“If we were married in my lands, the bridal bed would be right in the middle of the reception. We would be trying to get to know each other while a bunch of inebriated werewolves made crude remarks and offered suggestions. We would be just intoxicated enough to be functional, which means we would be sober enough not to find it amusing.” Something in Melbourne’s tone made her glance at him.
“You were married before.” It was not an accusation, just an observation.
“Yes. I married Megan when I turned nineteen. She was the sweetest thing—sexy but demure, smart, and tough. She was hurt while I was at war, and our baby was stillborn, but something went wrong, and she started bleeding. The pregnancy had not gone well, and she was fragile. Then she developed a fever and passed shortly thereafte
