Gazing into Melita’s eyes, shining with unshed tears of joy, he sensed she didn’t care about his declaration. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, ignoring the priest’s scolding tsk. When Melita had approached, he’d sworn she was a goddess. She was every centaur’s dream bride in that gown. Hell, he’d marry her nude. Clearing his throat, he halted the growl rumbling upward. He’d have had to kill every male present should that have been the case. Almost finished. After she reciprocated the vows, he’d kiss her, toss her onto his back, and they’d disappear for the next several days. Or weeks. He grinned, unable to suppress those erotic images. He gave her hand a tight squeeze to vanquish her likely unease at being the focus of attention. Melita repeated her vows, her voice low and sultry. “The Fates have brought us together. The gods have passed favor over us. From this—” A female in the crowd screamed—a shrill cry that bespoke horror. An eagle soaring overhead dropped its burden on the ground in front of King Cheiron, then flew away.
