Finally Dimitri touches my shoulder. "They're here."
My heart, which has been steady through firefights and executions and negotiations with men far more dangerous than me, suddenly pounds. I position myself at the altar, facing the doors at the back of the chapel.
The doors open.
Anya enters first, elegant in a blue dress. She catches my eye, smiles, then moves to the side.
And then Vera appears.
Fuck.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I've imagined this moment for two years. Dreamed about it. Planned for it. But nothing prepared me for the reality of her.
The dress fits perfectly—white satin that hugs every curve, delicate lace sleeves, a neckline that's modest but hints at what's beneath. Her dark hair is swept up, exposing her neck, showing off the elegant line of her throat that I've marked with my mouth. And when she starts walking toward me I see it.
The low back.
The dress dips to just above her lower spine, exposing smooth, unmarked skin. Skin I haven't touched yet. Skin that will be mine in a matter of hours.
My hands clench at my sides. Every muscle in my body tightens with the need to go to her, grab her, pull her against me and never let go.
But I force myself to stay still. Wait. Let her come to me.
Her eyes find mine as she walks down the aisle.
Mine. Finally mine.
When she reaches the altar, I extend my hand. She hesitates for just a second then places her hand in mine.
Her skin is cold. Trembling slightly. I squeeze her fingers, trying to communicate without words:I have you. You're safe. You're mine.
The priest begins speaking in Russian. The traditional Orthodox ceremony—blessings, prayers, rituals I barely hear because all my attention is on her. On the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. On the pulse fluttering in her throat. On how the candlelight makes her skin glow.
We exchange vows. Short. Simple. Binding.
"Do you, Pyotr Mikhailovich Maksimov, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." The words come out rough, possessive.
"Do you, Vera Reznikova, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Silence stretches. I feel everyone's eyes on us, feel the moment balance on a knife's edge.
Then, quietly: "I do."
Relief and triumph surge through me in equal measure.
The priest continues, but I'm not listening anymore. I'm staring at her mouth, at the lips forming words I can barely hear. At the woman who just became legally mine.
"You may kiss the bride."
I don't wait for permission. My hand cups the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, and I pull her into me. The kiss is claiming. Possessive. A promise of everything to come tonight.
She gasps against my mouth, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss. Tasting her. Marking her. My tongue slides against hers, claiming her mouth the way I'll claim the rest of her in a few hours.
I hear the sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind us. A scandalized whisper. The priest clears his throat pointedly.
I don't care. Don't stop.
