Page 28 of Marrying the Savage

Walk.

So I walk. My dress whispers against the stone floor. My veil floats around my shoulders. The bouquet feels heavy in my hand, white roses tied with silk ribbon. Camera shutters click softly from somewhere near the back, though they are supposed to be forbidden.

Dmitri waits at the altar.

He looks pleased. That’s the only word for it.

Like a man seeing a house he has purchased finally lit from the inside. He stands tall in his black suit, hair perfect, face controlled, satisfaction warming his eyes as he watches me approach.

My stomach turns. The ugly feeling returns with teeth.

I keep walking.

Each step feels separate from my body.

One. Another.

Another.

I look at Dmitri and imagine his house. His rules. His hand on my wrist. His voice telling me I will adjust. His mother choosing my clothes. His men outside every door. His expectations in my bed.

For one horrifying second, I think I might actually be sick on the church floor.

That would be memorable. Maybe even useful.

But my body betrays me by remaining upright.

I reach the altar, my uncle places my hand in Dmitri’s, and Dmitri’s fingers close around mine. Firm. Possessive. His thumb strokes once over my knuckles, and the gesture looks tender from a distance. Up close, it feels like a lock sliding into place.

The minister smiles.

Dear God, he smiles. Like this is a wedding.

Like this is love.

Like everyone in this church has not come to watch a transaction receive holy language.

“We are gathered here today,” he begins, “in the presence of God and these witnesses, to join Dmitri Sokolov and Sofia Antonova in holy matrimony.”

Holy. That almost makes me laugh.

Dmitri looks at me. His smile deepens. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“Nerves?”

I look at him through the thin blur of my veil. Something inside me goes strangely calm. “No.”

His expression flickers.

Before he can respond, the minister continues, his voice rising clearly through the church. “Marriage is a solemn covenant, not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, thoughtfully, and with full commitment before God.”

Full commitment.

My fingers go cold in Dmitri’s hand.

I think of the envelope. Damir Volodin’s name in black ink. The assistant carrying it away. My dream of the church doors opening.