He doesn’t wipe the rim.
My lips touch the exact place Roman’s were a second ago. Warm metal. Red wine.Him.
My stomach flips again. Between the incense and the tight dress and the taste of him on the rim, I’m dangerously close to either throwing up or fainting. Neither seems like a strong start to my career as a Bratva wife.
I take a small sip. It sticks in my throat. I force it down.
Mishka is on the plane. Think of Mishka.
Then Father Alexei lifts an icon from the altar. Christ Pantocrator, all serious eyes and gold halo.
“Kiss the icon,” he says. “Seal your union before God.”
My body locks.
My grandmother used to say icons were windows to Heaven. You kiss one, you’re kissing God Himself.
I am not dragging God into this mess.
My mouth goes dry. The incense smells stronger. The lights seem dimmer around the edges. My heart bangs so hard under Roman’s ring I’m surprised everyone in the chapel can’t see it.
I don’t move.
“Child,” the priest tries again softly. “You must—”
“No.”
The word drops out of me before I decide to say it.
Roman’s hand tightens around mine. Vadim straightens up from his lean against the pillar. Somewhere behind me, a candle crackles.
Father Alexei blinks. “Anya—”
“No.” My voice is clearer now. Stronger. “I’m not going to kiss that and pretend this is holy. It isn’t.”
Roman shifts beside me. He steps away half a pace, making space.
Of course he wants to watch what I do. The chemist is reacting unexpectedly.
I lift my hands to the crown.
The pins yank my hair when I drag it off. Pain spikes across my scalp, and I welcome it. Real pain is better than this numb, floating panic. The crown comes free, and I drop it.
It hits the marble with a loud metallic crash and rolls a little, the ribbon trailing behind it like a bleeding vein.
Vadim laughs. “Bozhe moy.She’s got teeth.”
I turn to Roman.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sick, but I keep my chin up. “You’re not marrying me,” I say, and my voice comes out steady, which feels like a miracle. “You’re buying me. You threatened my brother. That’s not God. That’s business. I’ll sign your papers. I’ll wear your ring. I’ll do what I have to do to keep Mishka safe. But I am not going to kiss that icon and act like any of this is a blessing.”
The words echo around the chapel.
Roman stares at me.
For a second, I brace for it—the rage, the cold violence, the reminder of who holds the power here. This is his house. His chapel. His family.
He crouches, picks up the crown I dropped, and dusts off the rim with his thumb.
