He Died at Our Ceremony — Then Opened His Eyes in the Middle of My Trial

Part 1

The dress was a river of gold.

Every time I moved, the fabric caught the chandelier light and shimmered like something out of a story I had no business being in.

Rory’s hand rested at the small of my back, steady and warm.

He leaned close enough that I could feel his breath against my temple.

“Stop looking like you’re waiting for the floor to give way,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re gripping my arm hard enough to leave marks.”

I loosened my fingers.

Around us, the ballroom swelled with silk and tuxedos and the low music of an orchestra that cost more than anything I’d ever owned.

By midnight, we’d be gone from all of it.

That was the plan.

Sign the bond.

Walk out the door.

Start over somewhere no one knew our names or what we were.

I had already said goodbye to this world a hundred times in my head.

The only thing I hadn’t made peace with was how much I would miss Bree.

I spotted Harry across the room first.

My stomach dropped.

He was standing near the entrance in a blue suit, Vivien and Jake flanking him, the three of them scanning the crowd with that particular alertness I knew from patrol nights.

They weren’t here for the party.

Rory felt me go rigid.

His thumb pressed once against my spine.

“Your Alpha.”

“Yes.”

“Breathe.”

I did not breathe.

Rory crossed the room in long, unhurried strides and shook Harry’s hand.

I watched them talk.

I watched Harry’s expression shift from guarded to something harder to read.

Rory touched his elbow and steered him toward one of the balconies.

The doors closed.

Victor Ashmore appeared at my shoulder like he’d been there all along.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said.

His daughter Alexandra stood beside him, studying me the way a person looks at a stain on a good tablecloth.

“I don’t approve of this union,” she said.

Victor smiled at her like she’d said something charming.

“She makes Rory happy.”

Alexandra stepped away without another word.

Victor turned to me.

Something in his eyes had always felt like warmth.

Standing there, with the orchestra playing and the gold dress and the whole night stretched ahead of us, I still believed it.

When I finally stepped outside to find Rory, Harry had already gone back in.

“What did you tell him?” I whispered.

“Nothing important.”

“Rory.”

He pressed his lips to my forehead.

“I asked him to pass a message to Bree.”

He checked his watch.

A small, quiet smile crossed his face.

“Any minute now,” he said.

I opened my mouth to ask what that meant.

The hand that closed around my wrist was not Rory’s.

Nate stood behind me, jaw tight, something wrecked and furious burning behind his eyes.

“Hello, baby.”

The night collapsed inward.

There was a time when I loved the freckles on his nose.

There was a time when his voice saying my name felt like coming home.

All I felt now was a cold that had nothing to do with the night air.

Rory stepped in front of me.

Nate ignored him.

He twisted my wrist hard enough to make me gasp, and Rory grabbed his shoulder, and then everything happened too fast.

Nate had Rory by the throat.

His fingers squeezed.

Rory’s mouth curved into a smirk even as his face went pale.

“What does this say about you,” Rory said.

Nate drove him backward into the balcony railing.

The bite came before I could scream.

Rory’s hand lifted to his own neck, fingers brushing the wound, something like disbelief crossing his face.

Then Nate pushed him.

And he fell.

I don’t remember deciding to jump the railing.

I don’t remember crossing the garden.

What I remember is the grass under my knees.

The blood on my hands.

Rory lying still in the dark, face turned up toward a sky full of stars he could no longer see.

I pressed my palms to his chest.

I said his name.

He did not answer.

Victor appeared at the edge of the crowd.

He knelt beside Rory with something on his face that looked exactly like grief.

“He’s dead,” someone said.

“Werewolf bite,” someone else whispered.

Victor’s head snapped toward me.

“What is the meaning of this.”

Not a question.

A verdict.

“Take her away,” he said.

They pulled me to my feet.

I looked back at Victor over my shoulder as they dragged me across the garden.

He was still kneeling beside his grandson.

But his eyes had found mine.

And for just a second — one small, deliberate second — he smiled.

Victor Ashmore met my eyes across that garden, and for just a second — one small, deliberate second — he smiled.