Page 32 of Marrying the Savage

The church becomes a loaded weapon.

I look at Sergei. “I was invited.”

His mouth twists. “By whom?”

I reach into my coat, and every gun in the room rises.

Women scream. A few guests duck behind the pews. Someone knocks over a flower arrangement near the aisle, white roses scattering across the floor like broken offerings. The minister makes a strangled sound and clutches his book to his chest as though scripture will stop bullets.

My men draw.

Sergei’s men draw.

Sokolov’s men draw.

In less than three seconds, the house of God becomes a room full of men deciding who will die first.

I remove the invitation from my jacket. Nothing else. Cream paper. Gold lettering. Folded once. Then I throw it at Sergei Antonov’s feet. It slides across the stone and lands near the polished toe of his shoe.

His eyes drop to it, and for a moment, he does not move.

Then he bends, slowly, and picks it up. I watch his face go redder as he reads my name.

Dmitri steps forward, dragging Sofia slightly with him because he still has her hand. “This is a private ceremony.”

I look at his fingers wrapped around hers. Too tight.

My eyes lift to his face.

His jaw clenches. “Get out.”

“No.”

The word carries through the church with very little effort.

Sokolov’s nostrils flare. He is young enough to believe rage makes him taller.

Sergei crushes the invitation in one fist. “You think you can walk into my family’s wedding and make a spectacle?”

“No,” I say. “I think your family managed that before I arrived.”

A sound moves through the guests, quickly swallowed.

Mikhail shifts beside me, not from amusement, but warning.

Sergei takes one step down from the front pew. “Leave now, and perhaps you walk out.”

“Careful,” Mikhail says quietly beside me, not to Sergei but to me.

He doesn’t need to finish. Every second we remain here tightens the wire. One twitch. One nervous finger. One young soldier desperate to impress the wrong man, and the church becomes a slaughterhouse.

I should leave. I have made the point. The alliance is publicly shaken. Sergei is humiliated. Sokolov is furious. Every family here has seen that an invitation bearing my name reached me despite all their careful control.

That should be enough.

Then the crowd shifts. Only slightly. One of Sergei’s men steps sideways, looking toward the aisle instead of the altar, and through the narrow opening between shoulders, I see Sofia again.

She’s still at the end of the aisle. Still in white. Still holding Dmitri’s hand.