And the entire chapel turns to stare at me.
5
SIMA
My legs stop working.
My brain, too. It’s like having a head full of mush. Not to mention whatever’s happening to my lungs, becausethis?It definitely cannot be classified as breathing.
I must have misunderstood. That’s the only possibility. Because there’s no way I heard him right, is there?
No way he wants me to be his?—
Bride. He wants you to be his bride.
We spoke for two minutes. Barely. And even then, I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Why would he call me up to the altar? Why would he want tomarryme?
Why is he doing this to me?
I start to retreat, planning to duck back out the chapel doors and make a run for it, when a hand closes around my elbow.
“Come, dear,” a man says gently.
I look up—wayup—into the weathered, craggy face of one of Petyr’s guests. Older, sharply dressed, with steel-gray hair and a scar that pulls one side of his mouth down. He reminds me of a theatre mask, those half-smiling, half-crying ones, because while the right corner of his lips twitches in sympathy, the left is hopelessly weighed down by that old, faded gash.
I recognize him on sight.
Ivan Gubarev.Petyr’s uncle. The younger brother of the latepakhan,with a prime spot in the line of succession, second only to Petyr and his comatose older brother. A man who owes the loss of nearly his whole family to mine.
Oh, God.
I amsodead.
Slowly, I let this man pry me away from the spot I’m rooted to. His grip is firm, not unkind, but it’s clear I’m not getting out of this without a scene.
And right now, I’m not sure I want to risk making one.
I take a trembling step. Then another. With every step after that, the room spins a little harder. Ivan walks with me, his stride unhurried but confident. He’s guiding me down the aisle like this is the most natural thing in the world, like I’m not a complete stranger being escorted into a Bratva marriage I never agreed to.
If it weren’t for his hand on my arm, I’m not sure I’d make it to the front at all.
I’ve been through some shit the past twelve years on the run. Homelessness, hunger, fifty shades of loss and despair. And yet I have never been sadder than on Lara’s wedding day.
I suspect the same was true for her. At least, it was at that time. By now, she’s bound to have racked up countless worse memories, but if I start thinking about that now, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
I remember helping her get ready. How pale she looked. Paler even than her princess-y white dress. Her makeup was flawless, but somehow, it still hadn’t been able to hide the sadness around her eyes.
My father’s grip on her arm had left angry red marks all the way from her elbow to her wrist. Still, she didn’t fight him. She didn’t say a word. Just walked silently down that aisle like she was headed to her execution.
I was twelve. Too young to understand everything, but old enough to recognize the look of pure misery on my sister’s face.
Old enough to know what kind of monster was waiting at the end of that aisle, too. His smile was too wide, his gaze too hungry. I’d seen that look before, from street men who didn’t care that I was a child. Or from my father’s business associates whose hands always lingered on my waist a little too long.
And from my brothers, too.
As I watched Lara walk toward that man, I promised myself I would never let it happen to me. I would never be passed off like property. Never be sold off for power.
Well, here I am.
