You weren’t nervous.

At least, not in the traditional sense.

The dress fit like a dream, your hair was doing exactly what it was supposed to, and the venue looked like it had been pulled straight from a Pinterest board and kissed by the gods of good lighting. Everything was perfect. (©TRS0525CAI)

No—you were perfect.

The kind of perfect that made jaws drop and Griffin Cross forget how to breathe.

And you were counting on that.

Especially after the little surprise you arranged in secret two weeks ago.

It was Katya’s idea, of course. Which made sense, considering she was the queen of lingerie and loaded weaponry. "You know what men in tuxes really love, sweetheart?" she’d purred. "A little visual motivation."

So you booked the studio.

Three hours. Four outfits. One hell of a photographer.

Boudoir.

You, in black lace and white satin, stretched across vintage sheets, arched back and parted lips and that one shot of you biting your lip with Griffin’s dog tags dangling between your fingers. You’d nearly combusted when you saw the final prints. And then, like the reckless little minx you were, you’d decided not to give them to Griffin on your wedding day.

You gave them to your bridesmaids.

To deliver.

One. At. A. Time.

Natalia, Kate, and Anya had each taken a few prints to give to Griffin at very specific intervals throughout the day. A little pre-wedding night psychological warfare. Nothing too dramatic—just enough to ensure that by the time you left the reception, your fiancé would be a goddamn puddle in a tux.

Natalia struck first, while everyone was getting ready for the ceremony. Right after Griffin finished tying his tie, she strolled into the groom’s suite like she owned the place.

“Special delivery,” she said coolly, dropping a small envelope on the table beside him. “From your bride.”

Griffin’s eyes narrowed like he didn’t trust her—which, honestly, fair.

He opened the envelope slowly.

You weren’t there to witness it, but Sam swore on his life that Griffin made a noise. Something guttural. Something that made Steve spit out his mimosa.

Kate followed two hours later. Just before the ceremony started.

“Hi, Sergeant,” she chirped, her grin angelic and fake as hell. “She said to tell you this one’s called ‘Something Blue.’” She winked and handed him another envelope.

He narrowed his eyes. “Another one?”

She nodded. “Consider it… motivation.”

Griffin opened it.

His jaw dropped.

Kate shrugged and turned to leave. “Good luck saying your vows with that image burned into your brain.”

—

Griffin stood at the altar, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him from completely combusting.

Grant clapped him on the back. “You okay, Fin?”

Griffin gave him a withering look. “They’ve been handing me pictures of her all day. Does this look like the face of a man who’s okay?”

Griffin tried not to smile. He failed. “Nat’s idea?”

“Obviously.”

Then the music changed.

Heads turned. The crowd shifted. And suddenly, there was nothing, nothing, except you.

You met his eyes and smiled like you knew exactly what was going on inside his head.

Which you did.

Griffin swallowed hard. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Sam leaned in from the other side and whispered, “You good, man?”

“Nope,” Griffin whispered back. “But I’m about to be.”

When you reached him, he didn’t wait for the officiant’s cue. He reached for your hand the second it was within arm’s reach, eyes locked on yours, and when you laughed—light, beautiful, totally aware of your power over him—he looked completely gone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“You’re evil,” he whispered back, voice low and raw.

—

The ceremony was a beautiful blur. Then it was Anya's turn. And she had saved the best for last. She didn’t even try to be subtle. She just tossed hers onto his lap in the middle of the reception dinner and said, “You’re welcome.”

By that point, Griffin looked like a man in crisis.

(TRS-May2025-CAI)