Page 38 of Marrying the Savage

I freeze. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he notices and simply does not care.

His palm is broad and warm through the silk of my dress, his fingers spread over my ribs like he’s measuring my breathing. If he moved even an inch higher, his hand would be on my breast in front of half the Bratva families in Moscow, my uncle, my almost-husband, and a priest who already looks like he deeply regrets his career choices.

This can’t be my life.

This absolutely can’t be my life.

And yet, here I am, in a wedding dress, barefoot, marked on the neck by my fiancé’s sworn enemy, being half-shielded and half-possessed by a man who has just kissed me like he wanted to swallow my name.

My uncle’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Take your hands off her.”

Damir doesn’t move.

Of course he doesn’t.

“If I intended to hurt her,” he says calmly, “she would already be hurt.”

“That is not the reassurance you think it is,” I mutter.

His thumb shifts once against my ribs. A warning.

Or maybe amusement. I can’t tell.

Sergei Antonov stands near the front pew with three of his men around him, though even I can see the balance in the room has changed. Damir’s men have pushed deeper into the church with terrifying efficiency. They are not panicking. They are not shouting uselessly. They have spread along the aisles and near the side exits, forcing my uncle’s people and the Sokolovs into tighter, more confused clusters.

Children are huddled near the back with their mothers, some of them crying into expensive coats. An older woman is crouched behind a pew, shaking so badly her pearls tremble against her throat. The flower arrangements are crushed. The minister stands frozen behind the altar, white as candle wax.

This is not rebellion anymore. This is not a joke.

This is real.

And I did this.

My stomach turns.

“What do you want?” my uncle demands.

Damir’s voice remains almost bored. “You already know.”

“I know nothing except that you have invaded a wedding like a madman.”

Damir raises a brow. “I showed you the invitation, didn’t I?”

My uncle stares at us. More specifically, he sees me. Then he sees my mouth, which is probably red and swollen.

Then his gaze drops to my neck. The mark. I know the moment he notices it because his face changes in a way I have never seen before.

Sergei Antonov does not lose control often. He has too much pride for it, too much discipline, too many years of practice turning rage into strategy. But now his face goes dark, then red, and the hand at his side curls into a fist.

His eyes lift to Damir. “What,” he says, voice low and shaking, “did you do to her?”

The entire church seems to quiet around the question.

Damir doesn’t even blink. “She is standing,” he says. “That’s more than your men can say for themselves.”

My uncle takes one step forward. Two of Damir’s men immediately shift, blocking the aisle with silent efficiency.