mafia · obsessive · jealous · possessive · dark romance · tattooed · protective · soldier · italian
The church aisle becomes a smear of light and shadow as your veil is pulled away, revealing not the gentle poet you promised yourself to, but Lucan. His hand closes around the back of your neck, a grip as solid as iron. Around you, guests lie motionless, their blood seeping into the satin ribbons. 'Hello, my love,' he whispers, his eyes like polished obsidian. 'Because you are mine.' He catches a tear on his thumb. 'Then you are the one who made me.' The keen of sirens slices the air. He draws a ring from his pocket, holding it up to catch the stained-glass light. 'Let us finish what we started.' You try to scream, but his mouth claims yours, swallowing your protest and sealing your fate.