After a lengthy speech in Spanish, Padre Diaz begins speaking to Julian. I catch a few words—something about spouse, love, protection—and then I hear Julian’s deep voice responding “Sí, quiero.”
It’s my turn next. Looking up at Julian, I meet his gaze. There is a warm smile on his lips, but his eyes tell a different story. His eyes reflect hunger and need, and underneath it all, a dark, all-consuming possessiveness.
“Sí, quiero,” I say quietly, repeating Julian’s words. Yes, I do. Yes, I want. My rudimentary Spanish is good enough to translate that at least.
Julian’s smile deepens. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out another ring—a slim, diamond-studded band that matches my engagement ring—and slides it onto my nerveless finger. Then he presses a platinum band into my palm and extends his left hand to me.
His palm is almost twice the size of mine, his fingers long and masculine. He has a man’s hands—strong and roughened with calluses. Hands that can pleasure or hurt with equal ease.
Taking a deep breath, I slide the wedding band onto Julian’s left ring finger and look up at him again, only half-listening as Padre Diaz concludes the ceremony. Staring at Julian’s beautiful features, all I can think about is that it’s done.
The man who kidnapped me is now my husband.
* * *
After the ceremony, I say goodbye to my parents, assuring them that I will speak to them again soon. My mom is crying, and my dad is wearing a stony expression that usually means he’s extremely upset.
“Mom, Dad, I promise I’ll be in contact,” I tell them, trying to hold back my own tears. “I won’t disappear on you again. Everything is going to be fine. You have nothing to worry about . . .”
“I promise she will call you very soon,” Julian adds, and after a few more tearful goodbyes, Lucas disconnects the video feed.
The next half hour is spent taking pictures all over the beautiful church. Then we change back into our regular clothes and head back to the airport.
At this point, it’s evening and I’m completely exhausted. The stress of the past couple of hours, combined with all the travel, has made me nearly comatose, and I close my eyes, leaning back against the black leather seat as the car winds its way through the dark streets of Bogotá. I don’t want to think about anything; I just want to empty my mind and relax. Shifting, I try to find a better position, one that doesn’t place too much weight on my still-tender bottom.
“Tired, baby?” Julian murmurs, placing his hand on my leg. His fingers squeeze lightly, massaging my thigh, and I force my heavy eyelids to open.
“A bit,” I admit, turning toward him. “I’m not used to this much flying—or marrying.”
He grins at me, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Well, luckily you won’t have to go through this experience again. The marrying, I mean. I can’t promise anything about the flying.”
Maybe I’m overly tired, but that strikes me as ridiculously funny for some reason. A giggle escapes my throat, first one, then another, until I’m laughing uncontrollably, all but rolling on the backseat of the car.
Julian watches me calmly, and when my laughter finally begins to quiet down, he pulls me into his lap and kisses me, claiming my mouth with a long, fierce kiss that literally steals my breath away. By the time he lets me come up for air, I can barely remember my own name, much less what I was laughing about before.
We’re both panting, our breath intermingling as we stare at each other. There’s hunger in his gaze, but there’s also something more—an almost violent longing that goes deeper than simple lust. A strange tightness squeezes my chest, and I feel like I’m falling further, losing even more of myself. “What do you want from me, Julian?” I whisper, lifting my hand to cradle the hard contours of his jaw. “What do you need?”
He doesn’t answer, but his large hand covers mine, holding it pressed against his face for a few moments. He closes his eyes, as though absorbing the sensation, and when he opens them, the moment is gone.
Shifting me off his lap, he drapes a heavy arm over my shoulders and settles me comfortably against his side. “Get some rest, my pet,” he murmurs into my hair. “We still have a ways to go before we get home.”
* * *
I fall asleep on the plane again, so I have no idea how long the flight is. Julian shakes me awake after we land, and I follow him sleepily off the plane.
Warm, humid air hits me as soon as we disembark, so thick it feels like a damp blanket. Bogotá had been much warmer than Chicago, with the temperature somewhere in the high sixties, but this . . . this feels like I stepped into a wet sauna. With my winter boots and a fleece sweater, I feel like I’m being cooked alive.
“Bogotá is at a much higher elevation,” Julian says, as though reading my mind. “Down here, it’s tierra caliente—the low-elevation hot zone.”
“Where are we?” I ask, waking up a bit more. I can hear the chirping of insects, and the smell in the air is that of lush green vegetation, of the tropics. “Which part of the country, I mean?”
“The southeast,” Julian replies, leading me toward an SUV waiting on the other side of the runway. “We’re actually right on the edge of the Amazon rainforest.”
I lift my hand to rub at the corner of my eye. I don’t know much about Colombian geography, but that sounds very remote to me. “Are we near some villages or towns?”