Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 63: A Terrible Wedding

I stare at the silver plate laid before me: perfect green apple slices, scrambled eggs, and a pancake with a blueberry smile. My sleep was physically good, but my nightmares were so vivid that I awoke far too early, my heart in my throat, trying to blink away the afterimages seared into my brain.

It started as a dream. Daryl hovered over me, eyes hooded, his hands trailing down my sides. I closed my eyes as he leaned down to kiss me, but when I opened them again, the person sharing my bed was Negan. Daryl stood at the foot of the bed, blood steadily dripping from his bangs, half his head caved in, watching Negan have his way with me. Why? Daryl asked, words slurring. Why are you so damn naïve?

I wish it were harder to eat my breakfast, but my hunger has a mind of its own.

I've almost finished my fruit slices when someone knocks on my door. They don't wait for my response, the door flying open as Negan saunters through. He wears his classic leather jacket paired with a red scarf, Lucille perched on his shoulder. It's not much of a tuxedo, but then again, I'm not much of a bride.

"I know, I know, it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," Negan says.

I swallow my last mouthful of food and stand up. "Some rules are meant to be broken, I guess."

He chuckles. "Only some," he agrees. He gestures to the hallway, and a Saviour rushes in holding an old garment bag, slightly coated in dust. "We dug up something real special for you. Take a look."

I hesitate for a moment before I unzip the bag. Inside is a floor-length white satin slip dress, something my mother would call lingerie if it weren't for the draping hem, and I rub the thin material between my fingertips. This isn't the kind of wedding dress I would have chosen, but choice is a luxury.

"Wow," I whisper. I hope he takes it as awe. I'm more shocked that anything is still white in this world.

"Put it on. Try to look presentable. Make everyone see what they're missing," Negan says as he takes two slow steps closer to me.

He leans in as if to kiss me, and I'm reminded of my nightmare. I turn my head, keeping my eyes down. "I said I'd marry you," I say evenly, "but you also said you wouldn't touch me unless I asked."

He pinches his tongue between his teeth briefly as his eyes narrow. Then, he sighs out a laugh. "Guess I'll have to wait for the 'I do's.'"

I can't imagine him actually throwing a ceremony of any kind. It's just more ways to taunt me. Thankfully, he leaves me to get dressed, and I remind myself that I can do this. I just have to hold out a little bit longer.

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My arms feel naked. Hell, I feel naked. The dress is soft but thin, clinging to my every bump and curve, and the spaghetti straps are a flimsy way to hold the material up. I've never worn something that shows so much of my back or my front. The skirts hang just below my ankles, and immediately, my ability to run comes into question. A moment later, I figure that I can rip the damn thing the same way I ripped my other dress.

I wish I felt pretty. I wish I felt like a blushing bride, excited to be wearing a dress that I chose and marrying a man that I love. This whole thing is a sham, a show, and all it does is make me wish for a world where I could have had a ceremony with Daryl.

I twist my wedding ring around my finger, watching the emeralds and diamonds glint in the fluorescent light, and a faint smile crosses my lips. I can wish it, but the second I picture Daryl in a tux, I want to laugh. He doesn't suit churches and formal wear. He doesn't suit a lot of things about the way things used to be.

God, my parents would lose it if they saw me like this. A pregnant bride—God forbid. It's been so long since I've thought of them, but now, seeing myself in this dress, it hits me all over again that they will never get to witness any milestone I've made in this world. My dad will never walk me down the aisle. My mom won't be there to hold my hand when the time comes for me to give birth.