She's halfway down the aisle when I see it. A subtle shift in the dress's structure, like something has come undone. Eva's steps falter slightly, and I watch in growing horror as the intricate lacework begins separating at the seams. The dozens of tiny pearl buttons Megan must have fastened so carefully are coming undone, one after another, the dress literally falling apart around her with each step she takes.
Blyat.
Shocked gasps ripple through the assembled guests. I see Megan's hand fly to her mouth, see Katya's blue eyes widen with alarm. The Moscow delegates lean forward slightly, their calculating gazes missing nothing.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, rage flooding my veins. Someone did this. Someone sabotaged Eva's dress, turned our wedding into a spectacle designed to make us look weak. My mind races through possibilities, through enemies who would dare such an insult. Abram Yakovlev? One of the other families testing my resolve? Someone inside my own organization?
But Eva's response stops my spiraling thoughts cold.
She gathers the failing fabric with one hand, her movements deliberate and controlled. Her other hand remains steady on Lev's arm. She lifts her chin, her spine straightening with that stubborn pride I both love and want to crush, and continues walking toward me. Her brown eyes meet my blue ones across the remaining distance, and what I see there makes something shift in my chest.
Determination. She won't let sabotage destroy this moment. Won't give our enemies the satisfaction of seeing her break. Won't allow humiliation to define what should be sacred.
She's magnificent.
My throat tightens with an emotion I'm not ready to name. I glance at Lev, and mysovietnik'sexpression has turned murderous. His dark eyes scan the assembled guests with predatory focus, cataloging faces, noting reactions, already calculating who's responsible and how they'll pay. But his hand remains steady on Eva's arm, his presence solid and protective as he guides her the final steps toward me.
The moment Eva reaches the altar, I move. I shrug out of my suit jacket with quick efficiency and wrap it around her shoulders, a gesture of protection that earns approving murmurs from the traditional Russians present. The jacket swallows her smaller frame, but she clutches it closed with trembling hands, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I want to pull her against me, to shield her body with mine, to hunt down whoever did this and make them pay in blood. But the Moscow delegates are watching, and I need to show strength, not the desperate protectiveness clawing at my chest.
"We proceed," I say quietly, my accent thick with barely controlled rage. "We don't let them win."
Eva nods, her jaw tight with determination. The officiant clears his throat nervously, clearly uncertain how to handle this unprecedented situation. But I gesture for him to continue, and he launches into the traditional Russian ceremony with only slight hesitation.
The crowning comes first. Heavy ornate crowns are held above our heads by Lev and Katya, symbolizing the martyrdom of marriage, the sacrifices we'll make for each other. I watch Eva's face as the prayers are spoken in Russian, see her lips move silently along with words she must have memorized. Despite everything, despite the humiliation of her ruined dress, she's honoring this moment with the respect it deserves.
My chest tightens further. I don't deserve her, this woman who's sacrificing everything to bind herself to a monster, who's carrying my heir despite knowing what I am, who's standing here with quiet dignity while her dress falls apart and enemies watch from the shadows.
The common cup comes next. We drink from the same chalice, the sweet wine symbolic of sharing life's joys and sorrows. Eva's lips touch the rim where mine just were, and even now, even with everything wrong, desire floods through me. I imagine those lips wrapped around my cock tonight, her brown eyes looking up at me as she takes me deeper. My hands grip the chalice harder than necessary, and I see Eva's gaze drop to notice, see heat flush her cheeks despite the cold November air.
She wants me too. Even angry, even humiliated, her body responds to mine with the same hunger that's been driving me insane since the moment we met.
The procession around the altar comes last. Three times we circle, Eva holding my jacket closed with one hand while her other rests in mine. Her palm is warm against my skin, her fingers trembling slightly, and I squeeze gently, trying to communicate what I can't say aloud.I've got you. I'll protect you. I'll destroy whoever did this.
The officiant pronounces us married, and I'm allowed to kiss my bride. I cup Eva's face with both hands, my thumbs tracing her cheekbones, and claim her mouth with a hunger I don't bother hiding. She gasps against my lips, her hands fisting in my shirt, and for a moment the world narrows to just us. Just this woman who's now my wife, bound to me permanently by law and tradition and the child growing in her belly.
When I finally pull back, Eva's lips are swollen, her brown eyes dark with desire. The guests applaud, but I barely hear them. All I see is my wife, wearing my jacket, looking at me like I'm some kind of hero. Why? Because I draped my jacket around her?
The reception proceeds with forced normalcy. We cut the elaborate cake, pose for photographs, and accept congratulations from guests who pretend not to notice Eva's ruined dress beneath my jacket. But tension crackles through the air like electricity before a storm. Everyone can feel it. The Moscow delegates watch with calculating eyes, noting every detail, every crack in the façade.
I keep Eva close, my hand possessive on her waist, my body positioned between her and potential threats. She's trembling slightly despite the warmth of the reception hall, and I want to carry her upstairs, strip away the ruined dress, and remind her exactly whom she belongs to now. But duty demands I play the gracious host, accepting toasts and well-wishes while rage simmers beneath my controlled exterior.
Lev appears at my elbow, his expression grim. "We need to talk."
I nod and guide Eva through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances that follow us. Katya intercepts us near the doorway, her blue eyes bright with concern.
"I'll handle the guests," she says quietly. "Go. Figure out who did this."
My study feels like a sanctuary after the forced smiles of the reception. I settle Eva on the leather couch, and she finally releases my jacket, letting it fall open to reveal the full extent of the damage. The dress is destroyed, lacework separated completely down her spine, buttons scattered God knows where. She should look defeated. Instead, she looks furious.
"Who did this?" Her voice shakes with rage rather than tears. "Who would sabotage a wedding dress?"
Before I can answer, the door opens. Lev enters with Irina at his side, and mysovietnik'sexpression is colder than I've ever seen it. Irina's polished façade is cracking at the edges, her green eyes darting between us with something that looks like panic.
"Sit," Lev orders, his voice flat and dangerous.
