“Stop.” The word came out sharper than intended. I stood up from the sofa, needing distance, needing space to breathe. “Just stop.”
He stood too, following me as I moved toward the window. “What’s wrong?”
Everything.Everythingwas wrong. But I couldn’t say that. Couldn’t explain the terror that seized my chest at the thought of binding myself legally to anyone, even him. Especially him.
“I can’t marry you.” I wrapped my arms around myself, staring out at the manicured gardens without really seeing them. “I’m the daughter of Andrew Davis. I can’t just…I can’t marryyou in some dark backroom with Bratva tattoos everywhere and a priest who has blood on his hands.”
The excuse sounded weak even to my own ears, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice.
Kirill moved closer behind me. I could feel his presence, solid and warm and entirely too tempting. “What the fuck are you saying?”
I turned to face him, forcing myself to meet those sharp blue eyes. “I’m saying we’re from different worlds, Kirill. You’re Bratva. I’m—” I gestured at the mansion around us, at the wealth and privilege that had never actually protected me from anything. “I’m this. We can’t just pretend that doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” I moved past him, back to the sofa, needing to sit before my legs gave out. “And even if it didn’t—even if we could somehow make it work—I’m not getting married like that. I won’t.”
He followed, dropping onto the ottoman across from me again. His expression was unreadable. “Like what?”
I sat up straight, gathering what little dignity I had left. “I’ve dreamed of a wedding since I was nine years old.” The admission felt childish, but I needed him to understand. “A beautiful dress. A big wedding. A giant altar. Champagne tower. An obnoxious string quartet and tons of cameras focused on me.”
His eyebrow raised. “Obnoxious?”
“Very obnoxious.” Despite everything, I almost smiled. “The kind that plays string covers of pop songs and thinks they’re being ironic.”
“Barbara….”
“I know it sounds stupid,” I cut him off before he could say whatever practical thing he was planning to say. “I know we’re talking about a shotgun wedding because I’m pregnant.I know the circumstances are far from ideal. But I’ve been dreaming about my wedding day since I was a little girl, and I won’t—” My voice cracked. “I won’t let Sebastian take that from me too.”
The silence that followed felt heavy with everything I wasn’t saying. With all the things Sebastian had already stolen from me—my sense of safety, my relationship with my father, my mother’s memory, my freedom.
I wouldn’t let him steal this too. Wouldn’t let the situation he’d created force me into a wedding I didn’t want, in a place I didn’t choose, with traditions that weren’t mine.
Even if the groom was someone I….
I stopped that thought before it could complete itself.
“Okay.” Kirill’s voice was quieter now, softer. “Then we’ll do it your way.”
I looked up, surprised. “What?”
“Your wedding. Your dress. Your obnoxious string quartet.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”
“But the Bratva….”
“Will deal with it.” He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him. “Vladimir’s old-fashioned about some things, but he’s not unreasonable. If you want a big wedding, we’ll have a big wedding.”
I shook my head, trying to make him see. “You’re not understanding. We belong to two different worlds, Kirill. Your world is—” I struggled for words. “It’s dangerous and violent and full of secrets. My world is society pages and charity galas and maintaining appearances. They don’t mix. We don’t mix.”
“Really?” His smirk was slow, dangerous, and entirely too confident. “What about when our worlds collided in bed?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “That’s not—that’s different.”
“Is it?” He stood, moving around the ottoman to sit beside me on the sofa. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, smell that cedar and smoke scent that had haunted me for weeks. “Because from where I’m sitting, our worlds collided pretty perfectly. Multiple times, if I remember correctly.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to say something cutting and clever that would put distance between us. But nothing came out. Because he was right, damn him. There was nothing more perfect in this world than being in Kirill’s arms. Nothing that had ever felt as right as the way we fit together, the way he touched me like I was precious, the way he made me forget everything except the moment we were in.
“I—” I tried again, but words failed me.
