***
When we return to the estate, Pyotr is waiting by his car. He stands as we approach, eyes locked on the garment bag Anya carries.
"Don't even think about it," Anya warns when he moves toward it. Her tone is sharp, an advantage of behind the Pakhan’s wife, I suppose. “You'll see it tomorrow. Tradition,Pyotr." She hands me the bag, squeezes my shoulder. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Then she's gone, and it's just me and him and the dress between us.
"Was it perfect?" he asks, eyes searching my face.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Good." He steps closer, cups my face with one hand. "Tomorrow you wear it. Tomorrow you walk down the aisle. Tomorrow you become mine in every way that matters."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone, gentle despite everything.
"One more day,malyshka," he murmurs. "One more day and then no more waiting. No more restraint. Just you and me and forever."
5
Pyotr
The small Russian Orthodox chapel is empty except for the priest making preparations and Dimitri, who insisted on coming with me. Probably thought I'd do something stupid if left alone. He might be right.
The pews are already decorated with white flowers, candles, simple but elegant. Exactly what I specified. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect.
Except she's not here yet.
I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Still an hour and a half to go.
"You're pacing," Dimitri observes from where he leans against the wall near the altar. "I've never seen you nervous."
"I'm not nervous." I turn, glare at him. "I'mready. Where is she?"
"Anya's bringing her. You'll see her when she walks down the aisle." He crosses his arms, smirking. "Tradition, remember?"
"Fuck tradition. I want to see her now."
"Pyotr." He says my name like he's talking to a child. "You can wait another ninety minutes."
I can't, actually. The past three days have been torture. Every moment since I first touched her has been torture. Last night, sleeping beside her with her body pressed against mine, my hand on her stomach while I imagined it swollen with my child—I barely slept at all.
And now she's somewhere getting ready, putting on that dress I'm not allowed to see, becoming my bride, and I'm stuck here waiting.
"What if she runs?" The words escape before I can stop them.
Dimitri raises an eyebrow. "Will she?"
I think about yesterday. About fingering her in the library, feeling how tight and wet she was, how she came apart in my arms. About how she looked at the wedding dress with something that might have been acceptance. About how she slept last night without fighting me.
"No," I say with certainty. "She won't run. She's mine. She knows it."
"Then stop pacing."
I don't.
The next hour drags. Guests start arriving. It's a small wedding by Bratva standards. I didn't want a spectacle. Just want her legally bound to me so I can finally take what's mine.
Viktor nods to me as he enters, takes a seat in the back. Yuri. Alexei. Men I trust, men who know what this day means. That I'm claiming something precious. That anyone who looks at her wrong will answer to me.
