.

Icy, poker-faced, and completely out of reach.

I glanced unsurely at the pews.

The entire back row was full of photographers, journalists, and cameramen, recording the tender moment we shared.

The speech.

The hand-fastening.

That kiss.

They weren’t for me. They were for them. Lies, carefully designed to fit Kill Fitzpatrick’s new narrative: a loving husband. A changed man. A reformed villain.

I stumbled backward, twisting my wrists around the tight knot, trying to escape him.

“Now now,” he whispered under his breath. “You’re not going to get the fairy tale, Flower Girl, so you might as well sell it to other people. Smile big.”

“You’re not my Prince Charming,” I blurted out, my thoughts going back to the conversation I’d had with my sister in her car the night I told her about my engagement. “You’re the villain.”

“Fear is my greatest asset.” He tipped his head down, pretending to nuzzle my throat, his hoarse, low baritone reverberating deep inside me. “But what are villains, my dear wife, if not misunderstood heroes?”

Even though I decided against throwing a party, there was a grand dinner hosted at Avebury Court Manor in honor of my sham marriage.

I’d met Jane and Gerald Fitzpatrick countless of times before. I’d been to their mansion practically every week for my takeout night with the girls. But save for the dinner in which we broke the news, this was the first time I was there as their eldest son’s bride and not the timid, polite friend of their daughter’s.

I could tell by the courteous smiles and awkwardness that they knew this wasn’t a love match. Jane glanced at me almost apologetically while Gerald kept checking on me as though he was sure I would bolt out of their house the minute they looked away.

My own parents were dazzled by the luxury the Fitzpatricks lived in. Dad drooled over the fifteen-car garage, and I was pretty sure Mom was on the verge of making sweet love to the kitchen tiles. Both were awestruck by the butterfly garden Gerald had created for his wife, probably to remind her she was trapped in this marriage forever.

Conversation between the families was stilted. Gerald, my dad, and Cillian did most of the talking, filling the uncomfortable silence with safe topics such as the Boston Celtics, street food, and past legendary athletes. I shoved my food around on my plate, occasionally answering a question aimed my way.

Being ignored by Cillian while he wasn’t mine was devastating.

But being ignored by him when I was his wife was going to be soul-crushing.

In the past few weeks, I’d been pampered beyond belief. Had a stylist arrive at my apartment with three sets of wardrobes. I’d received an obnoxious number of engagement rings, was moving into a brand-new apartment, and had my Paxton and debt problems taken care of. But nothing—other than having Byrne and Kaminski off my back—was worth the sacrifice of my freedom to someone who didn’t truly want me. Only wanted my womb and my ability to raise his children.

When dinner was over and we kissed and hugged everyone goodbye, Cillian led me by the small of my back to his Aston Martin, opening the door for me while everyone stood at the door, waving goodbye. He was the image of a perfect gentleman.

During the drive, I kept silent. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—the fact he acted like he cared in front of the cameras and our families, or that I was stupid enough to buy it.

Probably the latter.

“The wedding went smoothly,” Kill observed, his eyes on the road as the vehicle skidded through the pastoral neighborhoods of Back Bay. The evening frost bit at my skin; the sunny weather of the morning was replaced with dark gloom.

A chill ran down my spine. He was my Hades, and I came to him willingly.

“I’m glad you think so.” I looked out the window with my arms folded over my chest. I hunted the sky for a cloud, desperate to see Auntie Tilda again, but all I saw was a consistent blanket of black velvet.

“Is the apartment to your satisfaction?”

“Tonight will be my first night there,” I answered curtly. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.”

Why wouldn’t I? It was in the most exclusive building in Boston. With five-star hotel amenities, a chef’s kitchen, Subzero appliances, heated flooring, and Italian-imported furniture.

And…I couldn’t care less.

About any of it.

If anything, I was bummed I couldn’t stay at Belle’s, where at least I’d have her body heat against mine every morning when she crawled into bed. Where I had conversation, and happy moments, and weekends making food in the tiny kitchenette with a glass of wine.

I hated everything about this conversation with my husband.

The clinical politeness.

The lack of intimacy.

How I now knew what his lips felt like.

“Why did you ask the orchestra to play ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba?’ Why not ‘Bridal Chorus?’” I blurted out.

“I don’t like Wagner.”

“Because he is loved?” I teased.

“No, because he was a Nazi,” he answered plainly.

I shot him a sidelong glance, surprised.

“Interesting.”

“Not particularly. You may want to broaden your pool of interests.”

Turning toward him fully, I smirked.

“So you don’t consume products that are loosely connected to racism. By that logic, you don’t drive a Ford, wear Hugo Boss, or use Kodak products.”

“I drive an Aston Martin, wear Kiton and Brioni, and no to using Kodak.”