The incense makes my head swim. My slip sticks to my back where sweat is gathering, and the boning in the bodice digs into my ribs.
I focus on small things. The way Roman’s cufflink catches the light. The low murmur of the priest. The soft tick of something hitting the floor behind us when Vadim flicks more candle wax.
Anything except the fact that I’m about to become Anya Volkova.
Father Alexei opens a velvet box and lifts out two simple gold rings. He blesses them, kissing each one, then holds them out.
Roman takes my left hand again. His fingers are steady, his grip warm. He slides the ring onto my finger in one smooth motion.
The gold is warm from his palm and too tight. It feels like a shackle the second it sits at the base of my finger.
I pick up his ring.
My hands shake. The band catches on his knuckle and refuses to move. For one stupid second, I stare at it, stuck halfway, and think,Even the ring doesn’t want this.
I push harder.
The metal scrapes over bone and finally snaps into place. Roman doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly; that’s it. He holds my gaze the whole time like we’re both pretending we don’t feel the weight of the thing we just did.
Father Alexei reaches for another set of props. Crowns. Gold-plated, joined by a white ribbon.
He places one carefully on Roman’s head. The sight is so absurd I almost choke. Crime lord crown. Sure. Why not. Let’s go full fairy tale from hell.
Then he puts the other one on me.
The rim presses down on my skull, heavy and cold. The ribbon between us lifts, taut, connecting us like a leash.
“Walk,” the priest says. “Three times around the altar. As husband and wife.”
Roman tightens his grip on my hand and leads.
I go.
My skirt swishes around my legs, fighting me with every step. My left knee screams when I turn.
The first circle feels like a blur. Candlelight. Icon. Priest. Roman’s shoulder, big and solid beside me.
The second time around, he moves a little faster. The ribbon snaps tight between our crowns and jerks my head forward.
I make an undignified choking noise and stumble. My free hand flies to his forearm to catch myself. His muscles are hard under the fabric, a wall of heat.
He adjusts instantly, slowing his pace. The pressure on my head eases.
By the third circle, I’m lightheaded. The crowns feel heavier, the room smaller. Roman’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, quick and almost gentle, like he’s grounding me.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the corset.
We stop in front of the altar again. My legs go soft.
Father Alexei lifts a chalice.
“Drink from the common cup,” he says. “One life, one flesh, one path.”
Sure. One shared descent into madness.
Roman drinks first. His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple sliding under skin, and I catch myself watching like an idiot. The man is a walking war crime, and my brain is over here narrating his jugular.
The priest hands me the chalice.
