Page 210 of Lethal King

Recoiling his outstretched hand, Leander signals to the armed men behind him.

I tense up.

But they don’t charge forward. Instead, the two closest to the exit disappear behind the door.

“What’s going on?” I ask, holding my breath.

“I have something for you,” Leander replies. “A wedding gift.”

“The army will do just fine.”

“You don’t like surprises?” he asks, lifting his brow.

“No.”

That makes him chuckle.

“Well, then I’ll spoil it for you.”

When he reaches into his pocket, every muscle in my body flexes. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tytus getting ready to pounce. I imagine Drago is doing the same behind me.

But Leander doesn’t pull out a gun. And when I see the black fleet box in his hand, I immediately feel foolish for being worried. The billionaire would never get his well-manicured hands dirty.

“Is this your way of proposing?” I taunt, taking one more subtle step forward.

“oh, we’re far past that stage,” Leander chuckles.

Behind him, the exit door is pushed open. The two men remerge.

My breath catches in my throat.

One of them is carrying a long, frilly, blindingly white wedding gown. The other has his gun pressed into the back of a man who is dressed an awful lot like a priest.

My pounding pulse quickens.

Fuck.

It doesn’t matter that I came here knowing full well Leander intended to marry me on the spot. The two blaring symbols of my most feared fate trigger a deluge of nightmarish memories.

I swallow a jagged whimper.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to do something like this—but I’m determined to make it my last. I just need to stay in control of myself for a little while longer.

Taking another quiet step forward, I get ready to make a run for Leander’s throat. To my dismay, he’s quickly joined by his two guards. They momentarily block him off.

“Bring the dress to my bride,” Leander orders. “You, priest, prepare as you must.”

“… Yes, sir,” the frail old man whispers. His eyes are so sunken I can’t tell if they’re black from bruises or from the shadows they cast. They get even darker as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a book.

“According to Greek mafia tradition, it is the bride's father who first presents the wedding band to his daughter,” Leander lectures me. “Or so I’ve heard. But since you don’t have a dad, then—”

“I have a dad!” I mindlessly interrupt.

My declaration vanishes into the thick greenhouse air just as quickly as it left my mouth. But the impact doesn’t disappear as swiftly.

It’s like I’ve been punched in the chest.

Did I just say that out loud?