Page 91 of Marrying My Professor

He takes mine first, sliding it onto my finger with careful reverence. It sits above my original wedding ring—the one he gave me in the courthouse, the one I've worn every day since, despite what it represented.

Then I take his, repeating the gesture. His hands are shaking slightly, and I have to steady them with my own.

"By the power vested in me by the country of Belize," Maria says, her voice thick with emotion, "I pronounce you husband and wife. Again. Forever. You may kiss your bride."

Alexander doesn't wait for her to finish the sentence. He pulls me close, one hand tangling in my hair, the other wrapping around my waist, and kisses me like we have all the time in the world instead of just this week before we have to return to Belgrave and the Veritas and the responsibilities waiting for us.

The kiss tastes like salt from our tears and joy and promises we actually mean to keep this time. When we finally break apart, we're both smiling, both crying, both exactly where we're supposed to be.

"I love you," Alexander murmurs against my lips.

"I love you," I murmur back.

Maria is beaming at us, clearly pleased with herself for facilitating this ceremony. "Congratulations. Now go enjoy your honeymoon properly. The beach is yours for the evening—I've made sure no one will disturb you."

She disappears back toward the small resort where we're staying, leaving us alone on the sand as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon.

Alexander pulls me close, and we stand there wrapped around each other, watching the sky turn shades of orange and pink and purple that look too beautiful to be real.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"For what?"

"For this. For insisting we do this properly. For giving us this moment that's ours alone, without any Veritas complications." He kisses my temple, the gesture achingly tender. "For being exactly who you are—fierce and brilliant and occasionally terrifying and absolutely perfect for me."

I laugh, the sound lighter than it's been in months. "You're only saying that because I killed someone for you."

"I'm saying it because it's true." He turns me in his arms so I'm facing him again, his hands settling on my hips. "You're my wife. My partner. My best and worst decision all rolled into one beautiful, complicated package. And I wouldn't change a single thing about you."

"Not even the homicidal tendencies?"

"Especially not the homicidal tendencies." His smile is wicked now, playful in a way he rarely lets himself be. "They're very sexy."

"You're deeply fucked up."

"Says the woman who got turned on planning a murder with me."

Fair point.

I rise on my toes to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him mixed with ocean air and tropical warmth. His hands slide from my hips to my back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel exactly how affected he is by this moment, this ceremony, this choice we've made to recommit to each other.

"Take me to bed," I whisper against his mouth. "Take your wife to bed and remind me exactly why I married you. Twice."

His laugh is dark and promising. "With pleasure, Mrs. Draven."

He sweeps me up in his arms—unnecessarily dramatic but perfectly fitting for the moment—and carries me across the sand toward our private bungalow. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my face into the curve where his shoulder meets his throat, breathing in the scent that's become synonymous with home.

Behind us, the sun continues its descent, painting the sky in colors that fade from brilliant to subtle as day transitions to night. The beach we're leaving behind looks like something from a postcard—pristine and beautiful and utterly perfect.

But I'm not looking at the beach. I'm looking at the man carrying me toward our future, toward the life we've chosen despite every obstacle, toward the partnership we've forged from trauma and violence and desperate need.

Six months ago, I stood in a courthouse and married him to survive.

Today, I stood on a beach and married him because I wanted to.

Because he's mine and I'm his and together we're something stronger than either of us could be alone.

The Veritas thinks they control us. Thinks they've trapped us permanently in their web of obligation and service. And maybe they have. Maybe we'll spend the rest of our lives bound to an organization we hate, playing roles we never auditioned for, navigating politics and power we'd rather ignore.