My pulse skitters when Damian glances at me. It’s a brief fracture in time, a quick, assessing look that feels like a hand pressed to the center of my sternum, anchoring me.
It’s over in the blink of an eye, replaced again by the mask of the Velvet Blade.
Flashbulbs burst like stars dying.
Questions fly like arrows. Damian fields them with effortless deflection, steering the narrative with the precision of a man accustomed to controlling every variable. I speak when needed.
I stand tall when watching eyes grow invasive, smiling strategically. Calculated warmth, the kind meant to disarm without revealing anything real.
Behind my ribs, my heart beats a different rhythm entirely.
By the time we step off the stage, applause follows us like the echo of a verdict. Cameras linger, trying to catch one more angle, one more glance, one more unscripted moment between the infamous Ignatovs.
Damian’s hand touches the small of my back as we exit the hall, a guide more than a claim, a gesture so subtle that to the cameras it would appear merely courteous.
I can’t stop myself from thinking that this is his way of telling me:You’re not alone in this.
It’s a warning alike:Don’t stray.
Sera steals me away to a strictly guarded room in the far corner of the venue. Damian follows behind me, and Mikhail falls in step with us as well. The guard nods once at Sera as he pushes open the door.
The table in front of me is set for eight, long and polished, glittering with crystal glasses and silver accents. White candles burn slow and steady down the center like a procession of illuminated soldiers. The scent of roasted herbs drifts from the assortment of meat spread in front of me. Soft classical music threads through the air.
Iosif is already there, seated like a ghost carved of intention and quiet menace. His posture is impeccable, his gaze unreadable. Iris sits beside him serenely, her delicate hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression is calm, but her eyes flicker with understanding.
I make a mental note to ask Iris about what exactly connects her to the European Ignatov.
“I’m proud of you,” Sera whispers against my cheek, her arms wrapping around me.
The words catch me off guard. Pride is a currency I haven’t earned much of in my life. It hits deeper than I expect.
She pulls back, eyes sparkling. “Truly.”
Then she moves to Damian, cupping his jaw with a mother’s tenderness he pretends he doesn’t lean into.
Mikhail stands behind her, a looming shadow in tailored charcoal. He nods to us. He’s respectful, but not entirely at ease. His caution is palpable, a predator aware that the forest has grown too quiet.
“Congratulations,” he says. The word rings heavy, layered. “May peace last longer than it usually does.”
Damian’s lips twitch, a hint of wry acknowledgment.
“We can hope.”
Hope. A fragile concept in a room where every person knows peace is a commodity with an expiration date.
Sera lifts her glass once everyone is seated.
“To the newlyweds,” she says.
Her voice is soft, but strong enough to command the room’s attention. The delicate notes of sincerity thread through the air.
Damian glances at me, then raises his glass. His knuckles brush mine when we clink. The contact is fleeting, barely more than a whisper of warmth. It steals all my attention just the same.
“To new alliances,” Mikhail adds, watching us with the steady gaze of a man who has buried more truths than most people ever uncover.
“To unity,” Iris murmurs.
Iosif says nothing. His silence is its own kind of toast.
