The Flame Game (Magical Romantic Comedies #12) - R.J. Blain Page 0,2
as we were related to a bunch of immortal assholes who enjoyed toying with us because they could. Three such assholes lurked in the front row, and I couldn’t tell how many of them were fucking assholes or just standard ones. Sariel, formerly known as Sylvester but forced to change his name due to our adoption of Sylvester, the gorgon whelp, lifted his hand enough so I could spot him holding three fingers up.
Damn it. The last thing I needed was three fucking assholes, also known as archangels, making a mess of the wedding. Angels, the standard assholes, were bad enough. But to have three archangels and the Devil in attendance?
I would make enough of a mess of the wedding without help, and I had a lot of help available.
The Elvis impersonator made it through the rest of the predetermined speech and informed Quinn he could kiss the bride. My husband did an excellent job of redirecting my attention to him and only him.
Somebody needed to give his tongue a hazard rating, and as he wasn’t above cheating, he enhanced his claim over my lips with a touch of his incubus influence, warning me what I’d have in store for me after the eating, the brawling, and whatever else needed to happen before we could head to our suite.
Once he finished with me, all I could manage was a whispered, “You’re pure evil.”
He grinned at me. “And now you get to stew until I get you back to our room tonight. I will be the luckiest of men.”
“Are we going to fight over which one of us is the luckiest?”
“Absolutely. But only once we’re in bed.”
Whee. “I forgot what I’m supposed to do now. You distracted me with your mouth.”
“It’s an art I’ve been cultivating with daily practice, making sure you’re incapable of even thinking once I’ve had my way with your mouth.” Quinn linked my arm with his. “Now we walk through the gauntlet of people eagerly waiting to throw things at us, as this is somehow romantic.”
“Are they flinging money at us? That would be romantic.”
Despite having mostly whispered my question, everybody laughed.
“Alas, you’re getting rose petals rather than dollar bills. You’re my bride, not a stripper.”
As I’d probably die from mortification if I even thought about stripping for anyone other than him in the privacy of our bedroom, I couldn’t blame anybody for chortling over his reply.
They knew me well, especially the feathered menace giggling a storm in the front row, who could read my mind at his whim.
I still wondered how a headless being could giggle.
“I’d be a terrible stripper,” I conceded. “I’d be trying to add layers rather than remove them.”
“You really would.” Quinn shook his head, chuckled, and had to drag me the first few steps to get me to move through the gauntlet of cops and family. As warned, we were pelted with rose petals, and because some cops had a twisted sense of humor, a few bills fluttered our way. Quinn’s grip on my arm kept me from chasing them down, but he caught one and handed it to me. “I’m sure you can figure out what to do with that later.”
Whee. If someone wanted to get my dollar, they would have to pry it from my cold, dead hands—and get through my gorgon-incubus doohickey first. As I was in no hurry to escape his clutches, I’d enjoy his hovering. When I did finally tire of his overprotective ways, I’d transform into a fire-breathing unicorn and nip him until he behaved. Or he joined me as the world’s best cindercorn stallion.
Janet and Tiffany, both of whom had been recruited as bridesmaids so I could pretend I had a somewhat normal wedding, waited until we reached the end of the gauntlet before they both offered me twenty dollar bills.
I looked my husband in the eyes while depositing the cash in my bra.
“Thank you, ladies,” Quinn said, grinning at our friends. “I very much appreciate your donation to my post-wedding activities. I’d say evening, but I suspect it’ll be closer to morning before we escape.”
Janet snickered. “The Devil told me I had to make sure you both showed up for dinner. It seems everyone went present shopping today, and you’re to accept all your gifts at the restaurant. Apparently, this will be done in an orderly fashion and in pairs so Bailey doesn’t try to bolt for the door from embarrassment. Also, you owe me, woman.”