But she’s an ocean away. And I realize it’s unrealistic for her to fly across the world to watch me try on gowns, but the ache in my chest doesn’t care about what’s realistic.

  “Okay,” Sefina says, clapping her hands. “We’ve narrowed our choices down to four. One sleek, one romantic, one full drama, and one wild card.” She grins as though she’s presented me with a winning lottery ticket. “Let’s get this party started.”

  I nod and the stylist ushers me into the dressing room.

  The first dress is stunning. Off-the-shoulder. Lace detailing that looks like angels spun it. But as I step in front of the mirror and see it hug my frame, I already know.

  It’s not the one.

  Malie clasps her hands together with a soft smile. “You look beautiful, Magnolia. Truly. That lace is a dream.”

  Leilani lifts her phone, snapping a photo. “It’s giving romantic royalty. You could walk into any cathedral and the choir would start singing.”

  Sefina tilts her head. “It’s gorgeous but––”

  Malie finishes for her. “But it’s not lighting you up.”

  I exhale, relieved they see it, too. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not my dress.”

  The second dress is softer. Flowing chiffon. A little ethereal. I feel like I should be barefoot in a field somewhere, holding wildflowers.

  Not it either.

  Malie tilts her head. “You look lovely, lo’u afafine. Like a woodland goddess.”

  Sefina wrinkles her nose. “It’s giving flower girl at Coachella. Not bridal.”

  Leilani sighs, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re gorgeous in it, but no. This dress isn’t you. It’s too floaty. It’s trying too hard to be whimsical.”

  “Agreed.” I nod, already turning toward the fitting room again.

  I’m zipped into the third dress, a glamorous satin piece with a cathedral-length train. I stare at myself, waiting for it and… nothing. It’s beautiful––they all are––but there’s no special connection for me.

  I step out of the fitting room, smoothing the silk over my hips as the train trails behind me. The girls go quiet, and for a second, I think they’re going to say that this one is it—until I see their faces.

  Leilani is the first to speak. Her tone is soft, careful. “You are stunning in that, but I don’t know. You seem kind of sad in that dress.”

  Malie tilts her head, her eyes narrowing me. “Lo’u afafine, what’s wrong?”

  I give the safe answer. “Please don’t think I’m not happy to have you here with me. I am, very much so, but I’m missing Violet. We always planned on doing this together.”

  And while that is the truth, it’s not the whole truth.

  There’s so much more.

  It’s not just this moment without Vi. It’s the pressure of everything closing in from the edges—Tyson and the way last night spiraled out of control. The hatred in Alex’s eyes when he shoved him—furious, unhinged, protective in a way that scared me. And the worst part? Knowing next time, it won’t stop with a shove. At some point, Alex’s rage is going to boil over. And when that happens, he’ll do more than push him.

  This day should be joy and lace and champagne, but Tyson is a cloud raining all over my dress-shopping parade.

  In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. And I’m mad at myself for not being able to forget what he did last night.

  I step back into the dressing room, another gown waiting on the hook—a soft tulle number with delicate beading across the bodice. It’s the dress you dream about when you’re twelve and playing bride with a lace curtain veil.

  But right now? It looks like more fabric I won’t connect with.

  I slip it on anyway, because that’s what you do.

  You try again.

  You keep smiling.

  You pretend the knot in your stomach isn’t there.

  When I step out, Malie is waiting for me—not with her usual warm smile but with that mother’s intuition look that sees straight through the act.

  She steps in close, smoothing down one side of the dress before meeting my eyes in the mirror. “None of these are the one, are they?”

  I let out a half laugh. “Guess I’m just picky.”

  She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t buy it. “No, baby. This isn’t about tulle or lace or missing Violet. What’s going on?”

  I hold her gaze for a long second, then breathe out, deciding to tell her.

  I sit on the little velvet bench at the edge of the dressing platform, the layers of tulle spilling around me, a frothy mess I can’t climb out of.

  Malie kneels beside me, her hand gentle over mine. She waits, not pressing, and somehow, that opens the dam.

  “It happened again last night at the party Kye and Krishna were having at their house.”

  Her brows pull together, soft but sharp. “What happened again?”

  “Tyson McRae. He waited until I was alone. Cornered me. Told me everything he always does—that he still loves me, that I’m making a mistake, that Alex isn’t right for me.”

  I draw in a shaky breath. “He grabbed me. Not hard. And not to hurt me but to stop me from walking away. Alex saw it, and you can imagine how well that went.”

  “Oh, lo’u afafine. It’s no wonder you aren’t in the mood for this today.”

  “Alex was able to hold himself back, but I watched every muscle in his body tense, a bomb ready to explode. I was so scared of what Alex might do. He’s so on edge and his breaking point is coming soon.” I look up and meet her eyes. “I couldn’t live with it if he lost control—to protect me—and it cost him everything.”

  I don’t say the words, but we both know what I mean.

  Elias told us everything about what happened in the States. We knew Tyson would be back, and we’ve all been bracing for his next move.”

  “I don’t want to burden anyone with this.”

  I’m not only scared of Tyson. I fear what this fight between them could turn into.

  Malie shakes her head. “Magnolia, protecting you isn’t a burden. And neither is protecting the man you love.”

  Her words strike a chord deep inside me. “How do I protect Alex?”

  Malie sits up a little straighter. Her tone doesn’t change. Not even a twitch of emotion. Just a cool, composed statement. “Kick Tyson in the dick,” she says with absolute calm.

  I stare at her. Blink once. Then twice. “I’m sorry—what?”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “You heard me. Kick him in the dick every time he approaches you. No hesitation. No apology. Even a man who fancies himself in love will fall out very fast if that woman keeps aiming for his balls.”

  There’s a second of dead silence. Then Leilani gasps. “That may be the best advice you’ve ever given, Tinā.”

  Sefina nearly spits out her champagne. “Honestly? Iconic, Tinā.”

  I burst into laughter, the kind that tumbles out messy and startled, a little rough around the edges. “Kick him in the dick?” I echo, wiping at the corner of my eye.

  “Hard as you can,” Malie says, nodding as if this is now official family policy. “No warning. No build-up. Just take the shot and walk away when he goes down. Let him know you’re not playing around.”

  We all lose it. The whole boutique fills with the sound of women laughing—not the soft, bridal giggles you’re supposed to hear in this kind of place. This is full-throated, real-deal cackling, and it’s the first time I’ve felt light in days.

  I still don’t have the dress, but I’ve got something better. Armor––in the form of the fiercest women I know.

  We don’t find the dress. Not today.

  The last gown goes back on the hanger, and the stylist gives me a sympathetic smile. But I’m not disappointed. Not really. Because I may leave empty-handed—but I’m not walking out empty-hearted.

  Malie links her arm through mine as we head toward the door, Leilani and Sefina chatting behind us about lunch plans and what style dress would better suit me. And I realize, I’m not alone in this.

  I may not have Vi beside me the way we always imagined, but I have Malie, Leilani, and Sefina––women who will straighten my crown and if needed, fix a problem named Tyson McRae with a strategically placed knee.

  He thinks I’m the same girl he chased through Charleston. Soft-spoken. Scared. Alone. But he’s in for a surprise. I’ve got backup now.

  And… a green light to aim low.

  Chapter 8

  Alex Sebring

  The music’s beat thunders through the gym—low, filthy bass and a voice that spits grit and venom. It’s a song intended to drown out excuses, the type I used to blast before game day to remind myself of who I was.

  Right now? I need the reminder.

  I drop into another round of banded squats, resistance biting around my thighs, fire igniting behind my knees. The reps aren’t pretty. My form’s far from perfect, but it’s improving. Slowly. I knew the road to who I used to be would be a long one.

  The mirror across from me doesn’t lie. I’m not where I was years ago. Not even close. But the man in the reflection? He’s coming for it. And every tremble in my quads, every stinging bead of sweat that rolls down my spine is proof. Not punishment.

  Progress.

  Not so long ago, I walked with a limp. Today, I’m stacking sets and pushing a sled as if I’ve got something to prove. Because I do.

  I press into the next push, driving forward with every ounce I’ve got left. Ankles screaming, core locked, hands white-knuckled on the bar.

  One more. Just one more.

  This isn’t only about rugby. It’s about reclaiming my body. My focus. My name.

  I drive the sled until there’s nowhere left to go—just wall and frustration. Then I drop into a crouch, hands on my thighs, chest heaving.

  I don’t hear her, not over the music or the sound of my heartbeat thundering. But she’s there when I lift my head––my sweet Magnolia––with arms folded across her chest, lips tugged into a smile.

  She’s leaning against the doorframe looking as though she’s been there a minute, watching me wreck myself for redemption. And God help me… she’s never looked more beautiful.

  Her hair’s pulled back in one of those loose knots she does when she’s not trying to impress anyone, which somehow always impresses me. There’s something different in her expression that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I grab the remote and lower the music, the thrum of bass dropping to a steady pulse behind me. My breath’s still coming hard, sweat dripping down my back.

  “How long have you been standing there?” I ask, grabbing a towel and dragging it across my face.

  “Long enough to admire the view.”

  I grin, dragging the towel over my neck and shoulders. “Hope you’re into sweaty and slightly unhinged.”

  She comes closer, watching me like I’m her prey. But I’m the one who pounces first, pulling her in and kissing her forehead, one hand brushing over her hip as I breathe her in. Cherry vanilla and clean skin. My favorite combination.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  There’s a pause. A shift. Her eyes meet mine, and something flickers there. “The doctor.”

  Everything in me stills.

  I straighten, muscles forgotten. “What’s wrong?” My voice drops an octave. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “Not that kind of doctor,” she says, cutting me off before panic can bloom.

  “Okay… what kind, then?”

  “An OB-GYN.”

  That lands like a quiet thunderclap, and my brain stumbles. “Why?”

  Her voice is soft, almost careful. “I just wanted to know where I stood. To have everything checked out, so when the time comes for a baby, I’ll know that my body is ready.”

  I stare at her, trying to process.

  “And?”

  Her mouth curves, gentle and sure. “Everything looks great. The doctor said I’m healthy. She sees nothing that would prevent me from getting pregnant. Obviously, no guarantees—but it all appears to be in good working order.”

  The floor vanishes from under me—but not from fear. From something that feels a hell of a lot like hope. “You just gave me the best news I didn’t know I wanted to hear.”

  Her words settle in my chest, a spark dropped on dry kindling.

  I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You know what this means, right?”

  She tilts her head, brow arched, a smile playing on her lips. “What?”

  “We should practice.”

  She laughs—a soft, breathy sound. “You’re sweaty.”

  I lean in, voice dropping to a rasp. “I am, but you’re not turned off by it.”

  There’s a pause. A shift in the air.

  Her eyes flick over me, slow and deliberate. “No. It’s pretty sexy, actually, seeing you this way.”

  And that’s all it takes.

  My hands are on her hips. Her mouth meets mine. The attraction between us is charged with everything unspoken—want, love, possibility.

  It’s on.

  Her eyes burn into mine, her breath catching when I slide my hands beneath her shirt. “I want to fuck you right now… in here” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

  Magnolia doesn’t answer with words—just reaches for the hem of her top and pulls it over her head, tossing it to the floor. Her skin’s warm, soft, and already flushed with anticipation.

  I kiss her hard, not polished or practiced.

  Hungry. Urgent.

  She melts into me, her arms winding around my shoulders as I walk her backward, not caring where we land. Her back bumps the mirror and she gasps, a breathless little sound that only spurs me on.

  Magnolia’s breath hitches as I press into her, one hand gripping her hip, the other cupping the back of her neck. Her eyes are wide and dark, her pupils blown. She’s already flushed—and I haven’t even touched her properly yet.

  “You’ve been insatiable lately,” she says, voice breathless as I slide my thigh between hers.

  “This is what you do to me. And then you walk in here looking this way… talking about having babies…” I lean in, my mouth against her ear. “How can you expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

  She laughs, curling her fingers around my biceps. “I wasn’t trying to tease you.”

  “You don’t even have to try,” I say, trailing kisses down her neck. “Simply breathing near me is enough to make me hard.”

  A smirk tugs at her lips. “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

  My response is a low, dangerous sound.

  One sharp tug and her pants are down around her ankles. She steps out of them without hesitation, eyes locked on mine. I hook my fingers under the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs in one swift motion. I step back just long enough to yank my shirt over my head and kick off my shorts.

  Then I’m on her again—mouth on hers, tongue sliding deep, hips pinning her to the glass. Nothing stands between us—no clothes, no space, no doubts. Just skin and truth and that one look in her eyes that destroys me every time.

  “You want to practice making a baby?” I say against her lips. “Because I do. Right here. Right now.”

  Her hands tangle in my hair and she nods, nibbling her bottom lip.

  “Say it,” I command, dragging my teeth across her jaw. “Say you want me to fuck you right here so deep you’ll still feel it when you wake up tomorrow.”

  She shudders, her voice a whisper. “I want you to fuck me right here so deep I’ll still feel it when I wake up tomorrow.”

  I slide my hands to her thighs and lift, pressing her against the mirror. Her legs wrap around my waist without hesitation, and I thrust into her in one slow, filthy stroke. She gasps, nails biting into my shoulders.

  I press my forehead to hers. “I want to put a baby in you. Not now. But soon. When you’re ready.”

  Her breath hitches.

  “I want to see you round and glowing, carrying our child. I want to watch you become a mother, the most beautiful one this world’s ever seen.”

  A desperate sound leaves her lips, and I swallow it in another kiss.

  “When the time’s right,” I say, thrusting again, slow and deep, “I’ll fill you up with so much cum you’ll feel it in your bones.”

  She’s already trembling, clinging to me.

  “Until then, we’re gonna keep practicing over and over, until your body knows mine like second nature.”

  “God, you’re obsessed.”

  “Damn right I am. I’m obsessed with seeing my baby inside you. And waking up to a little version of you—of us—running through the halls.”

  She moans, raw and wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

  Her head tips back as she comes undone in my hands—and I follow, the moment snapping white-hot between us.

  We stay pressed together, breathing hard, still tangled and shaking. And when she looks up at me, eyes glassy, lips parted, I know that this is the only practice I’ll never tire of.

  “I think about a little one with your eyes and maybe my stubbornness. Someone who’s a piece of both of us,” she says.

  I laugh—hoarse and winded. “Poor kid.”

  She smiles. “Lucky kid.”

  The pace builds, but the reverence never fades. Every touch is a promise. Every movement a vow. Her hands roam over my back, nails digging in with every thrust.

  “You’re mine,” I say against her mouth. “You were always meant to be mine.”

  Her head drops back as she gasps, her body trembling around me. “Yours,” she echoes, voice breaking. “Always.”

  The release hits us both—powerful and consuming. I hold her through it, kissing her shoulder, her temple, her lips.

  We stay that way, tangled and breathless, her forehead pressed to mine.

  Her fingers stroke my jaw. “Is the mirror still intact?”

  I laugh, forehead still against hers. “If it isn’t, it was worth it.”

  She kisses me, her smile warm and content. “That was intense.”