All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(113)

Wren had strutted around their fucking house like a goddamn peacock, spouting absolute bullshit the whole time and tearing off her shirt at every conceivable opportunity.

He’d never admit it, but damn. She could have won a fucking award for that portrayal.

She understood him. And because she did, for his wedding gift, she’d written him a story on AO3, featuring the two of them as her OTP.

Well, officially Cupid and Robin, but they both knew better.

The story was perfect. Better than anything she could have bought, because really, what the fuck did he need other than her love?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“One more question, and then we’ll get to the reader’s poll, which ends …” Vika nodded to her assistant, who tapped her cell screen. “Now. They’ve chosen the final topic of the interview, and even I haven’t seen the results. It’ll be a surprise to all of us.”

Huh. That seemed … potentially problematic, since some people were total assholes.

“Alex …” Vika’s brow furrowed. “You’ve had a tumultuous past year.”

If she hadn’t asked a question like this, he would have been surprised. Happy, but surprised. He had his answer ready, once she was done talking.

She ticked off the events on her fingers. “There was an arrest. An attempted attack on the red carpet. An altercation with a fan. Professional censure and lost roles. A hit new show. A surprise wedding.”

“There was also love.” He stroked Lauren’s tensing neck. “You left that out.”

“I did.” The blogger inclined her head. “That said, given some of the less-positive events that occurred, do you have any regrets?”

Of course he did. Over the last year, he’d inconvenienced and scared and hurt so many people he loved. And although he’d forgiven himself for not walking away, he couldn’t exactly applaud his decision to keep playing Cupid in that terrible final season.

But his regrets were his own, and they were his to keep. And if they’d brought him to Wren, he’d bear their weight gladly.

So he told his first lie of the entire interview. “Nope. No regrets.”

Vika’s sharp glance revealed her skepticism, but she didn’t push. She likely knew there was no point, not unless she wanted the interview to end prematurely.

And it wasn’t a total falsehood, really. When it came to his arrest, he still had zero regrets. None. The people who mattered either knew exactly what had happened or understood he wouldn’t have thrown punches without a damn good reason.

Everyone else could go fuck themselves.

“Okay.” Vika gave a tiny shrug and let it go. “Time for our final question, formulated and selected by my readers.”

Her assistant handed over the cell phone. Vika’s lips moved slightly as she read the poll results, and she frowned.

There was a long pause.

“I’ll be honest.” The blogger sighed. “I don’t love the question.”

Wren’s thigh against his didn’t twitch. Her shoulder under his palm remained loose. Her eyes were clear and curious and unafraid.

“Whatever your readers asked will be fine.” The steady confidence in Wren’s voice couldn’t be faked, and he decided to trust it. To trust her ability to weather whatever was about to happen. “Go ahead, Vika.”

“What would you say to people who believe there’s no way a marriage like yours, between two such different people, can possibly last?” Vika pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “I’m sorry. Please feel free not to answer.”

His skull began pounding.

He and Wren had different personalities and came from different backgrounds. Fair enough. But this question wasn’t about that, really, and everyone in the room understood its unspoken, unkind implications.

The question was a veiled swipe at how she looked. It was a prediction that their marriage would fail because the public considered him—and not her—attractive.

His face was turning hot, his breathing fast, but he bit his tongue. Hard.

Wren laid a cool, steady hand over his. “I’ll take this one, Alex.”

Please trust that I’ll advocate for myself, she’d said on those stairs months ago, his cheek cradled in her palm. Please trust me.

He took a deep breath. Another.

Then he nodded, a mute invitation for her to handle it.

After that, she didn’t hesitate.

“Please excuse my profanity, Vika,” she said calmly, “but in the immortal words of my husband: Those people can go fuck themselves.”

Vika gasped, and his mouth dropped open for a moment too, because—Wren, of all people? Wren had invited untold thousands of people to fuck themselves?

And then, jubilant, he tugged his wife into his arms and squeezed her tight and laughed in her ear. Loudly. Unkind observers might even have called it a cackle.

When he pulled back and raised his hand for a high five, she returned it.

“Big Harpy Energy!” he shouted, and it echoed through their home. “Big Harpy Goddamn Energy, Wren!”

She inclined her head. “The Crone Arts student has become the Crone Arts master.”

Her smile was serene and proud, and he loved her so fucking much, the sheer volume and force of it should have split him wide open.