“There’s vodka.”
“Of course there’s vodka.”
His hands haven’t left my feet. In fact, now they’re moving up again. His palms drag along my calves, slow and deliberate, like I’m made of silk, and he’s got all the time in the world to unravel me.
I grab onto the first thing I can to avoid combusting.
“Okay—so reception, fine. Great. I can do that. And then what?” I add, trying and failing to sound casual.
His eyes flick up, sharp and amused. “After that?”
He shifts closer again—bracketing me with his arms, leaning in until the scent of him is all I can breathe. Rich. Dark. A little bit of sin and a whole lot of control.
His voice is a whisper against my ear. Velvet and steel.
“Then comes our first night together.”
My breath hitches.
“And I expect,” he says slowly, “a repeat performance of what you did on my bed the night you broke into my house.”
My body turns to stone. Then lava. Then ash.
Because I know exactly what he’s talking about.
The joint. The silk sheets. The fucking portrait. The shame. The heat. The way I imagined him—before I even knew him.
7
Konstantin
By the time the third toast is made and the fifth vodka shot is poured, I’m convinced half the room is only pretending not to sweat.
They’re all doing their best impressions of joy. Laughing too loud. Smiling too hard. As if this is just another wedding and not the very thing standing between me and the power seat they’ve all been quietly circling for years.
I’m notPakhanyet. Not officially. But tonight? This is the move that makes the rest inevitable.
They know it. Filipp knows it.
He was never supposed to be at the church.
And yet, there he was—sliding in with that smug little smirk, a rat in a tailored suit, acting like he hadn’t spent the last year bribing half the table with our father’s name and a handshake soaked in bullshit.
I should’ve had him dragged out on sight. Instead, I let him shake her hand. Let him test the line.
Then I broke it.
Now he’s gone. Quietly removed. Respectfully escorted. But every man in this room saw it. Every man understood exactly what it meant.
They can laugh and drink and offer their congratulations, but none of them are stupid. They’re here because they know the war is almost over—and they’re making damn sure they back the right side before the dust settles.
Earlier, I stopped at the head table where my mother’s been sitting like royalty, sipping wine and pretending none of this touches her.
“You could at least pretend to be happy,” I said.
She swirled the glass, not even glancing up. “Why would I do that?”
“It’s a wedding.”
