She hides behind it, just like the bouquet of white lilies clasped before her, which she clings to as if her life depends on it.
Her father isn’t here to walk her down the aisle. When I asked, she said she had no family to invite.
Whether that means they’re all dead or just estranged, I didn’t ask, but it’s one of the many details about her past I want to find out once I’ve broken down her guard.
Without a male guardian to hand her off, Anika walks down the aisle alone, her steps slow and deliberate, her shoulders back and chin high in a look of regal defiance.
She might hate me for killing her husband, for taking her as my wife without her consent.
She could have a hundred reasons not to want me, but I’m confident she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She steps up to the altar, handing off her bouquet before turning to face me, and I can’t take it a second longer.
Reaching forward, I lift her veil, folding it back so I can see her face. Again, I’m struck by her beauty, captivated by her sky-blue gaze framed with impossibly long lashes.
She’s wearing makeup today, and it completely masks the purple bruise on her cheek that’s started to fade to a mottled yellow-green.
Without the ugly reminder of how my family came bursting into her life, I’m able to fully focus on just how perfect her high cheekbones are, the soft line of her jaw that tapers to a stubborn chin.
Her full lips have been painted a deep dusky rose, and when they part slightly, revealing a glimpse of the small gap between her two front teeth, I nearly come undone.
If we weren’t standing in front of a roomful of guests, I might have stolen a kiss—because I’ve never wanted to know a woman’s lips like I do hers.
“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to witness the union between Michelangelo Chiaroscuro and Anika Novikov…” the priest begins, his words coming to me as if from far away.
I’m too focused on taking in the perfection before me to pay much attention to him.
I picked a fairly generic ceremony script, one that shouldn’t take too long to get through, because it won’t mean much to me, and based on how little she wants this wedding, I doubt Anika cares.
Before I know it, the priest is asking me if I take Anika to be my lawfully wedded wife.
“I do,” I state, my voice husky from disuse.
“And do you, Anika Novikov, take Michelangelo Chiaroscuro to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows, and for the first time, my gut clenches with the possibility that she might refuse to go through with it. The ramifications that would come from it.
“I do,” she breathes, her eyes shimmering with unshed moisture that tears at my heart.
“Do you have the rings?” the priest asks, looking pointedly in my direction.
Fishing into my pocket, I pull out a simple platinum band for me and a solitaire emerald-cut diamond ring for Anika before taking her hand.
For the first time, I notice the gold band she still wears on her left ring finger—her wedding band from Pyotr.
A flash of white-hot jealousy rips through me unexpectedly, and I smirk as I slide the ring off her finger and toss it over my shoulder.
“You won’t be needing that one any longer,” I state, drawing a chuckle from the guests watching. Then I slide the emerald-cut diamond onto her finger in its place.
Anika’s pulse jumps in her throat, and she swallows visibly as she looks down at the new ring on her hand.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” I say, echoing the priest’s archaic words.
Then I extend my hand so Anika can take my wedding band.
Her delicate fingers brush my palm as she plucks the ring from my grasp, and even that light touch sends electricity crackling across my skin.
Heat climbs up my arm as she takes my left hand and slides the ring onto my finger.
