Page 63 of Ruined By a Devil

“Don’t even say that,” his eyes snap back to me, a serious look on his face. “You’re marrying me, and starting today you’ll be Jade Kavanagh.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“I know,” Malachi pushes his door open, steps outside and walks over to the passenger seat to open my door. “Mrs. Kavanagh.”

“Husband,” I take his hand and step outside. The realization that I look like crap hits me, but as I lift my head to look at Malachi, my heart is oddly at peace.

My fingers wrap around his a little tighter.

Malachi keeps his grip tight, pulling me close to his side as we walk toward the side entrance of the church.

Four of his men appear in front of us, weapons concealed but their stances ready to act if needed. Behind us, three more vehicles pull into the drive, blocking the entrance to the courtyard.

“My family wasn’t informed?” I ask, keeping pace with his long strides as we step into the dim, cool air of the hallway

“Your father is a liability right now,” Malachi says, his voice cold. “He doesn't know we're here, I don’t trust him.”

“He’s going to lose his mind,” I say, surprising myself at how unbothered I am about my own family not assisting the ceremony. I don’t tell Malachi, but after what happened in the SUV earlier, I can’t say I fully trust Papà right now either.

“Let him,” Malachi snaps, turning a corner toward the main altar. “The ink will dry by then.”

When we step inside, the air smells like old wood, candle wax, and cold stone. The light is coming in through the high, narrow windows, casting shadows across the aisle. I spot Malachi’s brothers and Riley standing near the altar, their eyes shifting toward us the second we walk in.

Levi, gives me a compassionate look as he stares at my torn gown, the blood on my face, and the dark grease on my shoulder, but he doesn't say a word. He just nods once, stepping back to stand by the side wall.

Near the front steps of the altar, an elderly priest in white robes is pacing back and forth.

“No Father Thomas?” I ask, looking up at Malachi.

“No,” Malachi says, helping me up the three steps toward the wooden railing, his gaze fixed on my face, and his thumb rubbing the side of my hand. “Father Stephen is doing the service now.”

The priest looks at Malachi, then at me, before he speaks. “Mr. Kavanagh... this is highly irregular. A sacred sacrament cannot be forced, nor can it be rushed without the proper family preparations. The bride’s father⁠—”

“The bride’s father isn't standing here,” Malachi cuts him off, his tone sharp enough to stop the priest mid-sentence. “Everyone who needs to attend this ceremony is already in this room. All you have to do is do your job and everyone will be happy.”

The priest looks down at his book, then looks back up at the empty aisle stretching behind us toward the main doors.

“Who is giving this woman to be married?” He asks, his low voice too loud in the quiet room. “Who presents the bride?”

I open my mouth to speak, but Malachi’s hand tightens around mine.

He steps forward, turning his body so he faces the priest directly, his shadow falling over the small altar.

“No one gives her away,” Malachi says, his voice low and absolute. “No man presents her. She belongs to no one outside these walls, and she walked up those steps to me of her own accord.”

The priest pauses, his eyes dropping to the blood on my face, the ripped fabric around my ribs, and the clear signs of the car wreck still visible on my body. He shakes his head slightly, taking a small step back from the rail.

“Son,” Father Stephen says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Look at her. She has clearly just survived a violent traumatic event. I cannot, in good conscience, perform a binding holy union if the bride is in shock or being coerced while under distress⁠—”

“Do not insult my bride,” Malachi leans over the railing, his eyes narrowing into as he stares down the old man. “She walked out of a crushed car and told me to bring her here. You will address her with respect, or I will find another man who can read Latin.”

“I’m in my right mind and no one is forcing me to do anything, but I appreciate your concern,” I step up next to Malachi, placing my hand flat against his dark suit jacket, feeling the hard line of his chest beneath the fabric. “I am making this choice, Father. You can perform the ceremony.”

The priest looks at me, studying my face. He might see the blood on my skin, but he can also sees the absolute lack of fear in my eyes. A sigh escapes him but he nods slowly.

“Very well,” Father Stephen says.

He steps back up to the wooden railing, clears his throat, and begins reading the Latin prayers.