Page 49 of Marrying the Savage

Then she looks at me again. There is fury in her eyes. Fury, fear, and reluctant intelligence. She understands the room. She understands exactly what her answer buys.

“I do,” she says.

The satisfaction that tears through me is almost violent.

The priest swallows hard. “Then by the authority vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife.” His voice falters.

I look at him.

He rushes on. “You may kiss the bride.”

Sofia’s mouth opens, probably to make some sharp little comment about how unnecessary that instruction is after the last several minutes.

I don’t let her.

I kiss her again, and this time, she doesn’t freeze. This time, she grips my jacket and kisses me back like she hates me for making her want anything in front of these people. Her anger is in it. Her relief too. Her fear. Her reckless, furious life.

I take all of it.

When I pull away, her breath is uneven and her cheeks are flushed.

I look over her head at Sergei Antonov. His face is ashen.

Good.

Then I bend and pick Sofia up. She makes a startled sound, hands flying to my shoulders as her dress spills over my arms in a rush of white silk and lace.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Taking my wife home.”

Her eyes flash. “You are unbearable.”

“Yes.”

I turn with her in my arms. The church parts.

No one stops me.

Not Sergei, who stands with murder in his eyes and no room left to move. Not the Sokolovs, who are too busy watching their heir bleed and curse while my men drag him away. Not the old families, who understand power when they see it carried down an aisle in a ruined wedding dress.

Mikhail falls into step beside me, his expression unreadable except for the faint irritation that tells me he will have many opinions later. “Car is ready,” he says.

“Good.”

Sofia’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“I can walk.”

“I know.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

She stares at me, furious and flushed, my blood still marked across her mouth.