Then he walks to the altar and sets it down gently, together with his, beside the Virgin’s painted feet.
“She’s right,” he says. “We’re done.”
He looks at the priest, not at me. “The civil paperwork is signed. That’s what matters.”
Father Alexei swallows. His eyes dart to Vadim, who pushes off the pillar, amusement all over his face.
“The marriage is valid,” he agrees. “The icon is… optional.” His gaze slides over me like a hand I want to bite. “Though I will remember that the bride refused God.”
Yeah. I got that subtext, thanks.
Roman shifts just enough that his shoulder is between us now. If Vadim wants to reach me, he’ll have to reach around his nephew’s body first.
I hate that his shoulder feels safe.
Vadim waves a hand. “Khleb i sol’. Bring it.”
Galina appears with a round loaf of bread on embroidered cloth and a small dish of coarse salt. Her face is calm, but when our eyes meet, she gives the tiniest nod.
Spine, devushka.
She sets the tray on a small table and steps back.
Roman tears off a piece of bread. His hands are steady, veins raised on the backs, tendons flexing. He dips the bread in salt and eats it himself first, chewing slowly.
Then he rips another piece.
He dips that one too and turns to me.
But instead of putting it in my palm, he holds it up between his fingers at the level of my mouth, close enough that I could lean forward and take it with my teeth.
I just stare at him.
Of course he does this here. In a chapel. In front of a priest and his uncle and his grandmother and probably seven other armed men pretending to be part of the woodwork.
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath. “You want to hand-feed me in front of Jesus?”
His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile that never quite forms. “Traditsiya,” he says softly. Tradition. “The husband feeds the wife. Shows he can provide.”
“I can feed myself,” I say. “And I’m not a fucking pigeon.”
He keeps his hand exactly where it is. The bread is inches from my lips. His eyes are steady on mine. Grey. Hot. Focused.
“You’re stubborn,” he says. “We’ve established this. Open your mouth.”
Heat hits low and fast, and I hate my body for it. I hate the way my nipples tighten under the silk, the way my thighs tense.
I should slap his hand away, bite his fingers. Something.
Instead, because everyone is watching and I have already set myself on fire once in this chapel today, I lean in and take the bread between my teeth.
His gaze drops to my mouth as I do, and a muscle jumps in his jaw.
The bread is soft and salty. His fingers brush the corner of my lip when he lets go, just a light touch, but it sparks my skin.
I chew and swallow and try not to imagine those fingers in other places.
Vadim claps his hands once, loud and satisfied. “Prekrasno. Beautiful. The Wolf and his little chemist. A modern fairy tale.”
