The Biker I Sent to Prison Kidnapped Me on My Wedding Day

Seven years after my testimony sent Lazarus Saint-Aubyn to prison, I stood in a wedding dress and tried not to remember that I had once promised to marry him. The woman in the mirror looked exactly like a bride should. Every dark strand of her hair had been swept into an elegant knot beneath the Bellacourt veil. Pearls glowed at her ears. The ivory silk of her gown followed the curve of her waist before spilling to the floor in a soft, immaculate train. She looked serene. My fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity until the lace of my glove pulled across my knuckles. "You'll crease them before the ceremony." My mother's reflection appeared behind mine. Vivienne Bellacourt never entered a room without looking perfectly composed. I released the vanity. "They're gloves, Mother. Not a national treasure." "They belonged to your grandmother." She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from my veil. "In this family, the distinction is rather thin." I let out a laugh before I could hold it back. It was small, but it loosened something in my chest. Mother met my eyes in the mirror. "Second thoughts?" "Would you allow me to have them?" "Of course." She adjusted one of the pearl pins in my hair. "Provided you finish having them before you reach the church." Her mouth softened at the corner, yet her gaze remained watchful. I looked back at my reflection. The cars were waiting in the courtyard. At Saint Aurelia's, three hundred guests had gathered to watch me marry Julian Wycliffe—the dependable man who had held my family together when grief reduced us to strangers beneath the same roof. Nothing was wrong. Still, my heart had been beating too quickly since I woke. "It's only nerves," I said. "Naturally." Mother's hands settled briefly on my shoulders. "Tristan would have been proud of you today." The name struck the room like a dropped glass. My breath caught, and the woman in the mirror blurred. Tristan should have strolled inside without knocking, complained about the flowers, and told me Julian looked as though he were awaiting sentencing rather than a bride. He should have offered me his arm at the church. Instead, a single white rose waited on an empty chair in the front pew. "I wish he were here," I whispered. Mother pressed her lips together. Even after seven years, grief remained the one emotion she could not make elegant. "So do I." She touched my cheek once, quickly, before stepping away. "The guests will be wondering where I am. Genevieve will ride with you." She reached the door, then paused. "Priscilla?" "Yes?" "You deserve to be happy." Before I could answer, she was gone. Silence returned to the bridal suite. I faced the mirror again, but for one treacherous moment, I did not see the woman Julian was waiting to marry. I saw myself at twenty-two, sitting on the hood of a half-restored car in Lazarus Saint-Aubyn's garage while rain hammered the roof. Grease stained his fingers as I complained that the place smelled of fuel. "When you finally become my wife, will you still pretend you hate motorcycles?" I had laughed. "Who said I'm marrying you?" He had stepped between my knees and left a greasy fingerprint on my pale skirt. "You did, ma belle. Last night. Several times, if I remember correctly." Heat climbed my neck even now. Then the memory shifted. His teasing smile vanished. Rain became blood beneath my shoes. The hands that had once held my face were red to the wrists as he knelt beside Tristan's body. I tore my gaze from the mirror. Seven years had passed, and Lazarus could still find me on the happiest day of my life without ever leaving his prison cell. I picked up my bouquet. He had stolen enough from me. I would not let his ghost follow me down the aisle. Genevieve waited downstairs in a champagne-colored gown, carrying an emergency bag large enough to conceal cosmetics or a weapon. "There she is." She stared at me with exaggerated awe. "The future Mrs. District Attorney. Are you going to make me curtsy now?" "Only in private." "Good. My knees make terrible noises." She talked throughout the drive, offering a report on the weather and an uncle already complaining about his seat. I let her voice crowd out my memories. The city slid past beyond the tinted window, silver beneath an overcast sky. We stopped at a red light three blocks from the river. The first motorcycle drew alongside us. Its rider wore black from helmet to boots. A second bike moved into view behind him, its chrome flashing beneath the gray afternoon light. The first rider turned toward my darkened window. My fingers sank into the stems of my bouquet. The light changed. Our driver accelerated, but the motorcycles kept pace. One remained beside my door while the other dropped behind the car. For a breath, I remembered my arms locked around Lazarus's waist as we raced beyond the Bellacourt gates. He had only laughed when I shouted at him to slow down. "Priscilla?" Genevieve followed my stare. "Do you know them?" "No." The response came too fast. One rider surged ahead. The other disappeared into traffic. "I thought one of them was someone else," I admitted. "Who?" I looked down and found that one of the white roses had bent beneath my grip. "Someone who can't possibly be here." By the time Saint Aurelia's rose above the neighboring buildings, there were no motorcycles in sight. I told myself the tightness in my chest was relief. Inside the church, the quartet began to play. The doors opened upon candlelight, white flowers, and rows of faces turning toward me. Mother sat in front beside the empty chair holding Tristan's rose. At the end of the aisle stood Julian. He was handsome in the clean, deliberate way he did everything. When he saw me, his expression softened into the reassuring smile that had carried me through police interviews, the trial, and every nightmare afterward. This was safety, I reminded myself. This was the life I had chosen. I walked toward him. Julian took my hand when I reached the altar. His palm was cold. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "You look terrified." His laugh sounded strained. His gaze flicked past me toward the church doors before returning to my face. "Only of losing you." The priest began, speaking of devotion and protection, but Julian looked twice more toward the entrance. Security guards waited beside both aisles. Julian had insisted on both because of his position. Until then, I had thought it excessive. When he slid the ring onto my finger, his hand trembled. The priest smiled at us before turning to the congregation. "If any person present knows of any lawful reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." Silence filled the church. Julian exhaled. Then, an engine roared outside. Another answered. Then another. The sound multiplied until the stained glass shivered. Julian went rigid beside me. Not startled. Afraid. The church doors slammed open. A man stood between them, framed by the gray daylight and the silhouettes of bikers behind him. For one impossible second, my mind refused to give him a name. He was broader than the man in my memories. Harder. Black leather stretched across his shoulders, and ink covered his bare arms. A scar cut through one brow; another marked a mouth I had once known better than my own. But his eyes were unchanged. Deep green. Merciless. Fixed on me. His mouth curved, though there was no warmth in it. "Hello, ma belle." The bouquet slipped from my hand as whispers broke across the pews. Someone gasped his name. "Lazarus...?" Mine came out as little more than breath. Julian moved in front of me. "Get him out." Neither security guard approached. One stood frozen as bikers blocked every exit. The other raised his empty hands. Lazarus began walking toward the altar. His boots struck the stone in measured steps. He did not look away from me, even when Mother rose. "You have no right to be here," she said. "Rights are interesting things, Mrs. Bellacourt." Lazarus's gaze never left mine. "You don't appreciate them until someone takes them away." My shock fractured beneath a rush of anger. "You... You shouldn't be here." He stopped at the foot of the altar. "Seven years in a cage," he said softly, "and that's all you have to say to me?" "You belong in that cage." Something savage flashed behind his eyes. "My conviction was overturned three weeks ago." The church seemed to tilt. I looked at Julian. His jaw had tightened, but there was no confusion on his face. "You knew," I whispered. "Priscilla, this is not the time." Lazarus gave a humorless laugh. "She didn't know. Of course, she didn't." "He was released on a technicality," Julian snapped. "He is still dangerous." "A technicality?" Lazarus climbed the first step. "Is that what you call fabricated evidence now?" Julian reached inside his jacket but Lazarus moved faster. He caught Julian's wrist and drove him against the altar rail. Guests screamed as two bikers entered the aisle. I grabbed Lazarus's arm. "Let him go!" He released Julian only to turn and seize my waist. His hand closed around me with terrifying familiarity. I slapped him. The crack echoed through the church. His face shifted with the blow, but his grip did not loosen. "You murdered my brother," I hissed. "You don't get to come here and speak as though you're the one who was wronged." Pain crossed his face so quickly I almost mistook it for memory. Then, it was gone. "I didn't come for an apology." He dragged me against his chest. I struck at him, my nails scraping his neck as I fought to wrench free. "Lazarus, release her!" Julian lunged toward us. Lazarus drove one fist into his stomach. Julian folded with a choked gasp. "Stop!" I screamed. Lazarus bent and lifted me over his shoulder. The church turned upside down. I kicked and pounded my fists against his back. Mother called my name. Genevieve raced into the aisle, but one of the bikers blocked her path without touching her. "You cannot take her!" the priest shouted. Lazarus paused and looked back at Julian, who was struggling to rise beside the altar. "I didn't come to stop the wedding," he said. His arm locked more tightly around my legs. "I came to collect the debt your bride owes me." He carried me down the aisle. My veil snagged on the end of a pew. The pins tore from my hair, and lace ripped with a sound like paper. The Bellacourt veil fell behind us, abandoned among the scattered petals. Outside, motorcycles crowded the steps, their engines shaking the pavement. Lazarus set me on a black cruiser. I tried to slide off the other side, but he caught me around the waist, swung onto the motorcycle, and pulled me back against him. "Let me go!" "You had your chance to do that seven years ago." The bike lurched forward before I could escape. Instinct forced my arms around his waist as we shot into the street, my ruined skirt whipping around my legs. I looked back once. Julian stood at the top of the church steps, one hand braced against the stone. Fury twisted the face that had promised to protect me. The other motorcycles closed behind us, cutting him from view. "He'll find me," I shouted over the engines. "He'll make you pay for this." Lazarus covered one of my hands with his and pressed it against the hard plane of his stomach. "You stole seven years of my life, ma belle." His grip tightened as the church vanished behind us. "Now, I'm going to take yours."