I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of the bridal suite and try to feel something. Excitement. Fear. Anger. Anything that would make this moment feel real instead of rehearsed.
But I was trained for this. Literally trained. Since I was fifteen years old, my mother sat me down every evening and taught me what it means to be a Bratva wife. How to cook. How to keep a home. How to greet guests and manage staff and smile when your husband comes home bloody and never, ever ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to.
I know how to set a table for twelve. I know how to remove a wine stain from white linen. I know three ways to make borscht and which families prefer which version.
What I don't know is anything about the man I'm marrying in twenty minutes.
Anton Orlov.
I've heard the name. Everyone in our world has heard the Orlov name. But the man himself is a ghost. No gossip circulates at gatherings. No rumors trail behind him the way they do with other Bratva men. All I know is what my father told me yesterday when he sat me down in his office and informed me my life was no longer my own.
"He's the third Orlov brother," my father said. "The eldest brother died in an accident. Artem runs the family. Anton is..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Controlled."
Controlled. That's what my father chose to tell me about the man I'll share a bed with tonight.
My mother appeared in the doorway behind him, and the look on her face told me everything my father's words didn't. It was time.
"You'll be fine," she said. But her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away before I could see her cry.
Now I stand in this dress she picked out for me, in this room in this church, and I press my palms flat against my stomach to stop my hands from shaking.
A knock at the door.
"Kira," my father says from the other side.
I take one last look at my reflection. The woman staring back at me is exactly what she's supposed to be. Composed, presentable and ready for anything.
I open the door.
My father stands in the hallway in his dark suit; his face arranged into the same careful blankness I've seen my whole life. He offers his arm. I take it.
We walk together down the cold corridor toward the chapel, and I can hear the low murmur of voices on the other side of thedoors. Not many. This isn't a celebration. It's a transaction, and both families know it.
"Remember what I told you," my father murmurs as we reach the entrance. "Be respectful. Be quiet. Don't give him a reason."
A reason for what, he doesn't say. He doesn't need to.
The doors open.
The chapel is small, dim, lit by candles that throw long shadows across the stone walls. There are maybe thirty people in the pews. I don't look at them. I can't. Because the man standing at the altar has stolen every shred of my attention.
Anton Orlov.
He's tall. That's the first thing I register. Tall and broad and built like he was designed to intimidate. Dark hair, cut short. A jaw that could have been carved from granite. He wears a black suit that fits him like armor, and he stands perfectly still, hands clasped in front of him, watching me approach with an expression that gives away absolutely nothing.
His eyes are pale. Blue or gray, I can't tell from here. But they're cold. Not cruel or angry, but empty. Like he's already decided this moment doesn't matter.
My father places my hand in Anton's.
His fingers close around mine. Warm and firm, calloused too. He holds my hands like he's holding something he intends to keep whether he wants it or not.
I look up at him. He looks down at me. And I see it. Just for a second, just a flicker behind those frozen eyes. Something hot and restless and barely contained.
Then it's gone, and his face is stone again.
The priest begins to speak.
I stand beside this man I don't know, my hand in his, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can feel my pulse against his palm. And I do the only thing I know how to do.
