"Are you sure?" he asks quietly. One last time.
"One-hundred-percent."
He nods. Covers my hand with his. And walks me out.
The ceremony is on the grounds, an old, somewhat dilapidated church. All of the Orlova women have turned the space into something out of a dream. White peonies line a short aisle between two groups of chairs. Candles in glass holders line the path despite the afternoon light. It's small and intimate and nothing like the grand cathedral affair the Baron probably would have demanded, but it's perfect.
The Orlov men are standing near the altar. Liam, broad and composed. Killian, one arm around Katya's chair because she obviously sat down the second she arrived and isn't getting back up. Aidan, standing slightly behind Liam with his hands in his pockets and an easy expression that makes him look like he's at a garden party rather than a Bratva wedding.
And Connor.
My breath stops.
He's in a dark suit, fitted close to his broad shoulders and chest, with a white shirt open at the collar. No tie. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and for the first time since I met him, he's not hiding. He's not turning his head to favor his good side. He's not angling his jaw to minimize the scar. He's standing at the altar facing forward, both eyes visible, the green one blazing in the afternoon light and the milky one catching it differently, softer, like clouded glass.
He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world.
My hand tightens on Diomid's arm.
"Breathe," my brother murmurs.
I try. It doesn't really work.
Just as I realize there’s no music, Iris begins to sing. Beautiful strains of an old Irish ballad fill the space, and even Katya stands.
We walk. The aisle is short, maybe thirty feet, but it feels like it takes an hour. Every step brings Connor into sharper focus. The breadth of his chest. The way his jaw is set tight, like he's holding something in. His hands at his sides, fingers flexing, and I realize with a jolt that he's nervous. This enormous, fierce, scarred man is nervous because I'm walking toward him.
When Diomid and I reach the altar, my brother stops. He looks at Connor, and something passes between them that I can't fully read. A transaction. A transfer. The oldest, most loaded exchange two men can make. Then Diomid takes my hand from his arm and places it in Connor's, and Connor's fingers close around mine, and my brother steps back.
Connor's hand is warm and rough and shaking, just slightly, just enough that I can feel it.
"Hi," I whisper as Iris comes to the end of the song, and moves to stand beside her mother.
"Hi." His voice is low and wrecked and his gaze hasn't left my face.
The priest begins. I hear the words the way you hear rain on a window, present but distant, background to the thing that actually matters, which is Connor's hand holding mine and the heat of him standing so close.
I think about last night. The kiss in the garden. The way he caught my face in his hands like I was something precious and then kissed me like I was something he needed. The way his body felt against mine, solid and warm and vibrating withrestraint, like he was holding himself back from the edge with everything he had.
I don't want him to hold back tonight.
The thought sends a flush of heat through me so intense that I'm glad the veil partially covers my face.
"Do you, Connor Orlov, take Anya Marina Agapova to be your wife?"
"I do." No hesitation. The same way I said yes in the conservatory. Like the answer was decided before the question was asked.
"And do you, Anya Marina Agapova, take Connor Orlov to be your husband?"
I look at him. The scar. The dead eye. The good eye, green and burning and fixed on me with an intensity that makes my knees soft.
"I do."
Then the words that seal everything that came before. "You may kiss the bride."
Connor doesn't move immediately. He looks at me for a beat, and I see it happen in real time, the wall he keeps between himself and the world shifting, cracking, a piece of it falling away. He cups my face with both hands, tilts my head back, and kisses me.
His mouth moves over mine with a hunger that sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine, and I grab the front of his jacket and pull him into me because I don't know what else to do with the way my body is responding. His tongue slides against mine and I make a sound against his mouth that I should be embarrassed about and I'm not, because his grip tightens on my face and he groans back, low in his chest, and the vibration of it travels through me like an electric current.
