He Waited She Wilted (Ottilie and Yorath) novel Chapter 267

Only then did she turn to the priest and say, "I do."

The priest then turned to Yorath. "Groom, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, do you take Ottilie Sewell to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Yorath replied instantly.

"Please exchange the rings," the priest instructed.

Jevon stepped forward with the velvet tray.

Yorath took Ottilie's ring and slid it onto her ring finger.

It was custom-made and fit flawlessly.

Unsure if it was designed with a locking mechanism like the one on her middle finger, Ottilie instinctively tried to pull it off.

Yorath caught her hand, his smile perfectly in place. "Tilly, it's your turn to put my ring on."

She had already managed to slide the ring up to her knuckle.

She was relieved to confirm it could, in fact, be removed.

She slid it back into place, picked up his ring from the tray, and slipped it onto his finger.

Yorath stared at her hand for a long moment. He didn't even wait for the priest to announce that he could kiss the bride.

He just leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

Knowing how easily embarrassed she was, he kept it chaste.

It was brief and light, yet incredibly tender.

Marcella wiped a tear from her eye and stood up to clap.

The rest of the congregation followed suit.

It was the simplest wedding imaginable. Not a single person in the room genuinely wished them well, but everyone played their part flawlessly.

Once the ceremony was over, they got back into the car. Ottilie remained completely silent.

A moment later, Yorath leaned closer, the faint, dark scent of his cologne filling the space between them.

Ottilie turned her head to look at him. He offered her a small smile before slowly resting his head against her shoulder.

"Tilly."

Ottilie didn't move, nor did she look down at him.

His warm breath brushed against her neck, sending an irritating, indescribable flutter across her skin.

"Tilly."

She wanted to grab him by the collar, throw him out of the moving car, and let him die on the pavement.

By the time she snapped out of it, her hands were already fist-deep in his shirt. "Yorath, don't you dare try these manipulative tricks on me. You mean absolutely nothing to me."

She shoved him away. His heavily built frame went limp, like a puppet with its strings cut, slumping heavily against her shoulder.

Ottilie took a few ragged breaths before slamming her fists against the privacy divider, screaming at the driver, "Get to the hospital! His wound tore open!"

The luxury car was practically soundproof; the driver couldn't hear a word.

But the violent banging caught his attention.

He quickly lowered the divider from the front console.

The second it dropped, he heard her screaming.

He slammed his foot on the gas and tore down the road toward the hospital.

Because of the sudden acceleration, Yorath slid off the seat and collapsed into Ottilie's lap.

His head rested against her thighs.

Ottilie scrambled to catch him as he continued to slip downward. She pressed two fingers to his wrist to check his pulse—there was nothing.