But we are not the only ones who fear that Misha may already be lost to his grief.
The church is filled with my brother’s most trusted lieutenants, and I see it clearly stamped across their faces, their quiet fear that theirPakhanwill lose his edge now that his queen has perished.
They waste time calculating what this loss might mean for their own power, for their own gains, while all I want…all I need…is for Misha to look at us.
Look at us.
And at Nadya.
Our beautiful Nadya.
My baby niece.
Elena gave her life to bring her into this world… and yet Misha hasn’t held her for more than a few minutes since she was born. His grief has swallowed him whole, leaving no room for anything else.
But he is not the only one who lost Elena.
Nadya lost her mother, too.
She will grow up without her warmth, without her melodic voice, without her gentle touch. And by the looks of it… she may grow up without her father too.
I don’t even realize that I’m crying until Stella reaches up and discreetly wipes the tears from my face, careful not to let Misha’s men see weakness in any of us Petrovs.
I turn to face her and the sorrow in her eyes nearly breaks me all over again. But I don’t look away. Because she is here. My woman is here. My soul is right here. Alive and breathing. Andbecause Stella is at my side, I haven’t completely surrendered to my own grief.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, low enough that no one else can hear.
I take her hand in mine and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, the small touch breathing life back into me.
“Yes,” I murmur, placing her hand over my chest as if to prove my heart is still beating.
She gives me a sad smile and rests her head against my shoulder, her gaze drifting toward the coffin at the front of the church. When Stella shudders at the sight of Elena lying there, pale and serene in her white shroud like an angel already chosen by God, I draw her closer and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
I hate this fucking tradition.
I told Sasha as much when he organized the funeral. I told him we should seal the coffin immediately and be done with it.
But Sasha ended the argument with two sentences I could never refute.
“Let him say goodbye. Don’t take Elena from him just yet.”
But she was already gone.
Staring at her lifeless body won’t bring her back.
When the priest tells us we may now pay our final respects, not a single one of us moves. This is the part where each of Elena’s loved ones is expected to approach the coffin so we can kiss her temple or the small medallion resting on her chest.
Yet another horrid tradition.
But today, I finally understand its purpose.
Because it’s the only thing that stirs my brother into some form of action.
Misha slowly rises from his pew, and the scrape of wood against stone tears through the silence as he walks toward the coffin. He leans over his wife and whispers something only Elenawas ever meant to hear. Words meant for the dead… or for a man already half-buried beside her.
Then he presses a soft, trembling kiss to her lips.
The Orthodox Church forbids kissing the lips of the departed. Yet today, no one stands up to object.
