“I do.”
He spits the words out like they’re poison, like saying them physically hurts him. There’s so much venom in those two syllables that I actually flinch.
The judge turns to me, his face impassive as if he didn’t just see me recoil. “Vera Ashford, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I can feel everyone watching me. My family on one side, his on the other. All of them waiting to see if I’ll do this and actually go through with it.
My mother’s tears cross my vision along with my sisters' confused faces. The guards everywhere, the tension, the threat of war hanging over all of us.
I think of the baby growing inside me. The last piece of Alexei.
“I do,” I whisper. My voice shakes, but the words are clear enough.
Dimitri’s eyes finally meet mine for the first time since the ceremony began.
They’re exactly like I remember from the funeral. Cold gray, like chips of ice but now, this close, I can see more.
I can see the storm churning beneath the surface. The rage. The hatred. The promise of retribution.
There’s no warmth there. No kindness. No hint that this man will ever see me as anything other than the enemy.
Just pure, cold loathing.
I realize I’m trembling.
“By the power vested in me by the state,” the judge says, clearly eager to get this over with, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Oh.
Oh God.
I hadn’t thought about this part. Part of me wants to scream that this is disgusting, because how can I kiss him when the brother I really want to kiss is buried?
But now it’s happening, and Dimitri is turning to face me fully, and I can’t run or escape.
He steps closer. So close I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
So close I can see some silver in his dark hair, the scar on his jawline, the absolute absence of anything resembling affection in his expression.
Then his hand comes up, fingers not gently tilting my chin. He grips it firmly enough that I can’t pull away.
And he kisses me.
It’s not the kind of kiss you give your bride on your wedding day, or even a kiss that Alexei once gave me.
It’s hard and brutal.
His lips press against mine with enough force to bruise, and the message is crystal clear.
You’re mine now. My property. My prisoner.
He pulls back after only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. His hand releases my chin, and he leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear.
“Welcome to hell, Mrs. Volkov,” he whispers, so quietly that only I can hear and my stomach bottoms out, sweat trailing down my back.
Then he steps back, and the judge is declaring us married, and it’s done.
I’m Mrs. Volkov now.
