“A Russian wedding tradition,” he explains. “TheSviata Chasha. The shared cup. It symbolizes our shared future. We drink from it to acknowledge that we will share all of life’s joys and sorrows together. Usually, the couple would drink from it three times during the ceremony. Even though we are not so traditional—we still need something to mark this occasion.”
Cold silver presses against my palm. I raise the heavy cup, locking eyes with him over the rim. The wine is rich, dry, coating my tongue like velvet. I hand it back. He rotates the cup, finding the exact spot my lips touched, and drinks. His gaze never wavers. The strange intimacy binding us tighter than the ink drying on the marriage license.
The cup clinks against the wood as he sets it aside and places a delicate crystal flute in my hand.
“Another tradition. After the first toast, the couple smashes their glasses. The more shards, the more years of happiness you’ll have together.”
His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, but the air between us brims with electricity. This is real. No more rehearsals. No more negotiations.
We stand before the cold, dark hearth.
“Ready?”
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
We sip from our glasses and then throw them. The stone hearth and explode—a sharp, violent crash like a thousand tiny bells. Crystal fragments scatter across the dark stone, a field of fallen stars.
The silence rushing back in is louder than the crash. “Looks like we’re in for a long life together,”
Igor says softly.Closely.Crowding the space between us.
“Igor.” The whisper scrapes my throat. A plea.
Large, warm palms cup my face. Thumbs stroke the sensitive skin of my cheekbones, tracing the bone structure as if memorizing it.
“I promised myself I’d give you time. But I’m not a patient man,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice transferring to my skin. “And my patience has limits. Will you make me wait, Aria?”
Am I ready? To give him everything?
A cyclone twists my gut, his gravity is stronger. Anchoring me. The only way out is through.
I lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. Our last kiss—the inferno it stirred—floods my veins. He calls me young, but I know what I want. I knowwhoI want. He fought this for months; my battle was just as fierce. Now that he’s within my reach. I refuse to turn away.
“No, you won’t have to wait.”
The restraint in his eyes snaps.
His hands claim my waist through silk and lace, burning through the fabric. "Then let’s get you out of this," he murmurs.
Okay. Oh, boy. I glance at the lamps. “The lights… should we turn them off?”
“No. I want to see you. Every inch of your body. See it. Claim it. Own it.”
Gentle pressure on my hips guides me around. Knuckles graze my bare back, leaving trails of fire as he deals with the delicate buttons guarding my spine. One by one, they give way. The heavy silk bodice loosens, sighing as it slides down, pooling around my feet in a cloud.
The cool air hits my skin. I shiver, standing in nothing but the lingerie Galina insisted upon last week.
“I can’t wear this, Galina,” I’d protested, cheeks burning as I held up the scraps of sheer black lace. “It’s... too much.”
Galina had just winked. “Nonsense. And besides, I imagine you won’t be wearing it for long.”
She was right.
I face him again. He freezes. His eyes devour the black lace against my pale skin, the garters snapping against my thighs, the sheer cups doing nothing to conceal my flushed breasts.
A muscle tics in his jaw. He looks at me like I am a prize he killed for.
"Beautiful," he grunts. "Krasotka."
