Page 31 of Sinful Pride
That’s what I assume I said. Fortunately, my brain turned back on for Abaddon’s response. After the wedding, each time I let my mind drift, I inevitably returned to those words—an impassioned speech from my calm, cold lover—and I often found myself sporting a silly smile on my face.
“Aurelius, you have changed me. I had always thought myself a stone in the river, large enough to never be moved. But you have flowed me with your care, your curiosity, your smiles, your happiness, and I found myself accepting the embrace of the flowing river of your ever-changing presence. It was a sip of water that allowed me to not only exist, not only endure, but live again. Aurelius, I promise to live my life to the fullest with you, forever.”
We cemented our reunion with words of confirmation, with beautiful rings, with a long stripe of ceremonial cloth winding around our hands. We shared a tender kiss after Abaddon lifted my veil. We twined our arms with each other to drink tea. The mix of various traditions was more relatable to the angels and demons who weren’t raised in only one culture and I thrived having an option to say yes to life with Abaddon again and again, in so many ways. But truly, it was the vows that were the most important part for me, and everything that followed was only an afterthought. Even when Abaddon placed that softest of kisses on my lips, it was just a bookmark to save the page, a promise suspended in time until we could be alone to fulfill all of our desires.
But before we could consummate the marriage in our wedding bed (and no, I did not want to follow the tradition of having a witness there, or to have a group of jeering people escort me to be deflowered), we needed to bring the celebrations to a conclusion first. The next hour was a whirlwind of well-wishes. Only people of Abaddon’s rank could give us gifts, as my lover decided it would be unprofessional to expect gifts from people who worked for him. But even without a ton of offerings I was so happy I could burst. Finally, I put a ring on it and no one was going to go after my man! Well, they could try, but now I had a legit excuse to go apeshit on anyone that put moves on Abaddon. Everything was just perfect.
That is until a few hours later when the cake had been wheeled in. It was a monstrosity of decadence, a product of hours spent testing every manner and debating the presentation of this culinary marvel. It came out magnificently, a true work of art. I couldn’t wait to taste it! I beamed at Abaddon as we held the handle of the knife together to cut the first slice. Perfect. Everything was so perfect.
Then the towering cake wobbled, as a group of unruly guests rammed into the table.
It fell onto me, and I was too shocked to move away. I blinked. Then blinked again. Someone’s ‘oh shit’ carried loudly through the sudden silence. I had cake on my face. On my beautiful wedding clothes. Sure, I was planning to change into something less cumbersome and better for dancing as the night progressed, but there was cake on my wedding clothes. A bundle of what looked like five demons—no, scratch that, there were at least two angels in the mix—lay on the floor and stared at me with wide eyes.
I had a knife in my right hand. I had cake in my left hand. I needed to throw something and Abaddon was holding my right hand in place. So, I threw what I could.
The cake sketched an arc in the air and smacked straight into a surprised angel’s face.
The ensuing epic food fight would be, in the end, what went down into the annals of history. It wasn’t quite what I wanted my wedding to be remembered by, but oh well. Any press is good press, as they say. At least I made sure nobody would forget my wedding for a long time.
“Did you see the look on Hellion’s face when Zachariel caught the bouquet?” I snickered, remembering the look of horror on my friend’s face and his insistence he and Zachariel were absolutely not going to be the next to marry.
“I admit, his expression was quite entertaining,” Abaddon agreed with me as we made our way out of the teleportation chamber at the Shadowcrest Manor.
Ah, finally free from the spectacle, just the echoing, silent Manor around us.
I leaned against my husband (husband!) as we walked to our bedroom. I didn’t care if it was my room or Abaddon’s; I just wanted to share space with him every night, every hour of the day, to be as close as possible, and then a few orders of magnitude closer.
I looked at a particularly ugly sculpture of a cherub we just passed and realized something.
“Wait, our rooms are the other way.”
“That’s because we aren’t going there. Not yet.”
I blinked up at my lover but allowed myself to be steered forward. The trouble was, I was pretty exhausted, not only physically, but mentally, and I didn’t know if I even had enough strength left to consummate our marriage with the vigor the experience deserved… and here Abaddon was dragging us somewhere, instead of running straight to bed with me. Suspicious.
My eyebrows climbed high on my forehead when we came outside and I saw the walls filled with paintings. As I was frowning at the frescos, Abaddon left my side and returned before I even noticed. He carried paints and brushes with him.
“Abaddon, honey, I know this is important to you, and I will forever cherish giving our marriage space on your wall of memories… but maybe you could paint that tomorrow,” I offered.
Abaddon swallowed, as if he had any reason to be nervous with me, when I accepted him so completely.
“I’m not going to paint. You are.”
I stared at the paints and brushes Abaddon pushed in my direction, uncomprehending.
“What?” I said very intelligently. “Wait, no, you cannot mean… This is your wall!” I gestured wildly, doing a 180 from a lethargic exhaustion into a frenzy. “You paint here. It’s your memories. You’re the artist. It’s your art. It’s… it’s you,” I said helplessly.
“And now you become a part of me.”
A gentle hand guided a paintbrush between my frozen fingers.
“I want to fill this section together with you. We don’t need to decorate the entire wall this instant, but I want you to put on the first stroke right now.”
I clutched at the paintbrush, my knuckles going white.
“But what if I ruin it? I’m better at sketching, not painting. Something like this needs to be planned. What if I make a wobbly line? A smear? The wall isn’t as forgiving as paper! There’s no undo button like on my tablet!”
“There are no mistakes, only happy accidents,” Abaddon quoted with a straight face, and the tension suddenly discharged from me, like electricity passing into the earth. The thought of my husband watching Bob Ross painting his happy little trees and taking his advice to heart made me giggle.