Reign:
The moment the ballroom doors shut behind us, I can breathe again. Well—as much as a man can when he’s handcuffed to a Windsor in heels sharp enough to castrate him. Ellie’s hand fits in mine, cool and rigid, like she’s determined not to give me the satisfaction of feeling her tremble. The cameras flash outside, but her smile never falters.
My bride.
Christ, that word shouldn’t make my pulse skip, but it does.
The limo door opens, and the driver nods us in. Inside—champagne, silk throw, and one massive “Congratulations” bouquet that looks like it costs more than most people’s cars. The air smells like roses and her perfume—something expensive and soft that clings to the back of my throat.
She sits beside me, her gown spilling across the seat like a white wave. “We’re supposed t
