“Your love for Alexi, and his for you is almost palpable,” she smiles, touching my cheek. “It’s like capturing lightning in a jar, what you two have.”
Blinking furiously, I try to keep the tears away, there’s no time to re-do my makeup. “I wishOtetswas here.”
She hums for a moment, her vision growing distant. “I believe he is. Now, go to your husband.”
Nikolai is still waiting patiently in the hallway, straightening with a smile when he sees me. “Now this is the wedding that should have been,” he says approvingly, offering his arm to me.
“Thank you for saving Alexi. For everything you did,” I say, trying to avoid getting all weepy and emotional. “You are the best brother anyone could have.”
“Eh,” he shrugs, walking me down the hall, “I’m an ordinary man with an unsatisfactory golf handicap and a shoulder that still aches like a bastard after Dr. Turgenev dug a bullet out of it.”
That does the trick, drying my eyes and making me laugh all the way to the massive wood and iron doors, the last thing to stand between me and the man I’ve loved forever.
All the things that seemed so ugly and profane in the last ceremony take on the beauty now that I’d always hoped for; the candles, the crowns, the binding of the bridal cloth.
As the Bishop asks, “Are you marrying of your own free will, having not promised yourselves to another?” I answer him soquickly that I cut off the last part of his question. There’s a ripple of laughter through the audience, it's kind, though. These people know what we’ve endured to be together.
The music soars up to the gloriously gilded ceiling, there’s so much light here, so many grins and even the Bishop is fighting a smile, trying to keep his regal demeanor. But I smile. I laugh. I can’t help it.
Alexi is magnificent in his black tux, fitting perfectly over his massive shoulders. The scar on his face has faded, giving him a rakish look that suits him, and when he looks down at me, his polar eyes have warmed to a cerulean blue.
When he leans down, I know he’s going to attempt to be gentle with me, careful. I rise on my toes to meet him, our first kiss as husband and wife is awkward, lips bumping against each other, laughing and joyful.
This man is mine. The Angel of Death has given me life.
Alexi…
“How much longer?” I ask, gritting my teeth and nodding at yet another fucking toast.
“Now brother,” Nikolai says, “you’re Russian. What part of this surprises you? Your best bet is to let them keep toasting your happy union until they’re too drunk to notice you and Lucya slipping away.”
Glancing over at Lucya, I see the same restlessness and desperation in her eyes. We’re holding our reception on the grounds of the Turgenev estate, and it is beautiful, lights strung through the trees to remind my wife of our rooftop at home,the scent of lavender and azaleas. Lucya’s mother had suggested roses and my wife violently shook her head.
“No, I can’t smell roses and peonies again,” she nearly gagged. “Not for a long time.” There are still scars my wife carries from when she believed I was dead. I can be patient.
It doesn’t take long for our guests to notice that Lucya is drinking sparkling water, and meaningful smiles are shared with us.
“Your guests have been asking if there is another reason congratulations might be in order,” Damien says. “What should I tell them?”
“Tell them to fuck off,” I say pleasantly. We are not subtle, I know this. Her hand rests protectively on her abdomen more than I think she’s aware, and I can’t help but press my palm there too, even though I know it’s too early to feel anything. But we want some time for us before the rest of the world knows.
Nikolai finally takes pity on us. “Friends, honored guests, it is time for the happy couple to leave, preferably before Alexi stabs me.” There’s a ripple of laughter through the crowd, though they do know that is a real possibility. He turns to us with a smile, raising his glass. “The kiss makes the bitter drink sweet,” he says,“Gorko!”
“Gorko!”our guests shout, and I kiss my wife until she’s weak in the knees and I’m holding her upright.
“Time to go, wife,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers.
“Yes, please.” Her eyes are beautiful, translucent, and glowing with happiness.
When Lucya and I drove off in a Bentley that my idiot brothers insisted on decorating with streamers, they thought I was taking my bride to our hunting lodge by Lake Ladoga.
“Where are we going?” she asked as we pass the highway leading to the lake.
“I’m certain that Nikolai and Damien ‘decorated’ the lodge,” I say dryly. “If drunk or foolish enough, they might even chance a surprise visit. Because stabbing my brothers would put a damper on our honeymoon, leaving the country seems the wisest choice.”
She’s trying to smother her laughter. “I feel very guilty laughing when you’re talking about murdering your poor brothers.”
“Oh, they’ve both done enough to deserve it,” I assure her. “I’m taking you to the Turgenev yacht, which I ordered to be docked in Naples. Even those two assholes can’t track us in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
