My fingers curl into the fabric of my slacks. Could Petyr have figured it out? Could this be some twisted game? Some sick form of punishment?
No.My fears are mine alone. I never shared them with anyone, and as powerful as Petyr Gubarev is rumored to be, even he can’t possibly read minds.
Besides, he’d just kill me if he knew.Quietly, efficiently. A bullet in the head or a blade between the ribs. That’s how it would go.
He wouldn’tmarryme.
Unless…
No. I push the thought away.
Petyr watches me from the altar, his gaze fixed and unreadable, though the slight smirk tugging at his mouth makes my stomach twist. He looks amused. Confident. Like he’s already won something, and now, he’s just watching to see how long it takes me to catch up.
For a second, I seriously consider yanking free of Ivan’s grip and bolting. Running full speed in the opposite direction, even if it means barreling straight through the flower arrangements and angering a few more koi in the process.
But Petyr’s men are stationed near every exit. Discreet, yet obvious. Pure Bratva muscle. I’d never get far.
My own powerlessness clogs my throat. I hate this. Hate being in this situation. Carried down the aisle like a lamb to the slaughter, trapped despite myself. It just makes me want toscream.
But screaming wouldn’t be a good idea. The last thing I need right now is to draw even more attention to myself. All it takes is one person recognizing me, one person remembering the girl who vanished twelve years ago.
So I do the only thing I can.
I keep walking.
Maybe if I go along with it, get it over with as quickly and quietly as possible, I can find a way out later.I clutch that slim hope with all I’ve got.I’ll disappear again. Start over. Just like before.
He called me Samantha Banks. The name from my fake ID. How legal can this marriage even be?
I catch Jemma in the crowd. She’s standing near the back, wide-eyed with horror. She must have figured out from the look on my face how badly I donotwant this.
Her lips move around a single word:Police?
I shake my head sharply. Absolutely not. That would make everything worse. The only thing more dangerous than being trapped in a Bratva wedding is dragging law enforcement into it.
They’d never make it out alive. Neither would I.
If we want to survive this, we’ll have to play nice. All of us.
No matter how excruciating it will be.
“You’re shaking,” Petyr murmurs when we approach the altar. He leans in just enough so no one else can hear. “Cold feet, or you’re just that excited to see me?”
I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the pastor, on the polished marble beneath our feet—anywhere but that smug face.
“You’re insane,” I hiss back, lips barely moving. “You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, I know enough.”
I clench my jaw and fight the urge to punch him. It wouldn’t help my situation, but it sure would be damn satisfying. I’d go down swinging—literally.
As the pastor starts speaking, I glance around myself. Searching, desperately, for a hint of a glimpse of a way out.
But there’s none. Not right now, not with these many witnesses.
I’m an expert at running. I know better than anyone that timing is everything. And this? It’s the worst timing of all.
So I take a breath, calm myself, and do what my sister did.
