Before another sarcastic thought could surface, we reached him.
Luca handed me off, murmuring something in Italian. Nik took my hand and chuckled. Though it was a faint sound, it was enough to tighten my chest.
He leaned in, asking in a barely audible voice, “Ready, little lamb?”
I swallowed hard, unable to speak, and let him guide me the rest of the way.
We stood before the priest, who gave us a brief smile and began the ceremony in a calm, measured voice. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered in the presence of God and this Church to witness and bless the union of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony…”
I couldn’t focus; the priest’s words began to fade as I stared at the crucifix hanging behind the altar, wondering how I’d gotten here. What did God think of this whole thing? What would my parents have thought?
This wasn’t the wedding I’d imagined.
No engagement ring.
No bridal shower.
No flowers lining the aisle, no dress shopping with friends, no reception dinner.
Just me, him, a mafia boss looming behind me, a new friend lingering to the side, and a priest officiating in front of me.
“Do you, Nikolai Aleksandr Volkov, take this woman…”
That name—Nikolai Aleksandr Volkov—pulled me back to reality.
It hit me that it was the first time I had heard my soon-to-be husband’s full name.
Nikolai.
Not Nik.
Not Mr. Stalker.
My husband.
I loved the way it sounded.
I barely registered the moment when the priest turned to me.
“And do you, Lacey Grace Oakley, take this man—”
My lips moved before my brain did. “I do.”
Nik slipped a ring onto my finger—a platinum band set with diamonds so delicate and perfect, it looked like it had been made for me.
Aria handed me his ring, and I placed it gently onto his finger. A simple platinum band. Understated, just like him.
“By the power vested in me by the Church and by God,” the priest said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Nikolai, you may kiss your bride.”
Nik didn’t hesitate.
He stepped forward, cupped my cheeks in his palms, and kissed me.
Not roughly. Not hurriedly.
But with slow, deliberate possession. He pressed his mouth onto mine with such restraint that I found myself rising onto my toes, craving more. His fingers curled around the side of myneck, his thumb just barely brushing my jaw as if to say:I own you now.
It was the kind of kiss that threatened to deepen but didn’t—because he wanted me to ache for the rest.
