Only an angel could so thoroughly command my adoration.
An angel with fire in her eyes.
I fumbled, trying to get my feet under me to put more people and cement between myself and the Sanctuary club where Volkov lurked.
The dry sidewalk was slippery as glass under the soles of my shined dress shoes as I flailed, finally managing to get one knee under me. The hot night air was rough in my throat.
Dirt and pebbles abraded my palms, itching through the alcohol poisoning my head. I hauled my drunken body upward and kneeled on the cement at her feet.
Both knees, not one. I was a supplicant, and I knew it.
She was a bride, standing there on the sidewalk in her flowing stark-white dress grayed with dust, and I was a man being sold as a groom.
The connection seemed as obvious as if God and the saints had laid me at her feet.
I spread my arms out from my sides, offering myself as sacrifice.
The crowd parted as I shouted up at her lithe, unmoving form,“Marry me!”
The people around us exploded in a barrage of applause and cheers.
PART THREE
marrying the tsar
CHAPTER 15
a proposal
LEXI BYRNE
Dammit,you have got to be frickin’ kidding me.
Busking on crowded sidewalks wasn’t a risk-free way to survive in Las Vegas, and in just a few days, creepers of all kinds had accosted me, molested me, and mocked me. I didn’t care as long as I made enough money to eat that day and to occasionally sleep and shower in a bed at a cheap motel.
But no drunk had yet tried toupstage meby falling to their knees and proposing, even if he was a tall, buff, movie-star handsome drunk.
The drunk wearing a slim-fitting suit stared up at me from just beyond my voluminous skirt, his teal-blue eyes imploring likehewas the one begging for money on the street. His straight black hair fell neatly across his forehead, recently barbered, and a good cut at that.
And he sounded like he might have an English accent, or maybe the booze had an English accent.
As a living statue, I couldn’t improv and play along.
Living statues didn’t move.At all.That was the whole shtick.
So I stacked my bones and locked my muscles and stood there, immobile, while the drunk guy at my feet expounded on his proposal from his knees. “I mean it, I do. Miss, Madam, Mistress Bride, I need you to marry meright now.Let’s get married.”
He was kneeling right in front of my danged money hat, blocking it.
Dang it, I had seen a woman reaching into her purse for her wallet, but now she was watching us, her purse dangling at her side, forgotten.
Everyone was watching us side-eyed, not sure how the scene was supposed to go andnotreaching for their cash.
Geez,I’d only made maybe twenty bucks so far that night. The last thing I needed was a big ol’ distraction.
They’d probably be throwing money athimnext. From the tailoring of that suit and expensive haircut and the fact that he was the same guy who’d stepped out of the same SUV as Prince frickin’ Harry and Meghan earlier, this drunk didn’t need the dough.
I did.
