Her eyes widened as she took in the extent of my battered face.
I told her the truth when she reached me. “You look stunning.”
She whispered, “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
Her gaze stayed on my face until I reassured her a second time. “I’m good. Sorry I was late.”
The priest cleared his throat, obviously ready to start the service.
It wasn’t strictlya Russian Orthodox wedding. Mila had added her own Western influence, but the ceremony was as long and as boring as most weddings I’d attended, an endless playlist of songs, psalms, prayers and blessings with wine.
As I stood in the cold chapel, my body started to ache. After getting jumped, Grisha had forced me to get checked out by his doctor. Luckily I hadn’t fractured any ribs, and the knife wound in my shoulder was surface at best. It had required three stitches, but it could have been a lot worse. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off and my body was starting to stiffen up, I felt every punch and kick.
I groaned slightly when we were asked to kneel on the mats in front of the steps and I caught Mila looking up at me with concern.
We weren’t required to speak at all during the ceremony, but we did sign our certificates, witnessed by the guests.
“Congratulations,” the priest said quietly, shaking our hands.
Mila busied herself with her bouquet, and didn’t meet my gaze.
We were ushered directly into a waiting car for the short drive over to Grisha’s house for the reception. The wind had picked up, and it blew cold, whipping Mila’s veil around her face. I had to help her stuff her billowing skirt into the car.
We sat together in the back seat, and for the first time we were alone.
She looked over at me. “Are we married?”
It hurt to smile, but I did it anyway. “Yes, I believe we are.”
She looked critically at my face. “Did Grisha do this to you?”
That caught me off guard. “No.”
She looked down at her hands. “I thought maybe you had tried to escape.”
“I got mugged.”
Her head swung back up. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“So Grisha didn’t have anything to do with this?”
It shouldn’t have been funny that she thought her uncle needed violence to get me to the church, but for some reason I was amused. “I fought to get to our wedding. Not the other way around.”
She lifted her chin but didn’t respond. I realized then that my delay had cost her something, even though I wasn’t sure what. And for once, I did something I rarely did. I apologized.
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”
She looked out the window, but my words relaxed something in her slight shoulders, as if she was letting out some tension. “It’s not your fault.”
When we got backto the house, the wedding planner ushered us to the library so they could do our wedding photos.
While they got set up, I joked lightly to Mila, “Will you even want photos to remember this day?”
Her entire body stiffened. “Would it be okay if I got a photo of me wearing my mom’s dress while my hair and makeup are done?”
