“Not really.” I shake my head. “But we can head inside and drink.”
“I’ll have to pass,” he says, already glancing toward the door. “I have an urgent commitment.”
I frown. “Didn’t you just say you came to New York because of my wedding?”
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish grin sliding into place. “Yeah, well…there’s that.”
“Fuck you, man.”
Lukin, who’s been silent this whole time, finally speaks. “This commitment—wouldn’t happen to be a blonde bombshell in a red dress, would it?”
Dimitri freezes. “How’d you know?”
“She’s out of the car,” Lukin says, eyes glinting. “Walking this way. My men just fed me the intel. Why didn’t you bring your guest in? Why leave her in the car?”
“Shit.” Dimitri runs a hand through his hair and laughs. “Why would I bring my current flavor around family? I have a reputation to protect.” He starts backing away, winking at us. “Anyway, see you soon, my brothers. Since you’re all married, one of us has to stay out here and make sure the ladies don’t get lonely.”
He disappears down the corridor before any of us can reply.
We all laugh again.
I’ve actually missed the bastard.
Chapter 11 – Elara
I sit alone on the edge of the bed inoursuite—though the word tastes foreign, wrong, in my mouth. My wedding dress still clings to me, heavy with lace and heat, and my heart feels torn somewhere between fury and exhaustion.
Luka had insisted I come here after the wedding, saying it was the “tradition” and that Roman would expect it. I’d wanted to argue, but something about Luka’s tone made it clear that arguing wouldn’t change a damn thing. So now I’m here, sitting like a doll waiting for the scene to play out.
Vivian left a few hours ago for a hotel—her flight to Paris is at dawn. She didn’t want to go, not tonight, but I made her. The others—Jennie, Sasha, Zoe, Violet—had all tried to cheer me up before leaving, each sharing a small piece of their story, their version of how they’d found something like happiness here.
I’d smiled. I’d even laughed once or twice. But I didn’t see myself in their stories.
I don’t see myself ever submitting to Roman Rusnak, or feeling anything remotely tender for him.
I don’t like him.
That’s it.
The clock ticks somewhere in the corner, steady and merciless, and the longer I sit, the more my chest tightens. Every creak of the floorboards outside makes me jolt, wondering if he’s coming. Wondering what he’ll do.
The night feels endless—and I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of his footsteps approaching…or of how much I expect them to.
I tell myself I won’t let him touch me.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
He might have forced a ring on my finger, but he won’t claim my body just because he can. I swear it over and over again in my head, like a prayer—or maybe a curse.
Then the door opens.
I freeze.
Roman steps inside, silent, steady, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat. The sight of him hits me like a storm—sharp, dark, controlled. He doesn’t say a word at first, just studies me from across the room, his gaze burning with something I can’t name.
Then he moves.
