Page 33 of Marrying the Savage

But she’s not looking at the guns.

She’s looking at me.

Her face is pale, but not with terror. Her eyes are wide, bright, fixed on mine with the strangest expression I have ever seen on a bride surrounded by armed men at her own wedding.

The thought settles into place.

Sofia Antonova invited me into the middle of this church. Not because she expected rescue. I don’t think she believes in rescue. Girls raised by men like Sergei learn early that rescue is usually another form of ownership.

No, she invited me because she wanted a crack in the wall.

And I am very good at making cracks wider.

Dmitri notices where I’m looking. His hand tightens around hers.

That’s when Sofia moves.

It’s almost nothing at first. A shift of her weight. A turn of her wrist inside Dmitri’s grip. Her head tilts slightly as if she’s reacting to the chaos around us, but I see the calculation. I see her take the half step back while every man in the church looks at me. I see her glance toward the side passage near the choir stalls.

Smart girl.

Then a shot cracks through the church. The sound is deafening.

A woman screams as one of my men, Anton, jerks backward near the left aisle, blood blooming dark across his shoulder.

For half a second, the entire room freezes around the impossible fact that someone has actually fired inside a church.

Then hell opens.

Men shout. More gunshots erupt. Guests collapse between pews, dragging one another down. The minister drops behind the altar. Stained glass shudders above us as a bullet strikes stone nearby. My men return fire with discipline; Sergei’s men don’t. The Sokolovs are worse, too eager, too loud, shooting more from panic than command.

“Anton!” Mikhail snaps.

“He’s alive,” Lev shouts, dragging him behind a pew.

I look for Sofia, but she is gone.

Dmitri realizes it at the same moment. He spins, sees the empty space beside him, and for the first time since I entered, true panic cuts through his face.

“Sofia!”

He moves toward the side passage.

So do I.

Mikhail catches my arm. “Boss.”

“Handle this.”

His eyes flash. “Damir⁠—”

“Handle it.”

He releases me because he knows better than to waste another second.

I move down the aisle through smoke, screams, and overturned flowers. A Sokolov soldier steps into my path with a gun halfway raised. I break his wrist before he can aim properly and drive my elbow into his throat. He drops hard against the pew, choking.

Dmitri reaches the side passage first. I reach him before he clears it.