I don't have a good answer. I've never been married, never wanted to be. Marriage in the Bratva is usually a business arrangement, a way to cement alliances and produce heirs. But it’s a binding arrangement. But looking at Alina now, I know this is already something different. Something more complicated.
"Go rest," I tell her. "I'll come get you when it's time."
She hesitates, then nods and leaves. I watch her go, then turn back to the window and pull out my phone from my pocket.
I make a few calls, coordinating security, making sure the estate is locked down tight. Then I go to my bedroom and pull out the ring I had made years ago. It's a heavy gold band with the Morozov crest engraved on it, meant for the woman who would one day be my wife. I never thought I'd actually use it.
The metal is warm in my palm as I turn it over, studying the intricate design. Once I put this on Alina's finger, there's no going back. She'll be mine in every way that matters in our world.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels right.
I shower and change into a dark suit, then go to get Alina. I find her curled up on the bed, still wearing the black dress, her red hair spread across the pillow. She looks so young, so vulnerable. But I know better now. I've seen the steel underneath.
"Alina." I touch her shoulder gently. "It's time."
She wakes immediately, no grogginess or confusion. Her eyes are clear and alert as she sits up. "Katya?"
"Alexei is bringing her now. She'll be here before the ceremony ends."
Relief floods her face, and she nods. "Okay. I'm ready."
"There's a dress in the closet. White, simple. It should fit."
She looks at me with surprise. "You had a wedding dress ready?"
"I had my housekeeper pick up a few things while you were resting. Just in case."
Just in case she said yes. Just in case I could convince her that this was the best option for both of us. Just in case I could make her mine.
Alina goes to the closet and emerges a few minutes later wearing a simple white dress that falls to her knees. It's nothing like the elaborate gown she wore to marry Sergei, but somehow, it's more beautiful. More real.
She's left her hair down, the red curls wild and untamed around her face. No makeup, no jewelry except for the panic button pendant I gave her, which she's still wearing. She looks like herself, not some dressed-up doll.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, and I mean it.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. "Thank you."
We walk downstairs together, and I'm acutely aware of her hand in mine. Small and delicate, but with a grip that's surprisingly strong. We enter my study, where two of my most trusted men are waiting. The priest stands before my desk, his vestments simple but traditional.
His eyes widen when he sees Alina, and I see him taking in the bruise on her cheek, the bandages on her wrists, the exhaustion in her face. But he's smart enough not to comment.
"Shall we begin?" he asks.
I nod, and Alina and I take our positions before him. There are no flowers, no music, no guests filling the pews. Just us, a handful of witnesses, and the weight of tradition.
The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, the ancient words flowing over us. I've heard these vows before at dozens ofweddings, but they've never meant anything to me. Now, speaking them to Alina, they feel heavy with significance.
"Dimitri and Alina, servants of God, do you take each other as husband and wife? Do you promise to love, honor, and keep one another, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, forsaking all others, and remain faithful as long as you both shall live?"
"I do." My voice is steady, certain.
Alina hesitates for just a moment, and I see the war playing out behind her green eyes. Fear and determination, doubt and resolve. Then she lifts her chin and meets my gaze.
"I do."
I pull out the ring, and Alina's eyes widen when she sees it. The gold catches the light from the desk lamp, the Morozov crest gleaming.
"With this ring, I thee wed." I slide it onto her finger, and it fits perfectly. She stares at it, at the weight of it, at what it represents.
