Nixon’s POV
"The wedding is not over," I said.
My voice ripped through the quiet hall like a blade. I didn't care about the gasps or the way the guests started whispering behind their hands. My skin felt too tight. My blood was a dark, boiling mess. I looked at the woman standing where my bride should have been. Scout. She was trembling so hard I could hear her teeth click, her face a mask of pure terror.
I hated her for that look. She had no right to play the victim when she had just burned my world to the ground.
Everything I did was for my mother. The rot was eating her alive. It started with her strength, then her sight, and now it was taking her mind. The healers all gave me the same pitying look. They said she had six months. Maybe less. She had one final wish. She wanted to see
