"No. I won't marry you." She straightens her shoulders, lifting her chin. "I'll take my chances on my own. I'll figure something out. But I won't trade one prison for another."
Frustration flares hot in my chest. "You're making a mistake."
"Maybe." She moves closer, and I catch the scent of jasmine from her hair. "But it's my mistake to make. You say you want to protect me, that you saved my life. But how do I know that's true?" Her eyes narrow. "How do I know you weren't the one who ordered the hit?"
7
ALINA
The accusation hangs in the air between us like smoke from the burning church. Dimitri's face goes completely still, his green eyes turning to ice. For a heartbeat, I'm certain I've made a fatal mistake. My pulse hammers in my throat as I watch his jaw clench, a muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble.
"You think I orchestrated the hit." His voice is dangerously quiet. "You think I murdered my own nephew."
I force myself to hold his gaze, even though every instinct screams at me to look away. To apologize. To take it back. "I don't know what to think. I don't know you. All I know is that you pulled me out of that church while people were dying, and now I'm locked in your house like a prisoner."
"For your protection."
"So you keep saying." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to stop the trembling that's threatening to take over my body. "But how do I know that's true? How do I know you're not the one I need protection from?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then, without a word, he turns and walks to the door. My stomach drops. He's leaving. He's going to lock me in here, and I'll never know the truth, never understand what's really happening.
But he doesn't leave. Instead, he opens the door and speaks to someone in the hallway. I hear a man's voice respond in Russian, and then Dimitri closes the door again. He moves to the small desk in the corner and pulls out a laptop I hadn't noticed before.
"Come here," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitate, then move closer. He opens the laptop and pulls up what looks like security footage. Multiple camera angles, all timestamped from earlier today. From the wedding.
"Watch," he commands, stepping aside so I can see the screen clearly.
I lean forward, my breath catching as I recognize the interior of the church. The footage shows the ceremony from several different angles. I can see myself standing at the altar. See Sergei beside me, and Dimitri standing as best man. The priest's mouth moves silently as he conducts the ceremony.
Dimitri reaches past me to adjust the playback, and I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with gunpowder and smoke. My body responds involuntarily, a shiver running down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
"Here," he says, pointing at the screen. "Watch my face when the first shot rings out."
I force myself to focus on the footage. The camera angle shows Dimitri in profile, his attention on the priest. Then the window shatters. I watch his head snap toward the sound, watch his eyeswiden in genuine surprise. His hand immediately goes to his jacket, reaching for a weapon, but he's already moving toward me. Toward where I'm standing frozen at the altar.
"I didn't know," he says quietly. "I was as surprised as everyone else."
He switches to another camera angle, this one showing the balcony where some of the shooters were positioned. I watch as men in dark clothing open fire, their movements coordinated and professional. Then the footage switches again, showing Dimitri's men returning fire, trying to protect the guests. I see them fall, one by one. Good men, dying to protect people they might not even know.
My throat tightens. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry they died."
"Anton had a wife and daughter in Moscow." Dimitri's voice is flat, emotionless, but I hear the grief underneath. "Yuri was getting married next month. Pavel was twenty-three years old."
He closes the laptop and turns to face me. In the dim light of the bedroom, his features are all sharp angles and shadows. But his eyes hold something I haven't seen before. Something that looks almost human.
"Sergei was my nephew," he continues, moving closer. "My brother died when Sergei was twelve. I raised him. Taught him everything I know. He was supposed to take over the family one day, after I was gone."
"I didn't know." The words feel inadequate.
"How could you?" He's standing close now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You didn't want tomarry him. I saw that at the altar, the way you held yourself like you were walking to your execution."
Heat floods my cheeks. "It wasn't personal. I just wanted to choose my own life."
"And now you're here, with me, and you still don't have a choice." His hand comes up, and I flinch instinctively. But he doesn't strike me. Instead, his fingers brush my cheek with surprising gentleness. "I don't expect you to trust me, Alina. Trust is earned, and I haven't earned yours yet. But I need you to understand the stakes."
"Sergei's dead."
