Ren stood in the center of the newly renovated Grand Ballroom, surrounded by swaths of midnight-blue silk and samples of gold-pressed invitations. He was holding a clipboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Behind him—so close that Ren could feel the heat radiating through his shirt—was Vane.
Vane wasn't helping. Vane was, in fact, being a nuisance. The man who once ruled with a glance had spent the last forty-eight hours attached to Ren's hip. His hand was currently resting firmly on the small of Ren's back, his thumb tracing slow, distracting circles against the fabric.
"Vane, I'm trying to decide between the white lilies and the black calla lilies," Ren said, not looking back. "Move your hand, you're making me lose my train of thought."
"The black ones," Vane rumbled, his voice vibrating against Ren's shoulder. He didn't move his hand. Instead, he leaned down, his nose brushing against the silver thorn in Ren's ear. "They match your eyes when you're annoyed with me. And no. I like my hand where it is."
Ren rolled his eyes, a spark of newfound sass lighting up his face. Ever since the hospital, the power dynamic had shifted. Ren knew he was the only person on earth who could tell Vane Blackwood to shut up and live to tell the tale.
"If you don't let me go, the flowers will be dead before they're even ordered," Ren snapped playfully, turning in Vane's arms. He pressed the clipboard against Vane's chest to create some space. "And stop following me into the kitchen. The chef almost had a heart attack when you growled at him for touching my shoulder to show me the cake samples."
Vane's eyes narrowed, his possessive streak flashing for a second. "He touched you for three seconds longer than was necessary for a culinary demonstration."
"He was pointing at a macaron, Vane! You're being ridiculous."
"I am being thorough," Vane corrected, his hands sliding from Ren's waist to his hips, pulling him flush against him. "I almost lost you. I am entitled to a certain level of... proximity."
Ren sighed, but a small, triumphant smile tugged at his lips. The "Whipped Vane" was a terrifyingly adorable creature. He was still the Master of the city, still capable of dismantling a rival family by lunch, but in this ballroom, he was just a man who couldn't stand to be more than an inch away from his heart.
"You're a menace," Ren whispered, his hands coming up to rest on Vane's shoulders. "People are watching, you know. The decorators think you're going to execute them if they hang the drapes wrong."
"They should think that," Vane murmured, his gaze dropping to Ren's lips. "It ensures quality."
Vane leaned in, his kiss slow and demanding, claiming Ren's mouth right there in the middle of the ballroom. It wasn't the kiss of a tyrant; it was the kiss of a man who had finally found the one thing he couldn't put a price on.
Ren melted into him, his sass evaporating for a brief moment as he felt the steady, protective beat of Vane's heart. But then, he remembered the schedule.
Ren pulled back, tapping the clipboard against Vane's nose. "Five minutes. That's your limit for 'proximity' for the next hour. I have to meet with the jeweler, and you are not allowed to come in and intimidate him into giving us a discount. We're billionaires, Vane. Pay the man."
Vane let out a low, mock-aggrieved huff, but he finally let go, though his fingers lingered on Ren's wrist until the very last second.
"Forty-five minutes," Vane bargained, his eyes trailing Ren's every move as the younger man walked away.
"An hour!" Ren called back over his shoulder, throwing a cheeky wink. "And if I see you lurking behind the curtains, the honeymoon is being moved to a monastery!"
Vane stood in the center of the room, a rare, genuine grin breaking across his face as he watched his masterpiece take charge. He was utterly whipped, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care who knew it.
The wedding was going to be perfect.
Because if it wasn't, Vane would simply buy the sun and move it to a better angle—as long as Ren was there to see it.