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He doesn’t crack a smile. “Get dressed.”
“I’d ask why,” I grumble, rolling to the edge of the bed and heaving myself upright, “but I’m havingdéjà vuover here, which means you’re probably going to be your usual charming self and answer exactly zero of my questions.”
He turns towards the door, but as he does, I catch a glimpse of his face. It’s gaunt and pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept in years. “I’ll explain when you’re dressed and downstairs.”
“An explanation! Huzzah!” I crack sarcastically. “All it will cost me is a good night’s sleep. Could this really not wait until the morning?”
He ignores me and points to a garment bag hanging over the back of a chair. “I brought you something to wear. If you want.”
With that very vague statement, he disappears.
I frown, then waddle over to the chair and unzip the cover. “What the…?”
I’m staring at a white dress. Agorgeouswhite dress. The top is lace and the skirt is layered tulle. The empire waist is high enough to accommodate my baby bump.
I consider wearing it, if only because a dress this pretty deserves to be worn, but that would be playing right into his hands. And I’m done jumping just because he tells me to.
I do brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair, but then I stomp downstairs in his sweats with a scowl on my face.
Only to find myself standing in front of three men—none of whom are Arsen.
Dominik and Gedeon are off to the side, refusing to look at me. I don’t know the third man, but it’s easy enough to figure out the general gist.
Mom and I were never much into religion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize a priest when I see one.
“What’s going on?”
Dominik peeks over at me and then does a double-take. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
“I was sleeping five minutes ago.” Which is maybe why it’s taken me until this moment to realize they’re all wearing matching suits. “What is going on?”
Dominik pales. “He didn’t tell you yet?”
“Tell me what?”
When no one answers, the priest gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m Father Orlov, my dear. I’m here to…” His gaze flickers past me.
I know before Arsen says a word that he’s in the room now. I feel it like an electric bolt down my spine.
His hand presses to the small of my back as he leads me towards the assembled men. “He’s here to marry us, Laila. Time to say, ‘I do.’”
19
LAILA
“Who’s getting married?”
I heard Arsen, but I must have misunderstood. There’s no way he woke me up in the middle of the night to get married.
But he’s pushing me towards what I’m now realizing is a makeshift altar in the middle of the living room. White sheets draped over a hastily-constructed wooden frame. Someone even took the time to place vases of white roses on the dais. How thoughtful.
“Us,” Arsen rumbles. “You and me.”
I glance at Dominik, who is once again utterly fascinated by tile grout. Then I burst out laughing. “Okay, right. Ha-ha. Very funny. What are we really doing here?”
“Repeating ourselves, apparently.”
I take in the room, the decor, and the suits again, and it hits me like a blow to the chest. I can barely breathe.
