Page 145 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
“Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Cat snorts, putting his arm through mine and flicking his gaze over his wife’s dress, the one that I borrowed for today. It fits me perfectly, harkening back to a time when Nellie wasn’t quite the skin-and-bones figure she cuts now.
There’s nothing fancy to it: a sweetheart neckline, wide shoulder straps, a tailored bodice with a lace overlay, and a skirt that falls just above my knees. Oh, and it has pockets. It has motherfucking pockets, bitches. Also, Queenie had always said that if she were to ever get married, she’d want to wear Nellie’s dress down the aisle. Yes, it shows off my scarred shoulder and my ruined legs, but I’m starting to accept that those scars, they’re a part of me. They’re proof that I’ll put my money where my mouth is, that I’m not afraid to die for the right reasons, but that I’ll fight like hell to live another day.
I hope something about this situation pleases Queenie, wherever she is. After all, she gave her life to save mine. I owe her that much at least. I owe her to find some small sliver of happiness in this world.
With my borrowed dress, my boots, and my white leather jacket, I feel it.
Club princess.
I snort right back.
“Me neither, old man.”
The girls slip out the door one by one, until it’s just me and Cat and Reba. My best friend turns suddenly, throwing her arm around my neck and pressing a sweet-scented kiss to my cheek.
“Good luck,” she whispers before preceding us down the aisle.
Everything comes full circle in that moment.
Everything.
The double doors in front of us open, and Cat walks me through them, into the center of all that attention.
The stained-glass windows near the roof of the church were long-ago destroyed, leaving empty holes that allow the filtered sunshine through. Vines dangle down, symptoms of long neglect. The stone walls are sturdy, but everything else in here is in a remarkable state of deshabille.
There are no pews, just metal folding chairs pushed too close together. There isn’t quite enough room for everyone, so bikers in leather cuts stand outside, looking in through the busted windows. They’re all flying colors, dressed in Death by Daybreak leather.
Even the boys are all wearing their vests over the black dress shirts underneath, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms and vibrant ink. Beast, and by extension his three groomsmen, all have crisp black slacks on, but I can see that every single one of them is wearing leather riding boots underneath.
That’s the best part of all this, the way those four men look up there together.
Dressed in black. Cloaked in leather. The intensity in each one of their gazes is enough to stagger me, let alone the combined force of them. For a second there, I actually have to lean on Cat’s hairy forearm for support.
Pigeons scatter from the rafters above my head, their flapping wings a poetic sound against the backdrop of the music. The song I picked is, ironically, the very same one that was playing during my wedding to Grey.
Canon in D Major.
I have no idea what that means in music-speak, but the song works. I needed it to work, because I like things to make sense. I nearly married a mafia brat to this song; I’ll now marry an outlaw enforcer.
Ribbons and swaths of black fabric billow in a light breeze. Nellie and Reba did an incredible job disguising the metal chairs with their decorations, swags of fabric lining either side of the aisle. I’m even walking down a long, red carpet.
On the dais, hundreds of white candles in varying shapes and sizes burn, their sputtering flames dancing to the music. In the church, an unholy union of demons awaits, presided over by the devil king himself.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Cat murmurs in my ear, giving me a kiss on the cheek and scratching me with his salt-and-pepper beard. Nellie sits in the front row, balling her eyes out while Gaz glares at me from beside her.
The most sacrilegious part of this entire experience is having him here, knowing what he did, knowing that he had a hand in my sisters’ deaths. I’d love nothing more than to run him through with the blade Queenie gave me when I was eleven. It’s tucked up under my dress in a thigh holster. Same deal with my Magnum. It’s right there, beneath the folds of the short skirt.
If the breeze were to blow just right, I’m sure some of the folks in the audience would get a nice view of it, but that’s okay. It isn’t unexpected at a one-percenter’s wedding.
My father moves to the front of the dais as I step forward and Beast offers me up his hand. It’s big and warm and rough, his skin tanned from the sun. I can barely breathe as I look up at him. I’ve never seen him without a beard, never. He’s equally beautiful with or without it, but I’m enjoying the hard cut of his jaw, the competing softness of his lips.
