"Tomorrow, we marry," he says quietly, his thumb brushing across my lower lip with devastating tenderness. "Tomorrow, you become my wife, Aria. No matter what anyone whispers, no matter what the council demands, you're mine."
38
NIKOLAI
Istand at the makeshift altar in The Golden Lion's private dining room, my hands clasped behind my back to hide the way my fingers want to curl into fists. The space has been transformed with white flowers and candles that cast soft light across the dark wood paneling, but no amount of decoration can disguise what this really is. A transaction. A cage wrapped in silk and called a celebration.
The door opens, and Aria appears.
My breath catches despite everything, despite the wall of ice that's been building between us since I demanded proof of what I should simply believe. She wears a simple cream dress that flows over the subtle curve of her stomach, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck. Beautiful. Devastating. And absolutely miserable.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I watch her force her expression into something neutral, something acceptable for the witnesses. The effort it costs her is visible in the tightness around her mouth, the way her hands grip the small bouquetof white roses like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Self-loathing burns through my chest, acid eating away at whatever's left of my conscience.
Lara Utkina sits in the front row, her platinum blonde hair swept into that signature chignon, her pale blue eyes missing nothing as they assess us both. The other Bratva wives flank her like a jury, their expressions ranging from sympathetic to calculating. They know what this is. They've all made similar bargains, trading freedom for protection, love for survival.
My captains line the back wall, their faces carefully blank, but I feel the weight of their assessment like a physical pressure against my skin. They're cataloging every detail, measuring whether their Pakhan has gone soft, whether sentiment has made me weak. The photographs from the island already planted seeds of doubt. This wedding, rushed and obviously forced, will either silence the whispers or confirm their worst fears.
Aria walks toward me with her chin lifted in that defiant way I've come to recognize, each step measured and deliberate. No one gives her away. She comes alone, as she's done everything in her life, and something in my chest cracks at the symbolism.
When she reaches me, I extend my hand. She stares at it for a heartbeat too long before placing her fingers in mine. Her skin is cold despite the warmth of the room, and I feel the tremor running through her body that she's trying so hard to hide.
The officiant begins speaking in Russian, the traditional words I've heard at a dozen Bratva weddings. I respond automatically, my voice steady even as my mind screams that this is wrong, that I'm destroying the one good thing that's happened to me in twenty years. When it's Aria's turn, her voice comes out barelyabove a whisper, and I have to strain to hear her repeat the vows that bind her to me.
"And do you, Aria Levin, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The pause stretches too long. I feel every eye in the room lock onto her, waiting, judging. Her fingers tighten around mine, and when she finally speaks, the words sound like surrender.
"I do."
The officiant pronounces us married, and I cup Aria's jaw with my free hand, tilting her face up to mine. Her dark eyes hold mine with barely concealed misery, and I see my own self-loathing reflected back at me. I kiss her anyway, trying to pour apology and promise into the contact, but her lips remain rigid against mine. Her body doesn't soften, doesn't yield, doesn't respond with any of the heat I've come to crave.
When I pull back, she's already looking away.
The reception unfolds with the efficiency of a military operation. Cyril orchestrated everything, transforming the main dining room into something that almost looks festive. More captains and their families fill the space, their voices a low rumble of Russian and English as they toast our union with expensive vodka and Armenian cognac. Servers circulate with trays of food I can't taste, and music plays from speakers I don't remember approving.
Aria moves through it all like a ghost, accepting congratulations with that same forced smile that never reaches her eyes. I watch her from across the room, my new wife who looks like a prisoner at her own wedding, and feel something fundamental shift in my chest.
This isn't what I wanted. Not like this.
"She's beautiful," Viktor says, appearing at my elbow with a glass of vodka. His eyes track Aria's movement through the crowd with an assessment that makes my jaw tighten. "You're a lucky man."
"Yes." The word comes out clipped, final.
"Congratulations, Boss." One of my younger captains approaches, his grin genuine. "She's got fire. I like that."
I accept his handshake, noting the way his gaze lingers on Aria with appreciation that borders on inappropriate. "Enjoy the party."
The message in my tone is clear. Look, but never touch. He nods quickly and retreats, and I return my attention to my wife.
She's talking to Lara now, the older woman's hand resting on Aria's arm in a gesture that looks almost maternal. Whatever Lara says makes Aria's expression soften fractionally, and I feel a surge of gratitude toward the woman who's taken it upon herself to guide Aria through this world.
"You made the right choice." Cyril materializes beside me, his gray eyes tracking the same scene. "She'll adjust."
"Will she?" I drain my vodka, the burn doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. "Or will she just learn to hide how much she hates me?"
Cyril doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
The evening drags on, each minute feeling like an hour. I make the rounds, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions about the rushed timeline with carefully crafted lies about notwanting to wait. Some believe me. Others exchange knowing glances that suggest they've heard about the paternity test demand, about the doubt I couldn't suppress.
