Page 35 of Marrying the Savage

Her breath shakes. “Out.”

I almost smile. “Clearly.”

“You should try it,” she snaps. “There are bullets inside.”

“There are bullets outside too.”

“At least outside has air.”

A laugh nearly escapes me.

Nothing about this should amuse me. Not the ruined wedding. Not the invitation. Not the blood on the church floor. Not this furious bride pressed between my body and a wall while half the city’s criminal hierarchy tries to decide whether to shoot one another under stained glass.

And yet. There is something magnificent about her nerve.

Her veil is crooked. Her mouth is soft and angry. Her bouquet is gone. One of her pearl earrings has come loose, hanging by a thread. Her wedding dress is crushed between us, and still she lifts her chin like I am the inconvenient part of the day.

“Did you invite me?” I ask.

Her eyes flicker. There.

There it is. Not enough for a confession, but enough for me.

“I invited many people,” she says.

“No.” My hand tightens slightly at her waist. “You invited me.”

Her lips part, but no answer comes. The noise from the church surges, closer now. Men running. Orders shouted. Dmitri’s voice somewhere behind us, thick with rage and blood.

Sofia looks toward the passage. I catch her chin and turn her face back to mine. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers. Too warm.

“You caused a war in a church,” I say.

She swallows. “You came.”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t blame me for your hobbies.”

That does it. The control I’ve carried for forty-six years does not break. It bends, just enough.

I lower my head.

I tell myself I’m doing it because she needs to stop talking. Because we are surrounded by danger and her mouth is a distraction. Because I need to know whether the heat in her eyes is fear, defiance, or the same violent pull that has been in my blood since I saw her in that restaurant.

All of those are lies. I kiss her because I want to.

Her mouth is softer than her words. For one suspended second, she goes completely still, shocked against me, her fingers trapped between us and her breath caught in her throat.

Then she makes a small sound that goes through me like a match dropped into oil.

I release her wrist and slide my hand into her hair, ruining whatever careful pins remain. Her veil shifts under my knuckles. She grabs the front of my jacket, not pushing me away, but holding on as if the world has tilted and I am the only solid thing left in it.

The kiss turns hard quickly. Her mouth opens under mine, and I take the invitation she has given without words. She tastes like champagne, panic, and something sweet beneath both. Her body presses closer before she seems to realize she’s doing it. The lace of her dress scratches my wrist. Her fingers tighten in my lapel. Her bare foot slides against my shoe as she leans up, chasing more.

I should stop there. I know I should.

I’m old enough to recognize the precise moment a mistake becomes a decision, and this is it. Her back is against the wall, her hands are fisted in my jacket, and the church behind us is breaking apart in gunfire and screams, but all I can feel is the heat of her mouth and the wild little tremor that moves through her when I pull her closer.