Page 25 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

I maintain my doubts, for obvious reasons. It’ll take more than a few convincingly romantic dances to convince a room full of hardened criminals to get on board with an alliance. And I have to live with it, that if they do, that’s Darya’s handiwork.

The score for the evening is Yuris: 1, Zakharovs: 0.

This isn’t helped by Viktor going off the fucking rails and getting the crowd going. It’s like powder and a lit fuse. In seconds, the entire room seems to be chanting, “Gorko! Gorko! Gorko!”

Bitter, I know what it means.

An invitation to sweeten the room with the married couple’s kiss.

Somehow, it was a ridiculous, frivolous tradition I managed to bypass at my first wedding. Darya isn’t so lucky today. She knows that. I can tell from the way the spot between her fine brows dents.

After what she’s done today, practically fucking carrying me, I owe her this. I can give her this.

“It’s just a kiss,” I remind her gruffly.

However stiff her body is, I can conceal its language with my arm slipping from its perch on her back to ensnare her, hauling her flush against me. The warmth of my body thaws her enough for me to go for it.

My head lowers, and my lips brush hers, chaste. Sweet.

She fucking destroys that when her part comes with a gasp. It’s involuntary, I can tell; her cheeks color, as if she’s bashful about it.

Fuck.

I raise the tangle of our hands to her cheek, cupping her jaw, guarding the look on her face. Shielding it, and apparently pissing her off in the process, if the adamant way her head tilts to deepen the kiss is anything to go by. She punishes me with a nip to my bottom lip. Her shiver wracks through my body when I surrender to her mouth.

I surrender.

The chanting dies down before either of us pulls away.

No. This is nothing like my first wedding.

Chapter 9 - Darya

I shut the bedroom door harder than I should have. But I make no apologies for it when I hear someone open it behind me, enter, and then shut it a second time, pointedly gentle. Not when I know who that someone is.

Without a single glance at my new husband, I unpin the veil from my hair. I drop it onto what will be my bed for the near future as I walk through the room, turning in a slow circle to appraise its trappings.

It’s distracting that I can feel his eyes burrowing holes in the back of my head. I’m determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing it gets to me. Let him be the one who’s bothered.

I have plenty else to focus on.

My heels are muffled by the cream, Persian-style rug that takes up a large part of the center of the room—the first story of it, at least. The bedroom—for lack of a more appropriate word—is a grand, double-story space that’s both darker and lighter than I expected it to be. The wide planks of the hardwood floor are stained so dark that they’re almost black; a far cry from the marble or the honey-colored wood I anticipated. Even more astounding is that, in place of the staid, stereotypical accents I envisioned, I’m met with a wine-red drapery and upholstery—from the bedspread to the tufted armchairs by the fireplace—to counter the black walls and paneling. The fireplace itself is a shock of white marble, veined with mercurial greys. It’s as grandiose as the chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling.

What shocks me the most is the verdant indoor plants tucked into multiple corners of the room. I can smell that they are real, permeating the room with a dull, humid earthiness. By now, I know the scent isn’t coming from Anton. His cologne is an unfortunately mouthwatering blend of amber, sandalwood, and what I’m certain is a hint of cardamom—a fact that I’ve grown sufficiently acquainted with today.

“So, it’s safe to say you like the room?” His voice is closer than anticipated. Definitely close enough for him to note when I startle at the sound of it.

He has no right.

My chest tightens in frustration.

“It’ll do,” I simper, and begin to unravel the intricate updo that’s making my skull throb. I can already tell it’s going to be an endlessly long task. There are probably fifty-something pins secreted in my curls. Impatiently, in no mood for an audience anymore, I wave him off towards the door. “You can go now.”

The warm rumble of his chuckle invades my senses. Excuse me? Who the hell is he to laugh at me? I wonder what the current record is for the shortest pipeline from wife to widow.

I whip around, glowering ruthlessly at him.

Anton stares back gamely. Slowly, he shakes his head. His laughter tapers off, and he says, “No dice. This will be our bedroom, wife.”