I leaned in close—to the guests, it looked romantic. Intimate.
My lips nearly touched her ear. My voice dropped to barely a whisper, cold as death:
"You're going to smile. You're going to kiss me when I tell you to. You will not cry. You will not run. You will play the devoted bride until we're alone."
She drew in a sharp breath. Her body went rigid.
"If you don't, people you love will die tonight. Your father. Your friends. Anyone you've ever cared about. I promise you this." I let the threat settle. "Do you understand?"
A tiny nod. Barely perceptible.
Good. She was smart enough to be afraid.
I pulled back, resumed position.
Tears gathered in her eyes—she blinked them back, following instructions. Smart girl.
I cupped her face—my hands were large enough to frame her entirely. She flinched at my touch.
The kiss was harder than I'd intended as I claimed her mouth, tasting fear and something else underneath.
Defiance.
Under the terror, there was defiance.
Interesting.
The guests applauded. Music played. We were married. I took her arm—my grip firm, proprietorial—and we walked back down the aisle as husband and wife.
She was shorter than I'd expected. Maybe 5'6" in heels, with a delicate build. But she wasn't collapsing despite obvious terror.
She was stronger than she looked.
Butwhowas she? Why was she here instead of Bianca?
Viktor caught my eye as we passed. The Russian was smiling.
Did he know something?
Paranoia spiked. I kept my expression neutral, my grip on my new wife's arm unbreakable.
We exited into blinding sunlight and camera flashes. Photographers, guests, chaos.
I guided her to the waiting limousine—black, bulletproof, tinted windows. The door closed behind us, and the soundproofing cut off the world.
Silence. Heavy and dangerous. The limo pulled away from the church.
She pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as possible. Still in that ridiculous dress, veil pushed back, eyes wide.
Young. Scared. But not broken.
"Look at me."
She did. Green eyes met gray.
Up close, the differences from Bianca were obvious. This woman was softer. Less polished. More... real.
"Who are you?"
