"Of course." I keep my voice steady despite the anxiety flooding my system. "I'm sure Roman would be happy to speak with you."
His expression suggests he knows exactly how unhappy Roman will be, but he nods with false politeness. "You're very understanding, Mrs. Sokolov. Your husband is fortunate to have such an… accommodating wife."
The way he emphasizes "accommodating" makes my skin crawl, but I maintain my composure as they turn toward the study. Roman appears in the doorway, his blue eyes immediately finding mine across the space. I see the question there, the concern, and I nod slightly to let him know I'm okay.
His expression hardens as the three men approach, his jaw tightening with barely controlled tension. But he gestures them into the study with cold politeness, and the door closes with ominous finality. The click of the lock echoes through the sudden silence, and I'm left standing in the hallway, my heart pounding with anxiety about what's happening behind that closed door.
I force myself to return to the reception, my heels clicking against the marble floors. The guests are still celebrating, the string quartet playing something classical and beautiful, but I feel disconnected from it all. My mind keeps circling back to Roman, to the Moscow delegates, to the judgment I saw in their calculating eyes.
I find Megan and Katya at a corner table, their heads bent together in animated conversation. The two women look fabulous in their elegant bridesmaid dresses. They're laughing about something, their voices bright with genuine warmth, and the sight eases some of the tension coiling in my chest.
"Eva!" Katya spots me first, her blue eyes lighting up. "Come sit. We were just comparing American and Russian wedding traditions. Did you know Megan has never tried proper Russian tea?"
"A tragedy," I say, settling into the chair beside them. Roman's jacket is still wrapped around my shoulders, and I clutch it closed, grateful for the coverage it provides.
Megan reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Are you okay? That whole thing with the dress was insane. I swear I fastened every single button perfectly."
"I know you did." I squeeze back, not wanting to explain about Irina's sabotage, about the chemical dissolver and the calculated cruelty. "It wasn't your fault."
Katya's expression darkens slightly. "Irina will pay for what she did. Roman won't let this go unpunished."
Somehow, Katya knows Irina was behind the sabotage. The certainty in her voice reminds me of whom I've married, what world I've entered. Roman is a Pakhan. Violence is his language, and retribution is expected. The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel a dark satisfaction that Irina will face consequences for trying to humiliate me on my wedding day.
We talk about safer things. Megan describes American wedding traditions, the bouquet toss and garter removal that we skipped in favor of Russian customs. Katya explains the symbolism of the crowning ceremony, how the heavy, ornate crowns represent the martyrdom of marriage, the sacrifices spouses make for each other. But my attention keeps drifting toward the study and the closed door hiding whatever judgment is being passed on my husband.
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. I smile at guests who approach with congratulations, accept their well-wishes with practiced grace, and try not to imagine the worst.
When Roman finally emerges, my heart leaps into my throat. He's been in there for over an hour, and his expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing. But I've learned to read the subtle tells he thinks he's hidden. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curl slightly at his sides. The tightness around his eyes that suggests the meeting didn't go as well as he'd hoped.
His blue eyes find me immediately across the reception hall, and something in his expression softens. He moves through the crowd with that predatory grace that always makes my breath catch, and when he reaches our table, he extends his hand.
"Dance with me,solnyshko."
The endearment makes my chest tight. I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet, and he leads me onto the dance floor. The band strikes up a traditional Russian waltz, something slow and romantic, and Roman's arm slides around my waist with possessive certainty.
We move together, and despite everything, my body responds to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness. I'm acutely aware of his hand at the small of my back, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of his jacket. The way his chest presses against mine with each turn, firm and solid and real. His cologne fills my lungs with every breath, mixing with something darker, more dangerous.
"Everything is fine with the delegates," he murmurs against my ear, his accent thick and rough. "They were satisfied with what they saw."
I want to believe him, but I feel the tension vibrating through his body, see the way his jaw tightens when he thinks I'm not looking. "Roman, what did they say?"
"Nothing that matters right now." His hand slides lower on my back, dangerously close to my ass, and heat floods through me despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "Right now, all that matters is that you're my wife. That you're wearing my jacket. That tonight, you'll finally be in my bed where you belong."
The promise in his voice sends desire straight to my core. My nipples tighten beneath the ruined dress, and I see his gaze drop to notice, his pupils dilating with hunger. Even here, even surrounded by witnesses, he looks at me like he wants to devour me.
"I've been patient," he continues, his lips brushing my ear in a way that makes me shiver. "Letting you keep your distance, giving you space to adjust. But tonight,solnyshko, I'm done being patient. Tonight, I'm going to strip away every barrier between us and remind you exactly who you belong to."
My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel wetness pooling between my legs. God, even just his words make me ache for him. "Roman…"
"I'm going to take my time with you." His hand slides up my spine, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Worship every inch of your body. Make you scream my name until you forget why you ever tried to resist me."
The waltz ends, but we stay frozen on the dance floor, our bodies pressed together, his blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. I can feel the hard length of him against my stomach, evidence of how much he wants me, and my body responds with a hunger that has nothing to do with logic.
"Take me upstairs," I whisper, surprising myself with the boldness.
Roman's expression transforms into something predatory and possessive. He doesn't bother with polite goodbyes to our guests. He simply sweeps me into his arms, carrying me through the reception hall like I weigh nothing. Guests cheer and whistle, their laughter following us as he carries me up the grand staircase.
The third floor feels different now. No longer just his space, but ours. He kicks open the master bedroom door and sets me on my feet beside the massive bed. The room is elegant and masculine, all dark wood and expensive fabrics, but I barely notice the décor. All I see is Roman, his blue eyes dark with desire as he slowly removes his jacket from my shoulders.
