Page 93 of Possessive Vows

He kisses my temple before guiding me to the vanity. I fix my makeup and give him a peck on the chin before shooing him from the room as my phone rings with another alarm.

I silence my phone, lift my ridiculously expensive bouquet from the stand on the dresser, and allow myself one last check in the mirror before Loretta knocks on the door.

“You look gorgeous!” she exclaims.

I thank her and ignore the nervousness building in my veins as she leads me down the opulent hall.

Two doormen stand ready in front of the ornate double doors to the ballroom.

Even though the ballroom is pure luxury—boasting soaring ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, and intricate architectural details—it does nothing for me, but my heart squeezes when I meet bright blue eyes. Dimitri’s possessive stare banishes my fear, and all the people sitting in the pews disappear. Only the ones I love exist.

Artur stands in the best man’s spot beside his father. Maksim holds the ring box by his brother’s side. Zoya stands with her empty flower basket tucked in the crook of one arm and her stuffed animal in the other.

Serenity, Loretta, and Aurora stand on my side of the stage. Their husbands sit in the front row, less than five steps from their women. Giorgio’s expression softens when he turns and sees me.

My sister wipes a tear from her eye.

I take a deep breath and lock my gaze on Dimitri’s.

“Mama!”

A high, clear voice breaks through the first notes of the wedding march. Zoya drops her basket and runs down the aisle toward me.

The smile on her face is so mischievous and full of joy I forget how to breathe until she opens her arms and launches herself at me.

I toss my bouquet aside just in time to stoop down and catch her.

She kisses my cheek and leans back to make sure she has my attention before speaking.

“My fowers better.” She pats her flower-covered hair. “Carry me,” she points to her chest. “I be your fowers, not dat,” she demands with an aggressive wave toward my discarded bouquet.

I shift my gaze to the lady sitting at the end of the pew and blink in shock. Valentina Denaro—the woman I bumped into in Central Park not long ago—caught my bouquet, but the man sitting next to her isn’t her betrothed. He looks old enough to be her father. She shoves the bouquet toward me, her eyes wide.

I heft Zoya higher against my chest.

“Sorry, Valentina, I have a better bouquet. This one I’ll never toss, so that one is yours now,” I declare before starting down the aisle.

Zoya pats my shoulder and tucks the side of her face against my chest, returning her thumb to her mouth now that she’s said all she means to say.

My heart threatens to explode as I meet Dimitri’s clear blue eyes.

We may already be married, but emotions swell inside me as I join him at the altar.

In front of God, my family, and every socialite in New York City, I declare my love for the brutal Russian bratvaubiytsa.

I claim him. He’s mine. His children are mine.

And I’m theirs.

Forever.