It takes effort. Real effort.
I could drag her closer. Open her mouth with mine. Let my hand slide down and press her flush against me so she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I could fuck her with this kiss until she forgets her name.
But not here.
Not yet.
By the time I pull back, her pupils are still blown wide, her breath uneven.
I linger just long enough to watch her try to pull herself together. The flush on her cheeks. The slightly dazed look in her eyes before she masters herself again. I memorize all of it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest announces, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Konstantin Belov.”
The crowd applauds with perfect politeness. The quartet begins playing again. My hand finds the small of her back, guiding her down the aisle.
“Don’t even think about running,” I murmur against her ear, my voice low. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle when I retrieve you.”
5
Bella
If there is a hell, I’m in it.
My smile has been frozen in place for exactly thirty-seven minutes.
Thirty-seven minutes of “congratulations” in languages I don’t understand. Thirty-seven minutes of air kisses from women wearing about a ton of diamonds. Thirty-seven minutes of men eyeing me like I’m either a prized cow at auction or a target on a shooting range.
Welcome to my wedding ceremony. Population: three hundred of the wealthiest, most dangerous people I’ve never wanted to meet.
I feel like… what? Not a prop, exactly. An acquisition, maybe. A rare art piece put on display. The kind people nod at, murmur about, but ultimately don’t care if it has thoughts of its own.
The applause has faded, the vows are done, but the performance isn’t over.
“Smile,” Konstantin murmurs near my ear, his lips just barely brushing the shell of it. A flicker of heat, an accident—or not.
I school my expression into something pleasant and vacant, the way I’ve seen high-society wives do in those glossy magazines. I wonder if any of them ever wanted to rip off their heels, steal a car, and make a break for it.
Probably not.
Because they weren’t bought.
I was.
For a house. For my family.
And now, I stand beside a man who wears ownership as easily as his custom Armani suit.
His hand rests low on my back—always touching, always claiming. Warm and firm, fingers grazing exposed skin in lazy strokes like he’s testing the feel of me. Like he already knows the weight of me in his hands, and now, he’s just getting reacquainted.
A prickle crawls up the side of my neck. That unmistakable feeling of being watched.I turn—and find her.
She’s draped in a blood-red gown, all sharp lines and sharper intentions. Diamonds catch the light at her ears and throat, each one flashing like a warning. Her blonde hair is slicked back into a twist, neat and cruel.
She moves toward us, unhurried, a younger man in a black suit at her side. He’s polished and eager, one hand brushing her hip like he’s hoping she’ll notice. She doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked on myhusband.
“Vy sdelali prekrasnyy vybor, Konstantin,” she purrs, addressing my husband while examining me like I’m a suspect piece of furniture.
I don’t need a Russian dictionary to understand I’m being discussed, not addressed. I’ve been reduced to third-person status at my own wedding.
