The kiss is controlled, short, nothing like the passion people expect at weddings. But his mouth lingers just long enough to steal my breath, to remind me that my body doesn’t care about my fury or fear. Just long enough to prove his point—that he can take what he wants, when he wants, and I’ll respond despite myself.
When he pulls back, I’m trembling slightly. Not from fear. From the betrayal of my own nerves, the way heat pools low in my stomach even while my mind screams rejection.
He sees it. Of course he sees it. Those pale eyes miss nothing.
I feel the Bratva watching us. The witnesses measuring how I stand, whether I tremble, whether I lower my gaze in submission or hold my ground in defiance.
I keep my chin lifted. Shoulders back. Spine straight despite how much I want to collapse.
This is survival, I remind myself. Strategy. Playing the role required to stay alive.
The priest declares us married. The Russian words are formal, final, irreversible.
Elena Sharov.
The name sits foreign and wrong in my mind. I’m not a Sharov. I’m a Lawrence, even if that name never fully claimed me. This new identity feels like erasure, like the last piece of myself being stripped away.
Aleksandr’s hand closes around mine, fingers interlacing. His grip is firm as he leads me back down the aisle, past witnesses who nod respectfully, out into cold Moscow air where more guards wait beside black SUVs.
His hand never leaves mine. He’s reminding me with every step that I belong to him now in ways that are legal, binding, permanent.
As we’re ushered into the car, his arm settles around my shoulders. Possessive. Proprietary. The gesture looks protective to anyone watching but feels like a cage closing tighter.
“Breathe,” he says quietly as the car starts moving. “The worst part is over.”
“Is it?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Or is this just the beginning?”
“Both.”
I turn to look out the window, watching the chapel disappear behind us. Watching Moscow slide by—city lights starting to glow as evening falls, people going about their lives completely unaware that mine just ended.
I make a private vow then, burning hotter than the ring on my finger.
I will never love him.
Not even if my body forgets to listen. Not even if time and proximity wear down my resistance. Not even if some part of me starts to confuse possession for protection, control for care.
I’ll survive this marriage. Play the role required. Do whatever’s necessary to keep myself and what remains of my family alive.
I won’t give him my heart. Won’t surrender the last piece of myself he hasn’t already claimed.
He can have my body, my name, my future.
But my heart stays mine.
Chapter Sixteen - Aleksandr
The mansion is locked down by the time we return.
I gave the order this morning: skeleton staff only, guards rotated to night positions, every entrance secured. No witnesses to whatever happens tonight beyond the men stationed at perimeter points who know better than to listen or look.
Elena is silent in the car. Has been silent since we left the chapel. She sits as far from me as the backseat allows, staring out the window, the ring on her finger catching light every time we pass a streetlamp.
My wife.
The reality of it settles deeper with every passing moment. Not satisfaction exactly. Something darker, more possessive. Like a claim finally made official after too long waiting.
When we arrive, I open her door myself. Extend my hand to help her out of the car. She looks at it for a long moment—considering refusal, probably—before placing her hand in mine.
