Ilay's fingers close around mine immediately, warm and steady.
The priest clears his throat. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Ilay Ivanovich and Iris Miroslav. If anyone has any objection to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Silence.
Then Ilay speaks, his voice calm and dangerous. "You can speak. But it will be the last time you ever talk."
I choke back a laugh.
The priest blinks, clearly unsure how to proceed, then continues quickly. "Very well. Ilay, do you take Iris to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?"
"I do."
"And Iris, do you take Ilay to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?"
"I do."
"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you—"
Ilay doesn't wait. He pulls me to him and kisses me before the priest can finish.
"Get a room, please," Tessa calls out from behind us.
Kirill turns to glare at her. "My eyes are burning. That's our little sister you're telling him to get a room with."
Ilay breaks the kiss just long enough to smirk at them, then kisses me again, deeper this time, his hand cupping the back of my head while the other rests on my waist.
The small crowd erupts in applause and cheers.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "Mine," he whispers.
"Yours," I whisper back.
And just like that, I'm married to the most dangerous man in Russia.
Chapter 50
????
ILAY
THREE YEARS LATER
"I acknowledge my anger without letting it control me." They repeat it like sheep. "I acknowledge my anger without letting it control me." I sit in the back row with my legs spread and my arms folded across my chest.
Ruslan sits beside me on the left, Semyon on the right. Two more of my men wait by the door. The others keep glancing at us. They've been doing it since we walked in twenty minutes ago, shooting nervous little looks like they can't tell if we're here for therapy or to collect a debt.
The session leader stands at the front with her clipboard pressed to her chest. She's got graying hair pulled into a tight bun and wire-rimmed glasses that keep slipping down her nose.
"Thank you, everyone," she says softly. "Now, who would like to share their progress from this week?" A hand goes up in the front row. The man attached to it is middle-aged with a receding hairline and a cardigan drooping off his shoulders like it was made for someone twice his size. "Hi, I'm Robert."
"Hi, Robert," everyone chants back.
Everyone except me.
"So, um, I've been working on what we talked about last week," Robert continues, fidgeting with his hands, twisting his fingers together. "My neighbor parked in my spot again. And normally, I would've gone over there and slashed his tires. Or atleast banged on his door and screamed at him until he moved. But this time, I took a deep breath. I counted to ten. And then I wrote him a polite note explaining how his actions made me feel."
The therapist nods with an encouraging smile. "That's wonderful progress, Robert. And how did that make you feel afterward?"
