The sound booms around the stone walls and bounces back at me. The building might just well announce I’m here for my own execution.
The place smells like old incense and candle wax and cold stone. The saints on the walls stare down with gold halos and flat eyes that say,You walked in here on your own, sweetie. You’re on your own now.
My heels click on the marble. The dress is heavy as hell, layers of silk wrapping around my ankles, so I have to kick the skirt out of the way to move forward.
Kick. Step. Kick. Step.The dress is trying to trip me.
Galina keeps a tight grip on my elbow. Without her, I would fold. Her hand is small but strong, dragging me toward the altar whether I like it or not.
The bruises aren’t even up yet, but my knees ache.
Every step sends a reminder through the joint. Hard floor. His hand tangled in my hair. The hot rush of shame when my body reacted to him while I was on my knees.
Fantastic memory to bring into a church.
Roman stands at the front beside the priest. The top button opens at his throat. It should make him look softer. It doesn’t.
He isn’t looking at me.
His gaze sweeps the room, doors, windows, and lands on Vadim leaning against the pillar by the exit.
When he finally looks at me, I melt like butter.
His eyes run the length of me. I swear I feel it, hot and heavy, trailing across my skin under the fabric.
My stomach drops. Lower down, my body answers to him with a heat I hate.
Stop it. He’s not hot. He’s a problem with abs.
A priest waits behind the altar rail, hands folded over a big gospel book. He looks like a real priest should look: gold and red vestments, tidy beard, kind eyes. The kind eyes falter when he looks at Roman, then at Vadim, like he’s seen this show before and already knows it ends badly.
“Anya Nikolayevna,” he says, voice warm and gentle, like this is any normal wedding. “Welcome, child. The Lord smiles upon those who enter into holy matrimony with pure hearts—”
I almost laugh.
Pure hearts. Right. Mine is currently ninety percent hatred and ten percent panic. Roman’s has probably been soaked in blood since he was twelve. If God is smiling at this, He is sick.
Roman steps forward and holds out his hand.
I stare at it.
Long fingers. Big palm. Knuckles marked with faint scars and the edges of that tattoo that crawls up his wrist. Hands that can break things.
I put my hand in his anyway.
His skin is warm. His fingers close around mine, firmly. He turns my wrist so the inside faces up, exposing the thin blue veins under my skin. His thumb settles on my pulse.
My heart rate spikes under his touch. Great. Now he knows exactly how freaked out I am.
Behind us, Vadim commands. “Nachnite.” Begin.
The priest starts the prayers. Old Church Slavonic rolls over my head, words I only half remember from childhood liturgies. It should be comforting. It isn’t. The sound makes the hair on my arms stand up; it sounds like old bargains.
Roman doesn’t look at the icons or the priest.
He keeps scanning the room. His thumb stays on my pulse. Every heartbeat makes me want to rip my hand free.
You’re doing this for Mishka, I remind myself.You can stand here and let the Wolf hold your hand for twenty minutes if it means your brother gets on that plane.
