And they're both watching me like I'm the only person in this room.
The realization makes my pulse stutter, heat unfurling low in my spine.
Alexei walks me down the aisle with steady confidence, his hand warm over mine where it rests on his arm. The distance feels infinite and too short at once. Each step brings me closer to the altar, to Maksim, to the moment this stops being theoretical and becomes binding.
When we reach the officiant, Alexei leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.
"You're beautiful,kotyonok," he murmurs against my skin.
Then he's gone, taking his place behind Zakhar, and I'm alone with Maksim.
He reaches for my hand.
His palm is warm, dry, and I feel scars beneath my fingertips. Raised lines across his knuckles, old violence written into flesh. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, pooling in my chest, between my thighs.
I should recoil. I always recoil when men touch me uninvited. It's instinct, self-preservation, the legacy of trauma I've carried since I was twelve.
But with Maksim, there's no recoil.
Just want. Clean and sharp and utterly bewildering.
The same thing happened with Alexei, I realize with sudden, terrifying clarity. He touched me, kissed my cheek, and I felt safe. Not threatened. Not violated.
Safe.
The officiant is speaking. Words about love and commitment and forever, the standard ceremony script delivered with practiced warmth. I hear them from a distance, like they're meant for someone else's wedding.
"Victoria Ainsley," the officiant says, and my name snaps me back to the present. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I clear my throat. Force the words past the tightness constricting my ribs. "I do."
"Maksim Severyn," the officiant continues, "do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Maksim's gaze holds mine, intense and unwavering. "I do."
The words feel less like ceremony and more like contract—binding, irreversible, real in ways I didn't anticipate.
"You may kiss your bride."
My pulse spikes. Sharp. Immediate.
Up until now, I've been fine with his touch. But a kiss might be too much.
Maksim leans in, his mouth hovering just above mine. Close enough that I can feel his breath, smell his cologne.
"You okay with this?" His voice is low, meant only for me.
The question cracks something open in my chest. He's asking. Actually asking. Giving me choice even in this performance.
I manage a nod.
Then Maksim is kissing me.
His lips are warm, firm, commanding in a way that should terrify me but doesn't. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, angling my face, and I let him. Let him deepen the kiss, let his tongue trace the seam of my lips until they part.
The world narrows to this. His mouth on mine, his hand on my face, the taste of him flooding my senses. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. My first real kiss with a man, and it's devastatingly perfect and absolutely not real.
But my body doesn't know that. My body responds like this matters, like this means something, heat and want and need tangling together until I can't tell them apart.
