Page 90 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"Your brother doesn't cry," I say, letting out a dry laugh. "His tear ducts were probably removed by the Bratva when he turned ten."

"You’re right." Ekaterina laughs heartily.

A sudden, warm ache spreads through my chest, my hand rising to trace the small, pale scar on my bottom lip.

The double doors of the conservatory swing open, and Yara enters, carrying a silver tray with a steaming mug of ginger tea. She’s wearing her clean white apron, her kind face tensing with her usual motherly authority. "The dressmaker is waiting in the blue room, Via. We have thirty minutes before the captains arrive for the rehearsal dinner."

"Excellent," I say, reaching for the tea. "Let’s get this over with before my husband decides the dressmaker is a spy."

Ilya steps into the conservatory from the courtyard, his black coat hanging open, his boots thudding softly as he walks toward me. He doesn't look at Yara, and he doesn't look at the sketches. His eyes are fixed on my face, his jaw tight. "The dressmaker was checked at the outer gate. She’s clear."

"Of course she’s clear," I say, tossing my hands up. "She’s a sixty-year-old woman who makes lace veils, Ilya. What did you think she was hiding in her sewing kit? A grenade?"

"They make small ones," he growls, his hand wrapping around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. "You’re staying in this wing."

"I need to go to the blue room for the fitting," I say, turning in his arms to look up into his stubborn face. "It’s across the hall. It’s literally twenty steps."

"I’ll carry you," he says.

"You will not carry me!" I laugh, my fingers digging into the wool of his sweater. "I’m sixty pounds heavier than I was in the spring, and you have a limp, you stubborn giant. Let go."

"No," he says, his chin resting on my head, his arms locking around my waist.

Ekaterina lets out a loud, dramatic groan, throwing her paintbrush into the jar of water. "Ilya, let her go! The wedding is tomorrow! If she doesn't finish the fitting, she’s going to have to get married in one of your ugly black sweaters!"

Yara steps between us, her hand coming to rest on Ilya’s forearm, her grip firm and carrying twenty years of housekeeper authority. "Let the girl go, Ilya. You’ve been holding her since yesterday. She needs to breathe."

Ilya grumbles, a low, unhappy rumble in his chest, but he slowly loosens his grip, his hands staying on my hips as I step back. He looks like a dog whose favorite toy has been taken away, his dark eyes scanning my face with a quiet, obsessive intensity.

"Ten minutes," he growls.

"Fifteen," I counter, my sassy smirk returning to my lips as I walk toward the door. "And if you check the security camera in the blue room, I’m naming the baby Kumquat."

Ilya’s jaw clenches, a faint, dark amusement flickering in his eyes as he watches me walk out.

The wedding day is quiet. Just how I wanted.

There are no grand cathedrals. There are no incense clouds, no five-hundred-person guest lists, and no armed enforcers standing near the altar. We are standing in the walled garden of the estate, the afternoon sun a soft, golden warmth that lights up the red brick walls and the yellow primroses.

Ekaterina is standing to my right wearing a simple cream dress, her eyes bright with tears. Yara and Sasha are sitting on the front bench next to Lev, who is dressed in a clean black suit, his posture proud.

The priest is an old, quiet man from the southern chapel, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he reads the vows.

I’m wearing the emerald-green silk dress, the fabric draping softly over my round belly, my gold hair falling over my shoulders in loose, polished waves. I don't have a veil. I don't want to hide my face from him today.

Ilya stands across from me. He’s wearing a simple, tailored black suit, his dark hair combed back, his chest expanding as he takes a slow, steady breath. He’s looking at me.

"I, Ilya Kovalevskii," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries a raw, profound reverence that makes my eyes sting. "Take you, Viallentinka, for the rest of my life. I have spent thirty years in the dark, but you... you are my light. I will protect you. I will cherish you. and I will burn this entire city to ash before I let anyone take you from my hand."

The tears finally spill over, running down my cheeks in a warm, clean rush. I reach up, my small hands cupping his massive, scarred jaw, my thumbs tracing his cheekbones.

"I, Viallentinka Kovalevskiia," I say, my voice steady, my gaze holding his, "take you, Ilya. You are my monster. You’re violent, you’re grumpy, and you’re a terrible liar. But you are the only safe place I have left in this world. I’m done running. I’m yours. For the rest of my life."

The priest smiles, his hand rising to bless us. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Ilya doesn't wait for the cue.

He leans down, his large hands wrapping around my waist, and seals his lips over mine in a deep, slow, and incredibly sweet kiss. It is pure, raw devotion, our hearts hitting our ribs in perfect synchronization in the quiet garden.