Page 123 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

His mouth pulls at one corner. “I had help.”

“So did I.”

He offers his hand, and I take it.

We walk to the main hall together. No one sends me behind him, and no one pulls me ahead for display. I walk at his side, his hand around mine and his thumb firm over my knuckles.

The hall is full, but controlled. Men stand in groups with careful space between them. Abramov waits near the inner doors. Dima and Ilya cover opposite exits. Petrov stands with two route men. Leonid is beside Nina Voronina at the registrar’s table, looking like he would rather face a tax raid than a ceremony where people might show feelings.

The state marriage registrar sits behind the table with an open folder, a ready pen, and a face trained into calmness. She knows this is official, and she knows official doesn’t always mean safe.

The witnesses stand behind her. For him, Abramov and Dima. For me, Leonid and Mrs. Wentworth.

I almost turn to look at her, but she’s already watching me with her chin lifted and her eyes bright behind her glasses. Lidiya stands behind her with her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone white.

Allies fill the back, old family men, bank men, and route men. A church elder stands near the back with his collar straight and a leather folder in his hand, and his presence makes the marriage harder to challenge.

A few former enemies stand near the rear wall, close enough to watch, with Dima’s men between them and the table. They had accepted the invitation, so now they witness what they can no longer reach. One inclines his head when my eyes pass over him, and another keeps both hands folded in front of him, his face smooth and silent.

Maksim leads me to the table.

The registrar clears her throat. “Maksim Volkov. Elena Sokolov. You are here to enter civil marriage under witness and official record.” Her voice stays steady when she reads the terms. Names, dates, recognition, rights, signatures. She continues in the same steady voice, “You shall not harass, threaten, or control each other. You shall not use suspicion as punishment. You shall act toward each other with respect and good faith.”

I hear every word. Maksim’s hand stays around mine, and every man can see it. When she asks if I consent, the hall goes still. I look at Maksim first.

He waits.

“I do,” I say, looking up at him, a smile touching my mouth.

His grip tightens once.

The registrar turns to him. “Maksim Volkov, do you consent?”

“I do,” he says, and his eyes stay on mine.

The rings come next. Dima opens the box and passes mine to Maksim with a face carved from stone, then looks away as Maksim takes my hand. The ring slides over my finger, warm from his touch.

Mine.

His.

I take his ring from the box and fit it onto his hand. His fingers are marked from violence, cut at one knuckle and bruised across the back, but the gold sits there anyway.

The registrar turns the record toward us. We sign. First him, then me. Elena Sokolova. I pause, then write the rest. Volkov. The pen doesn’t shake. Behind me, someone exhales, and I don’t turn to see who. The registrar stamps the page once, then again, and the sound carries through the hall.

“Registered,” she says.

No one moves.

Then Maksim takes my hand again. Men lower their eyes. Some bow their heads. Moretti’s remaining observer, kept under guard near the back, looks at my ring, then looks away.

Maksim lifts my hand to his mouth and presses his lips to my knuckles. Heat runs through me before I can stop it. His eyes stay on mine over my hand.

37

ELENA

Maksim lowers my hand slowly. For an instant, I think he’s going to pull me closer and kiss me in front of them all. His grip shifts. He takes my hand, and his other hand turns my shoulder so I face the hall with him beside me.