I marry a stranger.
There’s no white dress. No flowers. No friends or family standing beside me, aside from a horrified Jemma in the corner.
Just a pantsuit, a plastic nametag, and a chapel full of strangers who would kill me if they knew who I was.
Every little girl’s dream, really.
6
PETYR
The second the vows are done, I lace my fingers through hers.
It’s far from romantic. Going by the murderous look on Sima’s face, I don’t have to worry about her misunderstanding my intentions, either. She knows as well as I do what it signifies: a leash around her hand instead of her throat.
We leave the chapel hand in hand, passing rows of perplexed family and associates. Half of the Sidorovs’ guests are already gone. The rest look like they’re debating whether to follow.
Let them. I don’t give a shit. They came here expecting a political alliance, and what they got was a reminder never to mess with me. The next time someone speaks the name “Gubarev” in Boris Sidorov’s presence, I want him to fucking piss himself.
He’s lucky all I’m doing is calling off the deal. Others wouldn’t be so forgiving.
My father wouldn’t have been so forgiving.
I’m about to turn my attention to my new prize when Ivan catches up to me near the back doors of the chapel. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, voice pitched low.
“You’ll have to be more specific, Uncle.”
“You know what I’m talking about. You just married the goddamn wedding planner in front of the whole Sidorov family. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
I stop, turning to face him. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to me to let go of Sima’s hand in the process.
“Of course I fucking know what I’m doing.” I let my tone darken. “And quit speaking about my wife like she’s not here.”
I don’t know why I said that last bit. Sima seems surprised, too—a flash goes across her pretty doe eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
Ivan’s brow twitches, but he doesn’t say anything else. “For the sake of this family, I hope you’re telling the truth.” He gives a curt bow to Sima. “Ma’am.”
Then he’s striding off.
I turn back toward the reception hall. The guest exodus is continuing, much to the chagrin of the disappointed staff, reduced to setting full plates at empty places.
“You don’t need to keep holding my hand,” Sima grumbles. “I’m not gonna make a run for it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not.” Her firecracker attitude tugs at the corner of my mouth. “You’re much too smart for that.”
Then, before she can hiss out a comeback, I bring her hand to my lips.
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. I press a kiss to her knuckles anyway, slow and deliberate.
Goosebumps ripple up her arm. She tries to hide the shiver, but I feel it, somewhere under the warmth of her creamy skin and the faint whiff of dollar lotion.
It sends a hot pulse straight through me.
It’s stupid how much I want to see what else I can pull out of her. How fast I could get her trembling again, for entirely different reasons. My hunger kicks low and hard, and I have to force myself not to let it show.
“You don’t have to keep playing the role,” she mumbles after, snatching her hand away. “We get it: you own me. You don’t have to keep pissing all over your territory.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a very cynical thing to say.”
