Chapter Sixteen: Tangled Beginnings
The door to Adrian's bedroom closed with a soft, final click, sealing us into a world that was suddenly, terrifyingly, completely our own. The grandeur of the Madden estate, the echoes of the day's seismic revelations, all fell away. Here, there was only the hushed quiet of the lamplit room, the vast canopy bed, and the frantic beat of my own heart.
I stood just inside the doorway, feeling more like a nervous guest than a wife. The borrowed silk robe I wore over my simple nightdress felt alien against my skin. Adrian leaned against the footboard of the bed, having shed his suit jacket and tie. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and he watched me with an expression that was both tender and intensely focused.
"You can breathe, you know," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet. "The walls won't judge."
I managed a shaky exhale. "It's not the walls I'm worried about."
He pushed off the bed and took the few steps that separated us. He didn't touch me, just stood close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the clean scent of his skin. "What are you worried about?"
"Everything." The word was a confession. "This room. That bed. What comes next. The wedding your father is already planning. The newspapers. My mother's face when she sees me in a white dress she didn't help choose."
He reached out then, his fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw. "Forget all of that. For tonight. Tonight, it's just this room. Just this." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Just us."
He took my hand and led me not to the bed, but to the deep bay window seat, strewn with velvet cushions. He sat, pulling me down beside him. The city glittered below us, a carpet of diamonds laid out at our feet. The enormity of the day seemed to shrink to the space between our bodies.
"What kind of wedding do you want?" he asked, his head tilted against the glass as he looked at me.
The question surprised me. "I thought your father was planning a state function."
"He's planning a party. I'm asking about a wedding. Our wedding. Tell me."
I leaned my head back, imagining. "Not in a cathedral. Somewhere… with trees. Old, strong trees. And light filtering through the leaves, dappling everything. Late afternoon, so the light is golden."
"Like today was," he murmured.
"Yes. And music. Not an orchestra. Something simpler. A cello, maybe. Something that feels like a heartbeat."
"I'll find the best cellist in the country," he vowed, his fingers lacing with mine.
"And flowers," I continued, emboldened by the dream taking shape. "Wildflowers. Not perfect roses. Lupines and daisies and things that look like they grew there by chance."
"A secret garden," he said, smiling. "For my secret wife."
The term, once fraught, now felt sweet. I nudged him with my shoulder. "Not so secret anymore."
"Good." He brought our joined hands to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I want everyone to see. I want to stand under those trees and promise you forever in front of the whole world, since we've already promised it in the quiet."
The future unspooled before us, painted in the soft hues of shared imagination. "And after?" I whispered.
"After, we build a library. One with ladders that roll and windows that look out onto our own trees. And a ridiculously oversized chair we can both fit in."
I laughed, the sound light and free in the hushed room. "You'd never sit still long enough to read."
"I would if you were in my lap," he countered, his eyes darkening. "I'd read you every sonnet ever written, even the bad ones."
The conversation drifted, aimless and sweet. We talked of traveling—not to famous cities, but to quiet coasts and lonely mountain towns. We talked of Christmases, of the noise and chaos we'd one day create.
"And… children?" The word left my lips softly, a fragile bubble of hope.
He grew still, his gaze traveling over my face as if seeing a new, wondrous dimension. "Someday," he said, his voice thick. "A little girl with your serious eyes who takes the world apart to see how it works. And a boy with more of your heart than my sense, who'll need us to teach him how to guard it."
"Or the other way around," I said, tears pricking my eyes at the beauty of the thought.
"Or both," he agreed. "A whole houseful of little chaos-makers who know they are loved down to their bones. Who are brave because their mother is the bravest person I know."
The poetic promises wove a cocoon around us, a future built not on grandeur, but on whispered dreams and the solid feel of his hand in mine.
Eventually, the talking faded into a comfortable silence. The practicalities of the night returned, but the sharp edges of anxiety had been softened.
"I should…" I gestured vaguely toward the bed.
He stood, offering me his hand. "Come on, shy bride."
The vast bed seemed less intimidating with him beside it. He turned down the covers, a simple, domestic gesture that made my throat tight. I shed the silk robe, letting it pool on the floor, and slid between the cool, high-thread-count sheets in my plain cotton nightdress. He moved around the room, turning off lamps, until only a single small light on his side of the bed remained. I heard the soft rustle of clothes, the click of a belt, and then the bed dipped as he slid in beside me.
We lay on our sides, facing each other, noses almost touching in the dim light. The mischief was back in his eyes, but it was tempered with a reverence that stole my breath.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," I breathed back.
His hand came up, not in a rush of passion, but with infinite slowness. He traced the arch of my eyebrow, the curve of my cheek, the line of my jaw. His touch was a cartographer, mapping a territory that was now his to explore for a lifetime. I shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of the sensation.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough. "It hurts to look at you sometimes."
My own hand lifted, trembling, to touch his face. I traced the fading bruise on his jaw, the strong line of it, the softness of his lower lip. "So are you."
He caught my fingers, pressing a kiss to each one. Then he leaned in, and his lips met mine.
It was not the frantic, sealing kiss from the courthouse. This was different. This was a slow, deep exploration. A conversation without words. A promise being remembered and renewed with every soft sigh, every shift of lips, every tender stroke of his tongue against mine. It was a kiss that said I have all the time in the world to learn you. It was a kiss that felt like coming home.
One kiss bled into another, and another, a slow, sweet unraveling. His hands, always so sure, were gentle as they learned the landscape of me through the thin cotton. My own shyness began to melt, not in a blaze, but in a gradual thaw, replaced by a curious, aching need. My touches grew bolder, learning the planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his back, the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
The night unfolded not as a conquest, but as a mutual discovery. There were whispered questions—"Is this alright?"—and breathless assurances—"Yes, please." There was laughter when limbs tangled awkwardly, and gasped sighs when they found their perfect fit. There was a moment of piercing sweetness, a union that felt less like a collision and more like a fusion, two separate melodies weaving into a single, harmonious chord.
After, wrapped in a tangle of sheets and each other, damp skin cooling in the night air, he pulled me tightly against him. My head rested on his chest, listening to the strong, steady rhythm of his heart slowly returning to normal. His lips were in my hair.
"My wife," he whispered into the dark, the words filled with a awe that made fresh tears slip from my closed eyes.
"My husband," I whispered back, the title a perfect, golden key that unlocked a chamber in my soul I never knew was closed.
Outside, the city slept. The world with its plans and scandals and expectations waited. But in that room, in that tangled, tender knot of new marriage, we had built our first, unassailable fortress. It was built on poetic promises, shared laughter, and the silent, profound language of a first night spent not as a shy bride and a mischievous husband, but simply as Adrian and Arisha. Beginning.