Then Gustav does something strange.
He presses his temple with his fingertip, tapping it once. Twice. Irritated. He winces. Just for a second.
My brow furrows.
Was that pain? Anger? Something else entirely?
He whispers under his breath, almost imperceptibly, as if trying to hide it. Whatever it is, he didn’t want anyone else to see or hear it. But then, he thumps his temple with the heel of his palm. Hard.
Before I can stop myself, I take his hand quickly and lower it.
Murmurs ripple at our peripheral, making me feel like I did something terribly wrong. It seemed like the right thing to do, though. Trying to be more subtle, I hold his hand loosely.
His eyes lift to mine. Startled or curious, I’m unsure.
“Are you alright?” I whisper.
He narrows his eyes, then nods, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. I leave my fingers resting lightly against his.
I want to ask more, but not here. Not in front of all these people.
To my surprise, Gustav then squeezes my hands. It is slight, quick, but freaking unmistakable. Affection. Relief. Something in him softens for a heartbeat.
Then the officiant hands him a ceremonial knife.
My stomach drops.
Uh...
Gustav lifts my hand and turns it palm up. His gaze locks with mine, steady and unflinching. He draws the blade across my palm. The cut is sharp, quick, shallow enough not to scar but deep enough to bleed. I gasp softly. He does not look away.
He slices his own palm next, a matching wound.
Then he fits our cuts together.
The warmth of his blood meets mine. It is unnerving and intimate, a ritual far older than me. A murmur of approval rolls through the hall, subtle but unmistakably reverent.
His voice is low and precise when he speaks, first in Russian, then just for me.
“Your blood is mine. My blood is yours.”
All of the guests say something low.
He lifts our joined hands slightly. “I will protect your life above my own, for you are the mother of our family, the bearer of our kin.”
The entire congregation chants loud and in unison: “?? ?????.”
My pulse races, their roar hitting deeper, amplifying his power.
His gaze penetrates my soul as he echoes their chant:
“?? ????? — We will.”
The officiant looks my way.
“Do you have anything to say to Gustav?”
I reply with what is on my heart.
