More like a hostage negotiation with cupcakes,but sure.
Father Alexei mutters one last prayer that sounds half-hearted at best, then closes his book. The ceremony is done. Legally, spiritually, whatever-ly. I am Mrs. Wolf now.
Roman leans closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear.
“You made a statement today,” he says. His breath is warm against my ear. “Refusing the icon. Dropping the crown.”
“I’m not sorry. You can put me in your house. You can put your ring on my finger. You don’t get my faith.”
His eyes darken. He looks almost pleased. “Good,” he murmurs. “Faith can be broken. I’d rather have your fire.”
The words slide over my skin like a touch.
I swallow hard. “Careful,” I mutter. “You play with fire, you get burned. Basic chemistry.”
“I know,” he says. He lets his gaze drift down my body again, slow and shameless, taking in the dress, the neckline, the way the corset pushes my breasts up. Heat flares low in my belly. “I’m counting on it.”
My cheeks go hot. “You really think you’re that irresistible?”
He leans in just a fraction more, close enough that I can count every dark lash framing those stupid eyes.
“I think,” he says quietly, “that you’re smart enough to understand exactly what happens when you feed a fire that’s already lit.” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “And I can already feel you reacting.”
I want to hit him.
I want to kiss him.
I want to design something elegant and untraceable that stops his heart in his sleep.
Instead, I lift my chin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Volkov. The only thing burning right now is my hatred.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Hatred is still heat, solnyshko. Give it time. It’ll melt into something else.”
I snort. “Yeah? And when that day comes, I hope you have a fire extinguisher.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to put it out.” His voice drops even lower, dark and rough enough to shiver straight through me. “I plan to make it worse.”
He straightens, putting a polite distance between us again as Vadim steps closer to congratulate us.
My knees still ache. My ring finger throbs under the weight of the band. My stomach twists with fear for Mishka.
But under all of that, something hot and ugly takes hold.
My obsession with the day I finally take back my freedom and make the Wolf choke on his own fire.
ANYA — The Bedroom — 23:40
The handle doesn’t move.
I twist it again until pain shoots up my arm, but the lock stays firm. Every door in this palace locks from the wrong side—his side—while I stand here useless, sweating through silk like an idiot who thought she might actually get to breathe on her wedding night.
The room is too warm, too big, too…him. His cologne sits thick in the air—oud and cedar—and my pulse jumps anyway.
I back away from the door, scanning for another way out. The bed looks like a stage. Four posts, dark silk sheets, pillows arranged like it’s a showroom for “kidnapped bride chic.” The fireplace crackles. And in the corner, the saints stare down at me with flat golden eyes that say:Girl, you are so screwed.
The corset digs deeper with every breath.
Move. Do something. Don’t just stand here and hyperventilate.
