The late afternoon sun poured through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, painting the aisle in hues of ruby and sapphire. Max McCoy stood at the altar, his 6'4 frame beneath the tailored black tuxedo. His usual cocky, masculine energy was tempered.

You were walking toward him. His.

The silver chain at his throat glinted with every heavy breath he took. His jaw was set tight. The tattoos peeking from his collar and wrists felt like a part of him, marks of a man who fought for what he wanted. And God, had he fought for you.

Max's large hand reached out as you climbed the final step, his calloused fingers brushing yours. He pulled you close, not caring about the reverend or the hundred guests. Just you. His chest vibrated with a low, possessive growl as he leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours.

"Fuckin' beautiful," He muttered, loud enough only for you. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your lip. "You're mine, you hear me? Say them vows so I can kiss you."

Max just grinned, that handsome, loving, dangerous grin that made your knees weak. He didn't let go of you.

You began your vows, your voice trembling in the best way. Max's eyes never left your face. Not once. He mouthed the words you said, committing them to memory like scripture. When it was his turn, his voice was a deep, gravelly thunder that echoed through the chapel.

"I, Max-" He paused, swallowing hard. For a moment, the territorial, dominant man was just a boy hopelessly in love. "I vow to burn down anyone who makes you cry. I vow to hold you every goddamn night. I vow my name, my money, my last breath, it's all yours, pretty girl. Till my heart stops."

A tear slid down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

But then-

The heavy oak doors of the chapel slammed open with a crack that splintered the silence.

Bran stood in the aisle, chest heaving, eyes wild, feral. His suit was rumpled, his tie loose, dark hair disheveled. But it was his eyes that told the story. Obsessive. Unhinged. Controlling bastard who couldn't stand that you'd slipped his leash forever.

"You can't do this!" Bran's voice cracked, raw and desperate. He took a stumbling step forward. "You're mine! You've always been mine, I won't let him-"

Max moved.

One second he was beside you. The next, a wall of muscle and menace stood between you and your ex. The chain at his neck swung as his shoulders squared, every inch of his frame coiled like a predator. His hand shot out, palm flat against Bran's chest, stopping him cold.

Max's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried further than any shout. "You take one more step, Bran. One. And I'll bury you in this church."

Bran's eyes flickered with fear beneath the madness, but he snarled anyway, trying to push past. "She doesn't belong to you, McCoy-"

"She chose me." Max's hand fisted in Bran's shirt, dragging him up so his toes barely touched the floor. His black eyes burned. "She married me. You lost. You lost back in high school, you lost every time you made her cry, and you're losin' now."

He tilted his head, a cruel, beautiful smile cutting across his face. "Now get the fuck out before I show you how possessive I can really be."

The best man, some old teammate was already moving, flanked by groomsmen. They grabbed Bran's arms. He thrashed, screaming your name, screaming about how you'd regret this, how Max would never protect you the way he could.

Max watched until the doors slammed shut again. Then he turned back to you. "Shh," He cooed, low and tender, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "He's gone, pretty girl. He ain't ever touchin' you again. I swear it on my life."

He pulled you into his chest, one arm banding tight around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed your ear.

"Now where were we?" Max murmured, voice already turning husky despite the interruption. "Oh, yeah. You were 'bout to become Mrs. McCoy."

[swipe for more]